When With You

9

Stubborn. The only word I can ever find to explain Peter was stubborn, to no limits. He couldn't accept others opinions and ideas without them being to his liking first, he has to see if he can benefit from it or if it makes
him happy.

If it didn't make him happy, then sorry for you, you'll have to find a way to bend it into his liking. Normally, that would piss a lot of people off but Peter was unnaturally persuasive.

He traps his victims with his godly eyes, you don't even know what happens next but you suddenly changed everything about you just for him and his comfort.

So stubborn that he refuses to leave you alone until you do as he wants, even if he knows that he is wrong. Peter Jung was stubbornly manipulative.

That is how he got into my house and convinced Michael to let him into my house, let alone my room. The place I sleep in.

This boy is begging for me to hurt him.

Marching to my room, I swing the door in full force. "What the fuck do you think you are doing in my house!?"

Peter drops the picture frame he is holding, his jaw drops with his eyes wide before he smiles, getting over his shock.

"Yo," he gives me a peace sign and grins. I nearly trip over the history books on the floor.

"Get out."

"No."

"Peter," I exhale in frustration.

"We doing the project now, it's due in three weeks and all you do is bully me. Come, sit." He pats the spot next to him.

I stand by the door and stare at him, he actually still has the audacity to tell me what to do in my own room, sit on my bed and make demands. "No."

He nods and looks around. My room is as simple and plain as vanilla ice cream, or better yet, Farren and George's house. My bedsheets are grey with a blue blanket over it, the walls were white-- with drawings, Michael did as a child on them-- and pictures hung loosely. My desk had books and my second-hand laptop on it.

The only interesting thing was my shelf of old books, I'm a bit of a bookworm. On the shelf were photo frames of the most important people in my life. Madison, Michael, mom, grandma and grandpa, my father and Peter.

Peter picks up the frame he had dropped, lucky for him it didn't break, and smiles softly.  "You kept this?" I tilt my head in question and he shows me the picture.

It's one of my favourites with Peter and me in our prime, age ten or perhaps eleven when the picture was taken. Peter and I had the goofiest and biggest grins on our faces, as well as a whole lot of ice cream, he stood in front of me with both hands imitating a full heart and I had my arm around his waist and my chin on his shoulder. I was way taller than him back then and he had those huge, adorable glasses.

"I remember, I won a singing competition at school and we went out for ice cream to celebrate. Your parents were there and Madison too. Then we created an ice cream eating contest, you won obviously because you were never taught to eat like a normal person," he laughs. "I stayed over for the first time that day." His smile grows wider, "your mom made the best lasagna."

"You cried when you tasted it. " I comment as I remember how Jung hugged my mom and asked her to live with him as his wife, he was crying real tears.