Reasons

[A/N: A friend of mine told me that it isn't quite clear that Pete's got Stockholm's Syndrome. Or some version of it. I'm not sure if it applies to abusive relationships. Perhaps there's a better term for it. I'll Wiki it later.]

Peter stared at the tired expression on Gary's face, wanting to put his clothing back on but feeling absolutely spent. The keys had been discarded on the floor, and they would have been his biggest worry had he cared about anything other than the rise and fall of his tormentor's chest. Gary was breathing, lips parted just enough for him to calm himself, eyes becoming half-lidded with exhaustion. The sun was shining into the frigid room, lighting every intimidating patch of black, glinting off of the sweat that lined tanned skin.

The smaller of the two was entranced. His body seemed to melt, his pain slipped away, and there was nothing but Gary, so close to him, in the vulnerable state he seemed to slip into post-sex. There were brown eyes on Pete, mild but still bitter, with just a hint of hurt behind them.

Turning on the hard mattress, Pete brushed his fingers fleetingly over Gary's scar, and he seemed to flinch away before faltering and letting Peter touch him. Chocolate eyes fluttered closed, and Pete watched in awe as every visibly tense muscle slackened. Gary was nothing more than a vicious dog, bowing when he was caressed just right, and didn't look at all dangerous when he trailed his fingers down the side of his face.

"We should get out of here." The pale boy chimed in with a voice that cracked with thirst.

"Yeah, run away together. Live off of squirrels and raccoons in the wilderness." Gary was immediately menacing again, glaring sharply at the person who was going out of his way to help him.

"Come on, I came all this way to get-"

"No, you came all this way for an easy fuck."

Pete gawked with disbelief, then his feminine features hardened, and he stood from the bed, yanking his pants back on angrily. Gary had his hand in his hair, the shadow blocking one of his eyes, expression unreadable. Pete had come to realize that the blank, slightly frustrated look Gary wore meant some kind of emotion he wasn't comfortable showing, and hated him for being so closed-in.

"Exactly what is this to you?" Pete asked, tone a sharp hiss.

"Don't you ever wonder why I come back? Christ, for being a self-proclaimed mastermind, you're really thick." The smaller male scoffed at the scowl he was receiving.

"And why do you come back, Petey?" Gary was standing, the hand that was in his hair tightening its grip.

"I beat you, rape you, and leave scars, but here you are. I broke your fucking arm, and you snuck into an asylum to be with me. Explain why you come back, even after I've tried my hardest to make you leave!" The scarred teen was practically growling the words out, jabbing his index finger into Pete's injured shoulder to send his point home.

Pete hissed at the pain, hand on the doorknob, and stared up at Gary with disbelief. He blinked slowly, opening his mouth to speak, but finding that the words he was so desperately grabbing for didn't come to him, that he was at a loss.

"You've infected me with some kind of disease, you useless little faggot! And you won't fucking leave! Get out, never come back, I don't want you here."

"Wh-what – why - I…"

"No! No more stuttering like a schoolgirl, no more pleading, no more batting your fucking eyelashes! GET OUT!"

"Gary, what-"

"Pete, I'm not going to tell you again. Leave before I break your other arm."

The hermit stared in horror as Gary's features melted from rage to an unbelievable kind of grief, watching as his jaw muscles flexed under his cheeks, his eyelids shutting and keeping back tears that were struggling against his willpower. Pete had only seen him like that once, face hidden by darkness, buried in the nape of his neck as he became something so much unlike the inhumane façade he maintained.

Pete stepped forward, swallowing dryly, and pulled Gary by his shoulders into his grasp. There was a shaking breath, arms around his waist, and the sadist fell into a huddle of pitiful sniffles against him. Peter couldn't help that he felt horrible for whatever had driven him into the state he was in, cursing himself for the mistake he had undoubtedly made.

"Why are you still here?" Gary muttered into his shirt, and Pete rocked him gently.

"I won't leave you."

"Thank you." The words were spoken so softly that Pete thought he had misheard, that Gary was incapable of such a tender thing, that he was going mad. Anything but that, anything.

Pete hated himself. Every bit of it was his fault. He didn't know how, but he was the root of every one of his problems. He should have known, should have protected him, should have been there to support him. Pete was the only person Gary opened up to, the only person who had any impact on his emotions, the only person who could help him. He had thrown it away, every bit of trust Gary had given him, had told the authorities, had him incarcerated, and the very thought made his throat contract.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The dainty teen said, pressing his lips on the top of Gary's head as they moved together, Pete dragged to the floor as the older male's legs gave out on him.

The sadist was curled on his lap, pale fingers running through dark hair with as much compassion as he could muster. He was muttering apologies with fervent sincerity, holding onto his companion tightly. There was another hiccup and sniffle, and Gary wiped his face on Pete's white shirt, falling silent save the occasional sharp intake of breath.

"You're still here…"