Chapter 2
"Fuck you, Wade!"
"No, fuck you!" Wade pointed an aggressive finger at him.
"I don’t wanna see you ever again!" Peter said in-between sobs and tears, pushing at Wade’s chest roughly.
"You always say that," Wade scoffed bitterly.
"This time I mean it, I’m done!"
"You need professional help, Peter," Wade stared at him, not moving and inch, looking down at Peter with sourness, "You’re fucked in the head."
"Fucking leave, fucking asshole!" Peter yelled loudly as he slapped away Wade’s hand that was tapping his head, "At least I’m not a pathetic little bitch."
”Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m the pathetic little bitch," Wade said, turning around.
Peter breathed in sharply in anger and followed Wade as he walked towards the door. He grabbed at Wade’s arm harshly to pull him back before his hand could grab the door handle. Peter walked around Wade and stood in front of him, standing in-between the door and him, impeding him to open it. He crossed his arms and leaned against it.
Wade sighed, "Move, Peter."
"If you leave, we’re fucking done," Peter muttered and frowned up at him.
"We’ve been done since I saw that fucking hickey in your fucking thigh, Peter!" Wade yelled at his face angrily.
"Oh, my God, he is just a fuck," Peter sniffed and smirked bitterly, "Are you jealous of just a fuck? You really are pathetic, Wade."
Wade looked down at him. With disgust and anger. His nostrils flared. His jaw was clenching, just like his fists besides him. They shared a long look, swearing and insulting each other with just their hurt, saddened, upset eyes. Peter’s face was wet with tears. Wade’s too. He was angrily crying, roughly wiping away the warm, few tears that rolled down his bruised cheek.
Wade let out a breath and continued staring at Peter, before mumbling loudly. It contrasted the loud tone he used moments ago.
"Get out of my fucking way, Peter. I don’t wanna see you right now."
Peter shook his head and his bottom lip trembled, he spoke wetly, "Don’t leave."
He is selfish. He doesn’t want Wade to leave. He wants to keep fighting and keep insulting. He wants to convince Wade that he is the ine in the wrong. He wants to make Wade feel shitty for yelling at him even if he’s rightfully earned it and deserve it. He wants to make Wade cry angry tears and make him hit Peter so Peter can have a stupid, egotistical excuse to make himself the victim. He wants to cry and yell so loudly until it drives Wade into fucking madness.
He wants Wade to apologize to him even if he isn’t really to blame. Wade did start the fight – but everything is Peter’s fault. They were fine. They were laughing and even kissing gently. They were watching a movie and Wade was being so sweet to Peter, massaging his feet because Peter was tiring from standing at work all day, he was kissing Peter’s shoulder and neck to relax him as he whispered sweet nothings to Peter’s ear. They actually made Peter crack a small smile.
They were about to fuck and it was then that, even in the dark, dimmed light of Peter’s living room, Wade caught a glimpse of Peter’s bruised thigh. The lovely, harsh, careless marks left behind by Beck.
Peter had tried to distract Wade by kissing him fervently but he knew a storm was coming after Wade didn’t return the kiss and firmly pushed Peter away; he continued staring at Peter’s marked body with upset, resentful eyes and tight jaw. The vein on his forehead started to show and Peter had sighed in irritation before pushing Wade off him to stand up and try to leave Wade’s sight but Wade was relentless.
He was stubborn. He was angry. He was numb. He was demanding answers and explanation as he watched Peter mindlessly ignoring him as he pour himself a glass of water.
Being ignored, it railed Wade up – it always does.
That's why Peter did it.
Now, he doesn’t want Wade to leave.
Sometimes Peter hates himself. Sometimes he hates his contradicting mind.
But right now he is too fucking angry to care.
"Don’t leave, Wade," Peter sobbed, giving Wade those doe, brown big eyes that always makes him succumb.
It did nothing. Wade took in a frustrated breath and harshly rubbed his at face with his hand, "Get out of my way, Peter. Please –"
"Don’t leave me," Peter cries, stumping his foot on the floor like a child.
Wade pointed at him and said in-between gritted teeth. "You wanted me to leave."
"Well, now I don’t. Why do you have to fuck things up, Wade?" Peter said loudly, wiping away snot with his hand, "We were fine minutes ago!"
"Because you’re still fucking that fucking physco!" Wade said louder, his voice cracked and he sniffed, nose red, just like his eyes, "When you promised me you fucking weren’t – I-I'm your boyfriend, Peter. I fucking trust you. Every goddamned time, like a fucking idiot."
"Oh, get over it, Wade. He’s just a fuck," Peter said with clear annoyance in his voice.
Wade stared at him with hurt, small eyes, his bottom lip quivered slightly, he muttered, "And you’re just a fucking slut."
Peter stared at him too. He frowned and his mouth parted open. He looked up at Wade and mere disbelief. A single tear rolled down Peter’s face. Wade has never call Peter that. He has never disrespect him like that. Not even in their darkest, most heated and longest arguments. Peter knows Wade has think that, that he’s considered Peter that. He can see it in the hazel, perfect eyes. But Wade has never dared to say it out loud.
But, now he did – and Wade looked miserable saying. He feels bad. He is regretting.
Still, it made Peter fucking lose it.
He hates that word. He hates the letters in that word. He fucking hates it. Beck always calls him that, when he is upset, to make fun of Peter, to hurt him, to degrade him, to make him cry, to make him shake in anger, to make Peter feel so pathetic and worthless that he rather get hit in the face or ribs by Beck -like he often does- than be called that word.
He heard Beck’s harsh, hurtful voice echoing in his head calling Peter that with a pitiful, burlesque tone. It sound so ugly. Slut. It fits him. It fits Peter – he couldn’t help but think that.
Peter fucking hates it.
Wade kept staring at him. Peter breathed in sharply and raised a quick hand to roughly and heavily collide his palm against Wade’s cheek and jaw. It made his head turn to the side slightly and unexpectedly. Wade barely flinched or closed his eyes.
He is used to taking hits to his face. Because of the fight that he fights to earn money. And because of Peter.
"Don’t call me that," Peter said in a small, broken voice.
Wade looked at him with abhorrence and snorted, "Fuck you–"
Peter's blood boiled. Warm tears blurred his eyesight and once again he raised his hand to slap him across the face. This time was harsher, mean and just fucking unnecessary – it echoed loudly in the small, quiet apartment. Peter’s hand was left stinging because of the force of it. Peter was fuming. He was looking up at Wade with a prominent frown and angry tears.
Wade just looked down at him with a blank, emotionless expression, not saying a word. His cheek was bright red and Peter felt just slightly bad.
But seeing that look on Wade’s face just angered him more. Peter was shaking with adrenaline and the red, nasty anger flowing through his bloodstream. He wanted to punch, bite, hit, pinch, hurt and yell. Peter wanted a war.
He hates the silent. He hates that they’re not moving. He hates the way Wade is just staring at him – with clear disgust, bitterness and pity.
It fucking irked Peter.
He pushed Wade backwards with his hands on his chest, strongly shoving him away. He doesn’t know why he did it. He just needed to do something, everything. He needed to get some stressful energy off. And he always does with being aggressive.
Peter can’t help it.
He wants Wade to react. To hit him back. To give Peter really something to cry about. Wade could fuck him up if he wanted to; but God – Peter knows Wade would never do that.
He loves Peter too much.
"Don’t do that," Wade mumbled, in a warning tone. He tried to walk past Peter and get to the door behind him but Peter pushed him away once again.
But this time he stared hitting his chest repeatedly with opened hands and flat palms, like a maniac, crying and sobbing as he hit the taller man in a desperate, upset and careless way.
Wade let that happen for just a few seconds before he was quickly and quite strongly grabbing Peter’s wrist with both hands and easily lifted them up to pin them against the door behind Peter, successfully trapping and stopping him. Peter fought against the tight grip and struggled under it, he tried to break free, he squirmed in desperation and pull at his own arms but it was useless. He could never win against Wade’s strength, even if Peter himself is quiet strong.
Peter groaned like a child throwing a tantrum and looked up at Wade with a quivering lip.
Still, this is what Peter wanted – he wanted Wade to react and to defend himself. To stop Peter and fucking hurt him physically. Because Wade finished a while ago hurting Peter with his words.
But Peter has hurt him more.
Peter is so fucked. He is so fucked in the head. So badly that he often scares and hates himself. God help him – he just wants Wade to fucking hurt him. To bruise him. Make him bleed. Make him limp. Make him cry out loud in pain and pass out.
Peter deserves it. Oh, he knows he does. But he doesn’t want Wade to hurt him because he deserves it. Fuck that. He wants Wade to fuck him up so Peter has a sweet, ugly and lame excuse to be the victim.
God, he loves being the victim.
Wade kept looking down at him. He looks too tired, too broken, too weak. He was silently begging Peter to stop, to give up, to fucking let him go. Peter knows Wade is trying so hard to just keep the little patience he has left, he doesn’t want to hurt Peter.
That angers Peter.
So, Peter sniffed and lifted on of his legs to kick Wade in the knee.
Wade clenched his eyes shut and breathed in sharply through his nose, he tightened his grip on Peter’s wrist, "Don’t fucking do that."
"What? This?" Peter kicked him again. He did that a few times, struggling to get away from Wade’s grip.
"Peter–"
Peter ignored him and continued moving, trying to get free as he delivered several kicks to Wade’s legs. He felt the hands on his wrist tightening even more and he saw the look on Wade’s face and the way that he was getting more upset at every passing second of Peter’s madness.
"Hit me!" Peter yelled, "I know you want to fucking hit me!"
He continued kicking but unexpectedly –
Wade was letting go of Peter’s wrist fast, only to grip Peter’s shoulder strongly and slam his body against the door. A short gasp left Peter’s mouth as he reached out to hold onto Wade’s forearm out of reflexes. He felt slightly dizzy. It made the back of his head collide with the hard wood.
"Fucking stop!" Wade screamed in Peter’s face, he shook Peter’s shoulders harshly, "Stop it!"
It sounded so loud. Like it would pop their ears. His voice sounded strong and strained at the same time.
Peter didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just sniffed. He just looked up at Wade with a scared expression. It’s not often that Wade scares him. Peter felt the same feeling he felt in that dirty, dark alley when they had a big fight and Wade pushed him to the ground.
Wade’s face was violently red. In anger. He was no longer crying. He hasn’t been crying for a while. Only Peter. His frown was prominent and deep, his jaw was clenched and he was almost fuming out of his mind. He was giving Peter this cold, vexed and frustrated look.
His long fingers gripped Peter’s shoulder strongly, digging in the flesh and probably marking it.
Peter tried to pull Wade off by his forearms but his grip wasn’t relenting. Peter sniffed wetly and winced.
"You’re hurting me," He had the audacity to whisper.
That made Wade snap out of whatever trance he was in. His expression softened and he quite slowly let go of Peter. He appeared guilty. He looked down, breaking eye contact with Peter in shame.
Good. The voice in the back of Peter’s head spoke with evilness, in a burlesque, satisfied way.
"Wadey," Peter whimpered and reached out to Wade, trying to hug his middle, to cling to him and make him stay. To make him forgive him.
Wade will always forgive Peter.
Peter thought that the storm had passed, that Wade would succumb and fall against Peter and cry like a fucking baby.
But Wade quickly stepped away from him and put his hands up, creating a safe distance between them.
"Don’t fucking touch me," He croaked out.
Peter started crying again because of the ugly, rude rejection. He hates when Wade acts this way towards him – Peter is the only one who can do that. Peter sobbed, throwing a tantrum, like the immature little fuck he is.
"Wade, stop this –"
"Step aside, Peter. Please, I mean it," The other interrupted him, he breathed in deeply to further calm himself down, "I don’t wanna hurt you," he mumbled weakly.
Precisely. Peter wants that. He wants Wade to hurt him.
Of course he didn’t say that out loud; he would look crazy. Wade would think Peter is crazy, more than he already knows Peter is.
"Peter, move away," Wade sighed.
"Don’t go," He whispered.
Wade clicked his tongue in a frustrated manner and gave a step forward. He reached for Peter quickly and Peter actually flinched slightly. But Wade was just carefully grabbing him by his arms and forcing him to step away from in front of the door. Peter looked up at him with begging eyes and trembling lips.
But time, Peter didn’t fight back.
He let Wade push him away easily enough.
Still, he desperately grabbed Wade by the back of his jacket when he saw him opening the door. He tried to stop him from stepping outside by crying and pulling at him.
"Wade, please, don’t go," He begged, tears once again blurring his eyes.
"Let go of me, Peter," Wade said in a quiet voice, not turning around, "I’m fucking done with you, for real."
Peter's heart dropped to the ground. Although he knows Wade doesn’t mean it. He always says that after a big argument, or after -once again- finding out that Peter is still seeing Quentin Beck. His love. His perdition. His affliction and tragic affair. Still, Wade saying that hurts Peter. He is the only one that can break up with Wade whenever he wants.
Selfish. Selfish. Selfish, enough, he is.
What Wade said and in the way he said it, irritated, careless. It made Peter fucking angry.
Peter let go of Wade and pushed him away harshly, making him step out of his apartment, finally; he sniffed and wiped at his wet face with an angry, rough hand, leaving his face red and raw.
"If you go," Peter said lowly, threatening, "I’ll go back to him."
Wade stood still for a moment. His back still facing Peter.
And, for a moment, Peter thought he got to him. He thought that Wade changed his mind. He solemnly thought that Wade would turn around and fall to his knees, that he would hug Peter’s waist and dig his wet, reddened face against Peter’s firm belly as he mumbled out continuous apologies, he thought that Wade would come inside and beg for Peter’s forgiveness, attention and love.
Just like Wade always does – he always can’t help himself. He is too weak. He is too stupid. He is too in love with Peter.
Peter really thought Wade would turn around and kiss right there, till their breath wouldn’t be enough, he thought that Wade would fuck him right there on the living room and make him orgasm till his mind turned blank and the neighbors could hear his pleasured screaming because the make-up sex is always better and so, so good.
But, Wade didn’t – he fucking didn’t.
"Do whatever you fucking want," Wade said in a bitter, effortless tone, he scoffed, "I don’t give a fuck."
Peter gaped at the back of his head and watched start to walk away down the short hallway. He stepped out too and he didn’t care that he was only wearing his underwear and a shirt. That his noisy neighbors were already looking through their peek hole because they’ve been hearing Peter and Wade argue loudly for over 15 minutes. Peter clenched his fist shut and his teeth grind together out of spite and anger as he watched his boyfriend – his fucking stupid, pussy, bitch, useless boyfriend – still walking down the hallway, almost reaching the stairs.
"Wade!" Peter yelled.
He was ignored and Peter frowned. He started crying and he wanted to hit himself in the head for being so weak – he shouldn’t fucking care about Wade leaving or about him.
He fucking doesn’t.
Still –
"Wade! You’re never seeing me again, I swear to fucking God!" He yelled stupidly loud, walking down the hallway too, giving fast steps towards Wade’s direction.
Wade only lifted his arm and showed him his middle finger as he turned the corner and started going down the stairs. His quick steps echoed.
Peter did it too, even though Wade couldn’t see it, "Fuck you, Wade!"
His chest moved up and down quite heavily. He was having trouble breathing. He kept looking for a moment where Wade was just walking before he broke into more tears and turned around to head back inside his apartment. Then, promptly, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a middle-aged lady peaking her head through his cracked open door that belonged to the apartment close to Peter’s.
Peter felt a rush of embarrassment and anger when he saw her looking at him up and down disapprovingly.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" He croaked out wetly as he walked past her.
"Some of us are trying to sleep, kid," She said in a heavy hispanic accent, then she was yelling back something in Spanish to her husband, "Es que este mocoso blanco de mierda se estaba peleando con su novio otra vez – que le volvió a pegar los cuernos al novio con el viejo rico ese que viene luego, te lo digo, hombre!"
Peter took Spanish classes in highschool and he was damn good at it. He understood every word that this fucking lady said in a burlesque, funny tone. As if Peter’s problems were the most entertaining thing ever.
"Hey, mind your fucking business," Peter mumbled over his shoulder, too tired to argue or defend himself.
Well, fuck him, she isn’t wrong in what she said.
"Just keep it the fuck down, kid. We're done listening to yours and other white boy's bullshit," She said, shaking her head at him before she slammed her door shut.
Peter did the same to his. Defeated.
And, he immediately crumbled down against it and heavily fell to the floor as he broke down in drowning hiccups and pathetic little sobs, hot and abundant tears streamed down his face, rolling down his neck and wetting the collar of his shirt. He brought his hands to his face and pressed them there as he sat crossed leg on the cold floor.
He is shivering.
Fuck – he fucking wishes Wade would be here to keep him warm.
But Peter hates the thought of him needing Wade.
He doesn’t need Wade. He doesn’t needs anyone.
Maybe Quentin Beck. Sometimes.
Peter let out an angry groan and he moved his arm to elbow his door that he was tiredly resting on. He hit the door with his elbow strongly several times till it hurt.
"Fuck!" He yelled to himself, into his palm. It echoed around the tiny, quiet apartment.
"You’re just a fucking slut."
Wade’s voice echoed inside his head.
Peter hates him.
Peter cried and wailed. He sobbed and felt like a miserable piece of shit. He kicked his legs in the air, as if he was a little kid throwing a tantrum in the corner because he didn’t get what he wanted. Peter didn’t get what he wanted.
Wade didn’t succumb for Peter’s bullshit this time.
It's not the first time.
Wade will come back. He will beg Peter. He will apologize even if he doesn’t really needs to apologize. He will come im bruised and bloody because he always gets into more fights after having a big argument with Peter. He will come back and take Peter to dinner, spend his small, pathetic in Peter and only him.
Wade will come back.
That affirmation was what made Peter stop crying and think too much.
Still – he is feeling fucking afflicted.
And, he hates that feeling.
-
Sitting in the edge of his bed, Peter held his phone against his ear with a shaky hand. He listened to the ringing tone after he had dialed a familiar number. He waited. He was about to hang up and try again when he wasn’t immediately answered but soon, he heard the sound of his call being taken.
Peter perked his head up in slight excitement and quickly said, "B?"
"I’ve told you to not call me on this number," A mature, deep voice said with irritation.
Peter bit at his nails nervously, "I-I know. I’m sorry, you weren’t answering on the other–"
"Don’t you think there’s a reason as to why I wasn’t answering you?" The person asked crudely.
Peter was about to answer with an excuse but he heard the man laughing and speaking on the other side. He seemed sweet, it contrasted the way he was speaking to Peter seconds ago.
Peter wishes that he would have answer him with that same sweet, charming tone – it does matter, because he is just happy that Beck answered him at all and is taking his time to speak with Peter.
Peter’s lips quivered. He doesn’t know why he feels like crying.
Wade would never speak to Peter like that.
Fuck Wade.
"B?"
The man sighed in careless boredom, "Look, I’m in the middle of something. I gotta go–"
That made Peter lose the little composure he gained an hour ago after Wade left in the way that he did. He sobbed quietly and covered his mouth as he started crying once again for what seemed the tenth time in the night.
That made Beck take a deep breath and mumble in an annoyed tone, "What’s happened now?"
"I need you," Was all Peter said in a wet voice, "Please."
"Here we go–"
"Please, please, B. I really need you. Can you come over?" Peter asked. He begged. Struggling to breath properly.
"I’m out having a lovely dinner with my wife and some, Peter," The man spoke in a hush tone, the sounds on the other side suddenly echoed in the distance and Beck must of have stood up to go to a more private place.
Peter did get to hear Beck’s wife's laugh. It made his belly upset and blood boil. Beck never takes him to diner in public – why should he?
"I don’t care," Peter whispered, thinking out loud. He immediately widened his eyes and covered his mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing. I said I didn’t know," He was quick to say, "I just want to see you. Please come?"
"You can’t just call me and ask me that kind of shit – I’ve told you this many times," Beck said sternly.
"I know, I just – I miss you. I need you," He whimpered weakly, "Please, B. Please come over."
I need to forget about Wade.
The man stayed quiet. He was maybe thinking or he was just too upset to speak to Peter. He does hates when Peter calls him or insists to many times.
Peter sighed and shifted on his spot, he then mumbled softly.
"Please, daddy."
Peter closed his eyes in shame. He doesn’t like that word. He doesn’t like saying it. He feels disgusting, he feels pathetic, he feels intimidated – but Beck likes it. He loves it fact. He loves when Peter -or anyone- calls him that.
And, Peter would do whatever the man likes. Even if it takes to humiliate and denigrate himself. He'll do it all just to stay on Beck’s good side and keep him docile.
"Oh, sweetheart," The man mumbled.
"Can you please come over, daddy?"
He stayed quiet for a moment before he gave up to Peter’s wishes, "Alright, sweetheart," He sighed, "I’ll be there."
Peter’s chest clenched in a good, lovely way, he smiled slightly and laid back on the mattress, finally relaxing, "Thank you," He said in a sweet tone.
The one he knows Beck likes.
"I just don’t want to see you crying when I get there. You know I don’t like how you look when you cry," The man said casually, "When I get there I want you neat and composed, you hear me?"
Peter only hummed quietly.
"Good boy."
Then, just like that, the line went dead. Peter was left in silence and in the dark. He threw his phone away, it bounced on the mattress.
"Good boy."
Peter said to himself in a whisper, as a fucked up reassurance almost in a trance, he was looking at the ceiling. He could smell the pillow near him. It smelled like Wade’s cologne. He wishes it would smell like Beck’s instead.
So he can forget about Wade’s inevitable presence in his apartment.
Wade. Wade. Wade.
Peter doesn’t give a fuck.
He stood up with heavy, reluctant limbs and headed to have a shower so he can be clean and ready for Quentin Beck.
His love, his impossibility, the sharp knife to his mean heart.