Notes: The review-whore returns! ::crickets chirp:: The review-whore is apparently not enough of a media prostitute because she can't garner too many reviews. ::gets out the garter belt and corset:: All right, let's begin!

Kidding! Ok, a note I forgot from the last chapter: the title was taken from an Everclear song called "Sick and Tired". Anybody want to know why I like Everclear so much? Anybody? No? Ok… The title of this chapter comes from the song "A Case of You" by Joni Mitchell. I love that song. Wow. Also in this chapter, Pietro sings a few lines from a song by the GoGos called "Our Lips Are Sealed". I dunno… it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Also, something I've neglected to mention… while a lot of the emotions are based more on ones I've had under completely different circumstances, some of Pietro's thoughts, actions, etc. are based on real accounts of drug addicts and prostitutes. I do my homework, I do… just not math.

I Am Frightened By the Devil (And Drawn to Those That Ain't)

He stretched in my arms, grabbing at my shirt and twisting his spine. "I'm so tired," he yawned, mouth wide enough that I could see his tonsils. "I'm so tired… but I can't sleep."

"Of course you can sleep," I touched his warm forehead, ran my hand through his cool hair just to make sure he was still alive, not a dead weight on my chest. "Of course you can, of course you can." He had shaken me so badly that I was trembling; I wondered how much of a help I could really be.

"No, I can't," he muttered vaguely, "No, I don't want to die."

"You won't die," I assured him, every single word a lie. "You won't die, I'm right here. You won't die." But don't we all die, sooner or later? Such a question, such a question. I wondered briefly whether the next life would be any less frustrating.

He giggled airily and swirled the fabric of my shirt into creative patterns. "'It doesn't matter what they say in the jealous games people play… heyheyhey.' God, I'm so fucked up…"

"No, you're not."

"Do you know what the worst was?" The drunken giddiness disappeared from his voice and he gazed at me with all seriousness.

"No… what?"

"'Hush, my darling, don't you cry. Quiet, angel, forget their lies'" He laughed again, mindless and eerie.

"What was the worst, Pietro?" I pressed my lips to the shell of his ear and blew against his skin. My mind swam with memories of large, powerful churches, stained glass, and crucifixes that I used to imagine would bleed onto the floor at night, where the church janitors would have to scrub and scrub to get the stains out before Mass. "Tell me."

"Car seats," He said with perfect sincerity. "Babies' car seats, children's toys, wedding rings…"

"I don't know if I-"

"God, that was always the worst," he pressed on, eyes tightly shut, ignoring my confusion. "Having to get into some prick's family station wagon- the car the kiddies rode in- and see his fucking wedding ring watching me while I blew him…" his voice trailed off. I pulled him closer, as close as I possibly could, and kissed his forehead delicately.

"I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Innocent blue eyes glanced up at me. "It's not as if you were that asshole. It's not like it's your fault I feel like I need drugs to live." His hands went to his face instinctively, and I watched as he dragged his nails down the sallow flesh of his cheeks, leaving long, red scratches on his pale skin. "Y'know what? I don't care. I want to sleep. I want to die."

"No, you don't," Frantically, I grabbed his wrists and stopped him from hurting himself further. "No, you don't. You want to live because I want you to live."

Guiltily, he lowered his lashes and stared down at my hands. "Sometimes, Lance… you and I don't want the same things."

Suddenly my patience snapped and my fear took over. "This isn't my responsibility, you know!" I felt my grip on his wrists tighten, but was powerless to stop myself. "Why am I doing this anyway? Huh? Can you tell me why?"

His eyes were tearing. "Lance, you… you're hurting me! Please…?"

"No! No 'please?', no requests from you!" I'm not even sure I was completely aware of what I was saying at the time. "You don't listen to me! Why don't you listen?" My eyes were watering with tears, all the tears that I hadn't shed in ten years. I shook Pietro and he stared at me with the wide, panicked eyes of a child. "Good! Be scared! Don't you get it? Do you know how much this scares me?"

"I'm sorry!" He squeezed his eyes shut and shouted. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"No, you're not," I growled back, jerking his wrists back and forth in a spastic dance of sheer emotional distraught. "You're never sorry for anything that you do, you egotistical little fuck. Have you ever thought about other people? Have you?"

"I… don't… know…" he hiccupped weakly, his body writhing against mine in an attempt to get free. To prevent anything of the sort from happening, I flipped him onto his back and straddled his waist, still keeping a firm grip on his stick-thin wrists.

"The night we made love…" I whispered in his ear, bitterly noticing how badly his body was trembling under the stress of the row. "What did that mean? Was that for you? Or was it for me? You never let me do it before, god you barely let me touch you before. And then, suddenly…. What changed?"

There was a long pause, marred only by the sound of his ragged pants and uncomfortable whimpers.

"Please," he begged finally, voice soft with exhaustion. "Please…" I shook my head.

"No. Tell me."

He exhaled shakily; I could feel all of his muscles tense beneath me as he spoke. "I did it for you."

"Liar," Was my first response, and it was out before I could stop myself. "Don't lie to me."

Eyes closed in pain, he gulped frantically at the air between us. "I'm going to be sick," he turned his head to the side.

"No, you aren't."

"Please let me up."

"No." I relaxed my grip on his wrists, my anger having been dulled by pity and protectiveness. "Just tell me the truth."

"There is no truth."

"Then tell me the next best thing."

He smiled, a genuine smile as if he was lost in memories. "I did it for you."

"Why?" God, he baffled me. I didn't understand at all. What kind of game was he playing?

"Because I wanted to keep you… interested."

"Interested?" In my confusion I let his wrists go completely, moving my hands to either side of his head to support my weight. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean…" he hesitated, unnerved by the expression on my face. "I mean that I wanted you to stay with… with me. And if that meant, well…"

"Sex," I said bluntly. "You thought that I'd get bored with you if we didn't fuck?"

An expression of disgust flickered across his face, and he closed his eyes in pain. "Could you not call it that, please?"

"Sorry,' I muttered, feeling somewhat humbled.

"Thank you." He tipped his head back slightly and took a very deep breath of the cooler air outside of our immediate radius. As he did so, I let my eyes trail over his arms and chest, took in all of his body language and every word he wasn't saying to me. Something about the way he reacted to being forcibly pinned down, the way he'd reacted to my anger, his sudden kittenish fearfulness of something bigger and stronger, and the unexpected prudish reaction he'd had to the word 'fuck' when used in reference to the two of us made me suspicious.

"Pietro?" He lifted his head to look at me with owl eyes. "Were you ever raped?"

He held eye contact with me for a moment as I felt his limbs stiffen below mine. "Would you let me up, please?" Silently, I did so; he rolled off to the side of the bed and stood on shaky knees. I watched from behind as he pieced himself back together, smoothed his shirt down, and straightened his hair that had fallen into disarray during our tussle. "Sometimes things happen," He didn't bother to turn and I stared at his back with rapt attention. "It's nobody's fault really, but things go wrong…"

"Why do you keep talking in code?" I interrupted, not angry but simply curious. "Do you want us to be in love, Pietro? Or are you just afraid of being alone?" I paused, trying to give him time to answer, but he let the silence ring hard and heavy in our ears. "I want you to tell me what's been happening so I can help you. I want to help you. Do you want help?" Again I paused and, again, he didn't answer. "I don't want to fight with you. I want to see you happy, but…"

"It's so hard." He hugged himself, turning slightly so I could see his stricken profile. "It's so hard to find the words."

"Why?" I asked gently. "Why is it so hard?"

"Because saying them…" he began to wring his hands together, draining off his excess nervous energy, "Saying them makes everything real somehow. I don't know. I don't want it to be real. I want this to be a dream."

"But it's not." I tried to keep my voice steady and firm, yet sympathetic. "It's real. I'm sorry." He stood silent for a moment, reviewing the facts in his mind, before dropping like a rag doll into my lap. I caught him with surprise, trying to make as little skin-to-skin contact as I could. But he pressed his face into my neck, warm breath condensing on my skin, damp and sweaty.

"Are you afraid to touch me?" He whispered bitterly, obviously aware of my insecure hands. "I'm not diseased, you know. Just because someone did… something to me. I went and got tested." He glanced up at me. "Disease free."

"I know." I wrapped my hands around his shoulders and pulled him closer. "I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable." He sniffed, but I suspected this answer pacified him.

"I liked to be touched when it's… nice." God, he sounded so little, he felt so little, so small, and so weightless. "I don't like being pinned down though. Or shoved, or… well, anything angry." He sounded a little sheepish. "It scares me. Me." He snorted and tossed his head a little; some strands of his hair hit my face like a very soft whip. "Me. And I always thought I was so great."

I brushed his hair back with my fingertips, gently pulling the strands from in my mouth and against my skin. "I'm sorry I get angry sometimes."

"I know." His voice was disturbingly quiet.

"I don't mean it."

"I know."

"I hope you do," I stressed. "And I'll do my best to control it from now on." He said nothing in response and we sat, intertwined in contemplative repose. Finally, he gave a little sigh, one of acquiescence.

"I just want to be loved."

I pushed my lips against his ear and spoke through a curtain of fine, white hairs. "Don't we all?"