When the chips are down I’ll be around
With my undying, death-defying love for you
This cannot be happening.
Vegas is seized by an all-encompassing, mind-numbing panic. He’s frozen, he can’t think. The knowledge that he needs to act, act now, is there, but he just can’t move. He’s standing in the middle of the room, the shattered plates and splattered food on the floor in front of him, and stares blindly straight ahead.
Beep beep beep …
He can’t wrap his mind around what’s just happened. The continuous beeping of the disconnected call is hammering into his skull like icy spikes, freezing every thought.
Beep beep beep …
Gun.
Beep beep beep …
Pete mentioned a gun.
Beep beep beep …
Pete is somewhere and there is a gun involved.
Beep beep beep …
Vegas whimpers in distress; the sound just floats out of his mouth and echoes through the room. This cannot be happening. He can’t let this happen. He needs to move. Now!
…Beep beep beep beep beep…
Red hot urgency melts away the frozen stranglehold panic has on him. Vegas takes a shaky breath and hits the redial button with trembling fingers. No one picks up. This is bad. And good too. It is better than the dreaded ‘The number you are trying to call can’t be reached’ message. It means the phone is still operational. Good. This is good. He can work with that.
Think, Vegas, think! But his mind has slowed to a crawl, everything feels like slow-motion. Vegas presses a few more buttons, making another phone call.
“Where is Pa?” is the first thing he asks when the call connects. His voice sounds very strained even to his own ears.
“Vegas? Is that you?” Macau sounds totally surprised, which is understandable, since Vegas hasn’t called him in over a year.
Vegas can feel himself tremble hearing his brother’s voice; he almost cracks and falls apart at that moment. Can’t do that, need to save Pete. “Where is Pa, Macau?” he asks again.
His brother seems to sense the urgency behind the question. “He’s in Singapore, on a business trip.”
“Are you sure?” Vegas doesn’t trust this information at all; his father is sneaky.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“This is important, Macau. Are you 100% sure that he’s not in the country?” There’s no margin for errors, Pete’s life depends on it.
“Yes, I know for sure that he’s in Singapore. I’ve been having video conferences with him the whole day. Are you going to tell me what this is about, Vegas?”
“Maybe later. Thank you.” Vegas hangs up. The hand holding the phone is trembling visibly. Vegas tries to take another deep breath to calm down, because he can feel himself starting to hyperventilate.
Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath.
It was Pete who taught him this method. Vegas can feel the tears gathering in his eyes. Damn it! He needs to stop, he needs to get himself back under control! Think, Vegas, think! So his father isn’t in the country. That means shit, as far as Vegas is concerned, because his dad has an army of goons working for him. One of them could have snatched Pete.
Who else? Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. Tawan. Maybe Tawan is responsible for this. That guy is obsessed with Pete; there’s a good chance that even after the beating he took from Vegas, he’s still not willing to give up on Pete. The man is troubled, Pete said so himself. Maybe he has access to a gun and has cornered Pete to force him to get back together? Vegas has seen his share of domestic violence incidents and the length some people go to ‘get back together’ with their loved ones who have moved on. So if it really is Tawan, this is also not good news. Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath.
This can’t be happening! He needs to get going, he needs to do something! Vegas starts walking towards the bedroom to get his gun, then hisses in pain as he steps onto one of the shards of the broken plates. Shit. Cursing, he limps to the bedroom and opens the cupboard to get to the gun safe. He’s taking the Glock. And extra ammunition. His foot is bleeding, but he doesn’t have the time to deal with that. Vegas just puts on some socks, shoves the gun into the back of his jeans and heads for the exit.
He needs to get going, he needs to save Pete. But once he has put on his shoes, he realises he has no idea where Pete is right now. Damn it, his mind really is like total mush right now! Think think think! Yes! The app. He can find Pete’s phone through the app. Hopefully whoever did this hasn’t thrown away the phone just yet or disabled it in any way.
Loading… Vegas clicks on ‘Devices’—and breathes a sigh of relief. There’s Pete’s phone, still switched on. So far, so good. It’s halfway across the city though, why on earth did Pete head that way instead of coming home? The little icon jerks forward on the map. Pete… or his phone… is on the move. And so is Vegas. He grabs his car keys and runs out of the apartment. His foot hurts. And so does his heart.
This can’t be happening!
----------------------------------------
Vegas is weaving his car through the traffic like a madman; it’s a miracle he hasn’t caused an accident yet. His phone is in the holder; it shows the map with the little icon representing Pete’s phone. Still moving. Vegas curses at the other drivers, at the traffic in general, he curses because otherwise he’s afraid he would most likely start crying.
He’s so damn scared. What the fuck is happening? Who’s snatched Pete? Where are they heading? He’s terrified of involving the police at this stage, because they will lock him out of the whole operation and the thought of watching this from the sidelines is unbearable. Also, if this really involves his family no one will dare to make a move to save Pete.
Pete must have called him on purpose, Vegas decides. He must’ve had a bad feeling, and this hidden call was his SOS. Deep down he hopes it is Tawan he’s dealing with. He can handle this lunatic rich boy, in fact that guy will be lucky if he comes out of this alive, because fear for Pete is turning Vegas into a very unpredictable person. If this was done by his father though… then the whole situation will turn into a nightmare. Vegas has been avoiding a direct confrontation with his father for the longest time. He fears just how much the conflict would escalate now that he’s an adult. They’re too much alike in temper; this could turn very ugly. But since this is about Pete, Vegas is willing to go heads on even with his father.
Fuck! Another traffic jam! Vegas shouts in frustration and hits his hands against the steering wheel as the car comes to a stand-still. Fuck fuck fuck! He doesn’t have time for this! The traffic at this time of the early evening is a nightmare and Pete has a head start, he was already halfway across town when Vegas set off. At this pace it will take Vegas forever to catch up with him. Fuck fuck fuck!
He feels so tempted to try and call again, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to the phone. If the phone is shut down, everything will be lost. The phone is his lifeline to Pete.
Pete… this can’t be happening, they just got together. Fuck! Why? Why is life so damn cruel when it comes to him? This is so fucking unfair! I finally find my soulmate and this is what happens? Really? Vegas is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t realise at first that the icon has stopped moving. He’s stuck in this damn traffic jam, he hates it, when will the traffic lights turn green already? What was the last thing he said to Pete this morning? He can’t remember. He hasn’t told Pete that he loves him yet and now he feels horrible for being such a coward.
He’s currently about 40 minutes behind, maybe 30 minutes if he decides to break all traffic rules in existence and to willingly endanger himself and other drivers. Where the hell is Pete? A glance at the phone. The icon is still there. It is still there. Not moving. Stuck in traffic too? Then get the hell out of the car, Pete. If you can. Or if he’s making you drive, ram the car into a wall, you have experience with that. The icon is still there. Still not moving. Not moving at all. Soon it’s been 5 minutes and no movement. Have they parked? Have they arrived wherever they were heading? And where the hell is that in the first place? The street names seem vaguely familiar…
Vegas hits the brakes hard, the car comes to a screeching stand still. All around, other drivers are starting to honk but Vegas is totally oblivious to it. He stares in shock at the little map and ice floods his veins.
… No…
… Nonono…
… Oh God…
There is a third option. He forgot about the third option. Buckets. Flowers. Wings. He forgot. How could he forget? 40 minutes, maybe 30 minutes. Too long. Vegas is starting to hyperventilate again. He slams his foot down on the gas pedal and yanks the steering wheel to the side; the car slides out of the line of standing cars and onto the sidewalk. Vegas presses down the horn and just hopes everyone will jump out of the way in time as he floors the gas pedal. He needs to hurry. Buckets. Flowers. Wings. This just got so much worse. He needs to hurry. Buckets. Flowers. Wings.
----------------------------------------
40 minutes. Vegas’ car comes to a stop in front of an all too familiar graffiti-covered concrete building in a run down redevelopment area, and he just sits there for a moment, trembling all over. 40 minutes. The traffic has been atrocious. He has broken every traffic rule there is and it still took him 40 endless minutes to get here.
The fear is crippling in its strength. Vegas doesn’t think he can even stand right now, his legs are shaking so badly. He doesn’t want to be here again; he’s experiencing the worst kind of flashbacks. He doesn’t want to be here. But there is Pete’s car, parked under the only working street light in the whole street, as expected. The icon hasn’t moved. It has been stationary on the map for the longest time. 40 minutes. And the phone is not in the parked car in front of him, according to the app. Of course it isn’t. He will have to go inside the building. Oh, God. Please let this be a bad dream. Please let him wake up now and find himself in bed next to a sleeping Pete. This can’t be real.
Buckets. Flowers. Wings.
Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. He can do this. Pete is depending on him. He can do this. Vegas swallows hard and then takes the phone and slips it into his pocket. It isn’t needed anymore. He knows exactly where Pete is. Or perhaps this is a trap meant for himself. In that case, so be it, he has been living on borrowed time anyway.
He exits the car and takes a look around. The area is deserted. Why can’t he have just a little bit of luck? A police patrol would be very welcome now. But the street is empty, the air heavy with the threat of rain. Just another normal warm summer evening. He can do this.
Vegas looks up and, as expected, high up on the 5th floor, there is a shimmer of light from behind the dirty windowpanes. He crosses the street and heads for the building’s entrance. The door looks closed; the formerly broken lock has been repaired, but when he slowly presses the handle down it becomes clear that someone has unlocked the door, as expected. Sloppy not to lock it again, but perhaps the kidnapper wanted to make it easy for Vegas—so considerate.
Vegas checks his gun again, and the spare magazine as well. All right, time to rock and roll. Gun in hand, he slowly pushes the door open, glances around and then enters cautiously. To the right is the reception area where Pol puked his guts out. All empty of course, and dark. No lights are on, and Vegas will not change that. There’s enough dim light coming through the windows for him to find his way.
To the left the staircase looms in the dark, a black maw leading upwards into what Vegas imagines to be his worst nightmare. And there is the steel railing he cuffed Pete to. Memories from that day resurface and Vegas’ breath catches. Why did he allow himself to fall in love and make himself this vulnerable? I hate feeling this way.
In a moment of clearheadedness, Vegas takes out his phone again and sends a short text message to Arm, outlining the situation and his location. Arm will make the right decisions based on this, decisions that Vegas right now can’t make because this feels way too personal. Plausible deniability. If Vegas calls the cops himself, they’ll yank him off the case. Tell him to wait for backup. Which is impossible. So he leaves all that hassle to Arm.
Having done that, the only thing left to do is to head upstairs into nightmare territory. His eyes have adjusted to the dim light by now, so he can traverse the stairs without fear of falling. Up he goes, slowly and steadily, gun in hand.
All is silent upstairs, which is both good and bad. Good because if there had been screaming, Vegas would have lost it. Bad because you can do a lot of damage in 40 minutes, maybe Pete is no longer able to scream… Vegas draws in a shaky breath and pushes that thought firmly out of his mind. No, surely Pete is all right. He has to be all right. Everything will be fine.
The first inkling that everything will not be fine comes when he rounds the corner to the 3rd floor landing. There’s something on the floor there, lying in the darkness. Something small. Trash? Vegas slowly inches closer. Recognition hits the same second as his nose registers a hint of the same sweet fragrance that’s been haunting his nightmares for weeks now.
A single large red blossom with petals that shift into solid black, with vividly orange filaments.
Vegas doubles over, and retches violently all over the floor. Oh, God. This can’t be happening. He heaves and heaves until there is only bile left and he’s left panting, with tears running down his face. Oh, God. 40 minutes. All is silent upstairs. 40 minutes. Oh, God.
Shivering all over, Vegas wipes his mouth with his sweater and then stumbles past the damn flower, ascending the stairs on legs that tremble so hard that they nearly buckle beneath him. 40 minutes. Closer to 50 minutes by now. Oh, God. He should have been faster.
When he arrives at the fifth floor landing, there’s another flower, and Vegas has to bite his lips in order to hold back a desperate moan. And the damn door to the open-plan office is closed as well. I can’t deal with this. I’m not ready, I can’t deal with this. If anything has happened to Pete… his mind just refuses to follow this line of thought any further. He needs to get himself under control again. The hand holding the gun is trembling so badly that he won’t be able to hit anything he shoots at.
Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. Repeat.
Vegas takes a deep breath and opens the door. No icy air this time; the air-conditioning has been switched off. There is still a faint scent of fire and flowers in the air. No one has bothered to deep-clean the area since the building will be demolished anyway. Not much has changed here really. It is still a bare office landscape only interrupted by the occasional support pillars. There’s no litter on the ground anymore, because the CSI team has collected all of it. The windows are still gaping like dark portals into the netherworld. Even the flickering neon-lights towards the back of the open space are exactly like Vegas remembers the scene. It’s as if he’s reliving that damn day once again, and Vegas wants to throw up, but his stomach is empty.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. The area seems empty apart from—ohgodohgodohgod—there is that damn broken support pillar and something—someone—is tied to it. Vegas gasps audibly, it feels as if he’s been gut-punched hard. He’s moving forward before he becomes aware of it, beside himself with fear. This can’t be happening. Way too much time has passed. This can’t be happening. Pete…
He must have made some kind of raw sound as he stumbles forward towards the circle of light and the person tied to the pillar there.
Suddenly he hears a strained, raspy and very familiar voice.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just look at him, you nutcase. You’re really going too far. Vegas, I’m okay… relax… I’m okay.”
Pete—because it really is Pete who is tied to the pillar—has lifted his head and somehow manages to give Vegas a very faint smile. The sheer relief of seeing him alive feels like another gut-punch. Not too late after all.
His boyfriend is alive, but doesn’t look too good, Vegas notes, as the initial panic washes away and he can think more clearly again. Pete must have been snatched straight from work, because he’s still wearing the pale-yellow shirt with the large white flowers that Vegas knows so well—and has grudgingly started to like, because he associates it with sunshine, and it really suits Pete’s sunny smiles so well. Right now that shirt is rumpled and has some stains on it from Pete’s bloody nose. He’s been roughed up quite a bit and will have bruises on his face by tomorrow, from the looks of it.
Vegas takes a step towards him, and in the same moment there is movement in his right field of vision. He doesn’t even have to think; he just reacts as years of practise have taught him. The next second he’s pointing his gun at the figure stepping slowly out of the shadow of another pillar.
“I told you to shut the fuck up,” drawls another very familiar voice.
Vegas’ eyes widen with disbelief … no way, what the fuck is going on here… and he lowers the gun again. What the hell?!
“So that’s who you called.” Tem snorts derisively as he looks at Pete. “I should have known… Oh, well, this doesn’t really change anything.” Then he turns to look at Vegas and sighs softly. “You really shouldn’t have come here. I am so sorry.”
What. The. Hell?!
Vegas can’t wrap his mind around this. Tem is here. Tem, who is supposed to be on leave, across the country, taking care of his sick grandmother. But Tem is right here, standing right before him, looking at Vegas with pity in his eyes. And he’s holding a gun in his hand too.
“What the hell is going on?” Vegas asks, his voice sounding very small. None of this is making any sense at all to him. Why is Tem here? Why is Pete tied to the damn pillar? Why the damn flowers? Why is his partner holding a gun? “Tem?…”
“I’m sorry, Vegas.” Tem strolls past him and towards Pete. “I know this must be very confusing to you. Would you like to explain it to him?” he asks Pete with a smile that sends a chill through Vegas.
“Why don’t you go and fuck yourself…” Pete suggests softly. His legs seem to be tied to the pillar with a rope—no melted chains this time—and his arms are bent backwards, around the pillar. Handcuffs? Despite the precarious situation he’s in, he looks remarkably calm as he faces Tem, before focusing on Vegas again. Their eyes lock and automatically Vegas takes another step towards him. He just wants to wipe all that blood from his face, to touch him to reassure himself that Pete really is alive.
“Don’t.” Tem raises his hand and points the gun at Pete.
Vegas freezes in mid-motion and his heart skips a beat, only to start racing as the inevitable adrenaline rush hits him hard.
“What the hell are you doing, Tem?” He looks at his partner—his best friend!—disbelief written all over his face. “What’s with the gun? Stop that shit, it’s not funny at all.”
“Oh, this isn’t a joke, Vegas. I can assure you that I’m dead serious about this. Don’t move. You weren’t supposed to come here, but now that you’re present, you can watch, but don’t interfere.”
Tem’s voice is so cold that Vegas has trouble reconciling this version of his partner with the man he has known for years. Tem is not only his partner, but his friend! They’ve been friends for years; apart from Porsche, this is the only friend he has allowed himself to have. He knows that Tem is jealous of Pete, but this is really going too far. “Tem! Lower the damn gun!” he urges him.
“Yes, Tem, be a good boy and listen to Vegas,” Pete adds wryly, which he probably shouldn’t have done because this results in Tem backhanding him hard across the face with the gun. Blood explodes from Pete’s mouth and Vegas groans in distress.
“Shut the fuck up!” Tem growls angrily.
Vegas wants to move but doesn’t want to risk upsetting Tem any further, and thereby endangering Pete. What a fucking nightmare!
“Please stop it, Tem.” He resorts to begging now, anything to stop this madness. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but please stop and talk to me and leave Pete alone. Please…”
While Pete is spitting out blood, wincing in pain, Tem turns and stares angrily at Vegas while waving the gun in the general direction of Pete, which sends another spike of anxiety through Vegas.
“You want to talk? Fine. Trust me, when I’ve finished talking, you will point your gun at this bastard as well. Time to take off the pink glasses and face reality, Vegas!”
“Shut up,” Pete says quietly. Blood is dripping freely from his split lip down onto his sunny shirt, creating a stark contrast in colours. “Vegas, don’t listen to him.”
Vegas casts Pete a helpless look. The urge to keep him safe is the only thing holding him in place right now, because Tem looks way too unhinged for his comfort.
“I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding,” he insists anxiously and casts a nervous glance at the gun Tem is still waving around.
“There is no misunderstanding, it’s all a big fucking lie. You need to trust me, Vegas.” Tem sounds so sincere that it hurts. “You need to stay away from him, he’s not who you think he is…” With an angry hiss, Tem points his gun accusingly at Pete. “He’s been lying to you the whole damn time!”
This seems to make Pete angry; Vegas recognises the furious look in his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up!” Pete snarls at Tem. “You’re a delusional idiot who’s just jealous that after all these years of pathetically pining for Vegas, he’s decided to fuck me instead of you…”
Before Vegas has the chance to fully comprehend what Pete has been saying, an enraged Tem pulls the trigger.
A whip-like crack echoes through the room, and simultaneously Pete’s body jerks violently.
… white noise…
… time slows to a crawl…
… white noise…
Vegas’ ears are ringing, shock is freezing him in place. At Pete’s right shoulder, white flowers on a sunny yellow background shift into red. All sound has disappeared, there is just a low grade buzzing in his ears now. One flower. Two flowers. Three flowers. All turning red before his shell-shocked eyes. It goes alarmingly fast. Has time reset? The whole upper right side of Pete’s chest is soon drenched in red. Pete has slumped forward, more or less hanging in the rope tying him to the pillar. So much red.
…white noise…
Even if he is making a sound—and part of him is pretty sure he’s vocalising his distress in some way—Vegas can’t hear it. All sound has disappeared with the crack of the gunshot and the bullet that slammed into Pete’s shoulder. Vegas’ world is eerily quiet now.
Tem is still pointing his gun at Pete and Vegas is pointing his gun at Tem. When did he do that? When did he raise his arm? He can’t remember making a move but there it is: he’s pointing his gun at his best friend.
… white noise…
Vegas can see that Pete is still breathing. So much red. Way too much red. He can see that Tem’s mouth is moving; he must be speaking, but he can’t hear a thing. So much red. Who is he talking to? Pete? Or Vegas? So much red.
“Drop the gun.” That’s what Vegas says but he can’t hear his own voice. Has he really said it? He tries again. “Drop the gun.” He still can’t hear anything other than the buzzing in his ears, but Tem has stopped glaring at Pete and is now looking incredulously at Vegas and the gun pointed his way.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
… white noise…
“Drop the gun, Tem,” Vegas whispers, caught in his bubble of stress-induced silence. “Please drop the gun and step away to the side.”
So much red. More red flowers now. Vegas’ breathing gets shallow with fear and the buzzing in his ears increases. So much red.
Tem seems to be yelling at him, pointing at Vegas’ gun and then at Pete. He seems to have a lot to say to Vegas, but all Vegas is interested in right now is the direction in which Tem’s gun is pointing, and unfortunately the weapon is still trained on Pete.
… white noise…
“…Pete…” Vegas whispers in desperation and is rewarded with the tiniest movement as Pete tries to lift his head but fails. Still alive. Way too much red though. “Put the gun down, Tem. Please…”
… white noise…
His partner is stomping his foot in clear frustration with Vegas. He’s trying to make a point—talking talking talking—but Vegas can’t hear a single word. Tem is a very good shot, Vegas knows this. Normally his partner has a steady aim, but today the hand threatening Pete with the gun is trembling alarmingly. Vegas takes note of all these small details. So much red.
“Please drop the gun, Tem. Please don’t make me do this,” Vegas begs with ever growing desperation.
… white noise…
“Don’t make me do this… Please don’t make me do this, Tem…” Vegas whispers desperately. “Please don’t… please… Drop the gun.”
Nothing matters except the gun pointed at Pete. And the ever increasing number of red flowers on Pete’s blood-drenched shirt.
… white noise…
Whatever Tem is trying to achieve with this mad act, he has badly miscalculated his own importance to his friend. Vegas loves Tem in his own way, just not the way Tem wants. And yes, Tem has been more of a family to him these last years than even his real family was. Pete though—Pete is the air that Vegas breathes. There is no Vegas without Pete.
So when Tem’s trigger finger starts twitching alarmingly, Vegas does not hesitate.
He pulls the trigger without a second thought.
Because a bullet travels at speeds far exceeding 1000 metres per second, Tem doesn’t have a chance to duck or yell, he just jerks, his head is flung sideways by the force of the impact as the bullet enters his brain. And then he just crumbles lifelessly to the ground.
The recoil of the gun in his hand causes the first crack in the wall of ice that Vegas’ mind instinctively slams into place to protect himself, but he still feels he’s about to shatter. Sound bleeds back into his life. He can hear harsh breathing; is it the sound of his own breath? Vegas is too stunned to make sense of it, he stares at the body on the ground in total shock—the body… so much red there too—dark red rivulets spreading out from it over the concrete floor. So much red. Vegas tears his gaze away from the body to stare in total disbelief at the gun in his hand. He didn’t. Or did he? The gun suddenly becomes unbearably heavy, and slips from his numb fingers, clattering to the ground. Red on grey. So much red on grey. It’s just spreading and spreading, reaching out to him. So much red.
“Well shit…” A very weak voice disturbs the silence and Vegas flinches hard, then whips his head around and gasps with a new sense of urgency. Pete!
He momentarily forgot that Pete is still tied to the pillar. His shirt is soaked with blood; he’s managed to lift his head and looks just as stunned as Vegas must be looking right now. Nevertheless his boyfriend attempts to smile reassuringly as soon as their eyes meet.
“Oh good, you can hear me again… Think you can untie me?” Pete asks weakly. “I don’t want to alarm you but I don’t feel so good.”
Another crack in the shield appears.
Shit! Vegas stumbles forward and then he’s cradling Pete’s pale face in his trembling hands, trying to brush the blood away with his thumbs, but just smearing it all over Pete’s face. “Pete… oh God… Pete.”
Vegas is so shell-shocked he can’t even find words for the distress he’s feeling. So much blood. All rational thoughts are trapped behind a thick shield of ice deep in his mind, and it feels as if he’s frozen in place right beside them. Meanwhile his hands are on autopilot; he’s brushing back Pete’s hair, stroking his cheeks, touching the field of red flowers where the wet shirt sticks to Pete’s shoulder—so much red… he doesn’t like red, he wants it to stop…
“Vegas…” Pete’s voice drifts into his consciousness like a warm ray of light in the darkness. “I know you are in shock but you need to untie me now… please…”
Another crack appears.
Oh yes… he needs to untie Pete. Vegas nods numbly and gets down on his knees to find the knot holding the rope in place. There it is. But untying it proves to be a struggle because Vegas’ hands are slick with Pete’s blood—red red red—his fingers keep slipping and he can hear himself sob in frustration.
And another crack appears.
“… You’re doing good…” Pete’s voice washes over him. “… don’t stress…” His voice sounds very weak and that just adds another layer of anxiety to the whole messy situation. Finally the knot comes undone and Vegas can get the damn rope off. Pete’s legs buckle, he sinks down to the floor against the pillar with a pained groan, and then Vegas remembers that his hands are still handcuffed around the pillar too. Fuck.
“Sorry… sorry… I’ll fix this, I promise… just hold on…” He can feel the tears running down his face and wipes them off with the back of his bloody hand. Handcuffs. They need to come off, yes. He will need the key for that and the key is with…Vegas whimpers in distress. Notgoingtherenotgoingthere…
Another crack appears.
“You can do this, Vegas,” Pete mumbles weakly. He really looks awfully pale, nearly white. So much red. White and red.
“I can do this…” Vegas repeated and crawls over to T—notgoingtherenotgoingthere—to the body. The rivulets of red surrounding it look like clawed hands, accusingly reaching out to Vegas, and he feels his breath hitching several times.
“…the key…” Pete reminds him quietly and then stifles a groan of pain.
The key, yes. The key should be in the back pocket of the trousers because that’s where T—notgoingtherenotgoingthere—Vegas holds back a sob and with shaky hands reaches out to touch the body and turn it to the side, so he can fish the key out of the pocket there. The body is still warm. Vegas feels his throat getting tight, and he swallows painfully.
Another crack appears.
There is the key, he can feel it, and he pulls it out of the pocket with trembling fingers. It’s connected to a key ring with a dangling rubber Robo-
cop face. Vegas gave this keyring to Tem the day they graduated, and his friend has been using this ever since.
Vegas looks down at the keyring in his bloody fingers and then at the body.
The body.
… another crack and then the ice shield shatters…
The body.
Tem.
A raw, choked sound escapes from Vegas. He explodes into motion, he can hear himself whimper like a hurt animal as he frantically starts checking for a pulse, but his hands are trembling so badly that he can’t feel anything. Not that it makes a difference, he knows it’s futile anyway. It was a head shot. There is no way for Tem to survive this. So much blood. There’s so much blood… the head… oh God, Tem’s head… so much blood. Vegas is keening, his hands are covered in blood, Pete’s blood and Tem’s blood, there is blood everywhere, he doesn’t know where to touch, what to do…
Tem is dead. He has killed Tem. Oh God!!!
“Vegas!” Pete manages to shout somehow and then coughs up blood. “Snap out of it!”
Tem is dead.
Tem is dead.
Tem is dead.
Tem is…
Tem…
…
“…Damn it… Vegas …” Pete pleads, and shudders in pain. “… please… save me…”
Vegas is sobbing so hard that his whole body is shaking, but this call for help has him scrambling on all fours back to Pete’s side. Pete can’t die. Not Pete too. He drops the key several times, his fingers are just too damn slippery with blood, but then the handcuffs come off, and Pete falls forward, straight into Vegas’ arms.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” Vegas begs between sobs and shifts Pete so that he’s lying more comfortably against him. Pete tries to chuckle but only coughs up more blood. Shit. Not good. Vegas tries to remember something he read a long time ago about lung injuries and blood and such, but his mind is wiped blank.
“… don’t worry…” Pete is coughing up even more blood, but still manages to wink playfully at Vegas. “… not getting rid of me… that easily…”
Vegas tries to smile through his tears but fails miserably. “I’m going to stick to you like superglue from now on, you damn idiot. You won’t get rid of me for the rest of your miserable life.” His tears are dripping down onto Pete’s face, mingling with the blood there. Vegas presses one hand against the wound on Pete’s shoulder to stem the blood flow somehow, because Pete’s loosing too much blood and it’s scaring the hell out of him. “Hang in there, Pete… I’m sure Arm is already sending help, but I’ll call and tell them to hurry up.”
He takes out his phone with his free hand and somehow manages to make a call to dispatch without falling apart. Vegas gives them the code for ‘Officer down’ and tells them to send an ambulance in case one isn’t on the way already, and to hurry. Once that is done, he focuses his attention solely on Pete again.
Pete seems to have trouble keeping his eyes open, but for now he’s still looking at Vegas as if he’s the centre of his world. “You chose me…” he whispers sluggishly. “… you saved me…”
Of course he did. “I love you,” Vegas tells him quietly, with a teary smile.
“I know.” Pete lifts a trembling hand and caresses Vegas’ cheek. His hand feels so cold that Vegas gets even more anxious. In stark contrast to that cold hand, Vegas feels the heat of Pete’s blood against the hand that is firmly pressing down on the wound, and he’s quietly despairing.
“Don’t die on me, Pete.” He’s back to sobbing now, he can no longer hold it in. “Please don’t die on me. I love you so damn much. Help is on the way, please hold on just a little bit longer, all right?”
Pete’s eyes flutter shut. “……. sure…….” he whispers, so faintly that Vegas has trouble understanding him.
“Hang on… just a little bit longer…” Between sobs, Vegas leans down and kisses his cold, bloody cheek. “Stay with me, Pete… You need to stay awake… please don’t die on me…”
And that’s how the paramedics and the police officers descending on the crime scene eventually find them: a blood-covered Vegas sobbing uncontrollably while clutching an equally blood-soaked, unconscious Pete against his chest.
----------------------------------------
“And what happened next?”
“I told him to drop the gun,” Vegas replies tiredly and shifts to find a more comfortable position. The chair isn’t meant to be comfortable though, it’s as hard and cold as the rest of the interrogation room. Grey, bleak walls. A two-way mirror on the wall he is facing. There are cameras pointed his way, he can hear their faint buzzing echoing through the room whenever there is a lull in the conversation
“Then what?”
Vegas doesn’t know the officer leading the interrogation. Not that it makes a difference. The guy is doing his job; someone has to ask all the questions, it might as well be him.
“Then Khun Saengtham told him to drop the gun as well.” And was perhaps a wee bit snarky doing so. But of course Vegas does not mention that.
“And then?”
“Then Detective Piangvanich shot him.” Vegas is desperately trying not to fall apart while recalling what has happened earlier on. Before his inner eye, everything is blurred. All the raw memories are safe to look at this way, from a blurred distance.
“Just like that? Without any further provocation?”
Vegas sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. It feels sticky and crusty, it must be because of all the dried—notgoingthere.
“Yes, just like that. I don’t understand it either.”
“What happened next?”
“I pointed my gun at him. I suppose it was a reflex, I don’t remember. He had shot a man right before my eyes. He had a gun in his hand. He was a threat.”
Vegas has grown tired of looking at the investigator, his gaze drifts around the room. How many times have they gone over this now? He can’t remember. He’s lost all sense of time. In here, there is just the flickering neon light, no windows. He doesn’t know if it’s still night, or daytime already. Tiredness has given way to plain exhaustion. He’s only awake because of all the black coffee he’s been drinking ever since coming back to the police station.
“And you told him to drop his gun?”
“Yes. Repeatedly. I told him to drop the gun and step aside. I don’t know how many times. It felt like an eternity but I suppose it wasn’t all that long.”
“Why do you think Detective Piangvanich didn’t heed your warning?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Because he was out of his mind with jealousy. “This was my first time seeing him since he took his leave of absence. I didn’t even know he was in the city. He hasn’t been in contact with me for over two weeks, didn’t reply to my messages either. I don’t know what got into him to behave like this…”
“And he didn’t say anything to explain himself?”
Tem sure did have a lot to say but Vegas couldn’t hear it. All he could hear at that point was white noise, but he can’t tell anyone about that either. A police detective who has stress-induced blackouts? He would lose his job.
“No. He seemed irritated about the whole situation. Very unhinged.”
“Why did you take the decision to fire the shot then?”
Vegas swallows dryly and stares down at his hands. They’re so dirty. He absently starts scraping off the dried blood with his fingernails.
“Khun Saengtham was in medical distress.” That’s a nice neutral way to put it.
For a moment the blurry bubble flickers, and Vegas recalls a vivid imagine of blood-soaked white flowers—so much red. His heartbeat speeds up alarmingly and then everything is blurry again. He swallows hard. “As I was saying, he was in increasing medical distress. Detective Piangvanich showed no signs of putting the gun down; he kept waving it in Khun Saengtham’s direction, and he was getting more and more agitated. His hand was shaking and so was his trigger finger. I feared he’d shoot Khun Saengtham again at any moment, that’s why I intervened.”
Such a nice way of saying that he shot his best friend in the head.
“Was this really the only option you had in this situation?”
“I don’t know…” Vegas shrugs tiredly. “I just don’t know. I don’t think I could have done anything else. It’s not as if I had plenty of time to think. I saw the trigger finger twitch, and I took the shot.”
There is a small crack in the wall on the left. Vegas feels cracked too and doesn’t understand how he’s still holding up. It feels as if he should be crumbling, falling apart into small tiny pieces, like in one of those Chinese Xianxia dramas where the heroes receive a mortal wound and slowly dissipate like tiny flakes of ashes blown away by the wind. Why is he still in one piece? This feels so unreal.
“Detective Theerapanyakul?”
Vegas blinks, he must have been spacing out. He gives the other man an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What did you do next?”
“I went to Khun Saengtham, checked on him and then removed the rope.” So much blood… so damn much blood. “He was handcuffed too, so I had to get the keys from the body…” His voice trails off there for a moment as he tries to keep the images of that moment at bay. “While I was near the… body… I checked for a pulse. Maybe I tried to administer CPR too… I don’t remember, sorry. It was all rather traumatic, I’m having trouble recalling all the details.”
Vegas notices that he’s wringing his hands, so he puts them into the pockets of his jeans. They’re dirty too. His hands. His jeans. His sweater. His hair. Everything is sticky and encrusted with dark flaky dried blood.
… Pete … I need to see Pete… Need to see that he’s still alive…
Vegas ruthlessly slams mental barrier upon barrier into place, everything to protect himself from this line of thought. Can’t go there right now. Can’t. Need to hold it together just a little bit longer.
“How many shots did you fire?”
“Just one.” One was enough… he’s a good shot… he’s been shooting people since he was five years old…
“Did you use your own gun, Detective Theerapanyakul?”
“Of course.”
“What happened to the gun?”
Vegas can’t remember. “I don’t know? I think I dropped it?” He shrugs helplessly. “I know I was holding it and then I wasn’t. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t really helping you,” he apologises again. He has been doing that a lot these past …hours? “I simply can’t remember…”
The investigator leafs through the papers and notes in front of him. “Let’s start at the beginning again. You said you received a call…”
Vegas buries his face in his hands and groans. He’s so damn exhausted. How many more times do they need to go over the details? He doesn’t want to remember this nightmare, he just wants to forget everything. He’s so exhausted he feels like a zombie. What time is it even? How long has he been here? Who’s watching on the other side of the mirror? What else do they want to know? Hasn’t he told them everything already, repeatedly?
… Pete …
… notgoingthere… notgoingthere…
He takes a steadying breath, looks up again and reflexively forces himself to smile to show his willingness to cooperate. “Yes, I was preparing dinner when my mobile phone started to ring…”
----------------------------------------
When Vegas starts spacing out more and more, and stumbles over his words in utter exhaustion, they finally decide to end the interrogation. At this point, Vegas feels so numb that it’s almost an out-of-body experience for him. The only thing he clearly feels right now is a dull throbbing in one of his feet; did he injure himself at some point? He can’t remember. All his lovely butterfly thoughts have flown away, his brain is empty, nothing fluttering around in there.
It takes him a moment to comprehend that he’s supposed to leave now. Really? Already? Finally? What is he supposed to do again? Oh, leave…
Vegas slowly walks—limps—to the door they hold open for him and steps out into the corridor. He has to blink because the light out here is much brighter than on the inside of the interrogation room. There are chairs against the walls of the hallway, and from those chairs three people are rising. Vegas rubs his tired eyes, everything is a blur, he knows them, right?
“Finally,” Porsche mutters under his breath, hurrying towards him.
Macau is faster though. “Vegas!” he exclaims, and enfolds his big brother into a bear hug, which Porsche joins as soon as he’s by Vegas’ side.
“Group hug!” Tankhun announces, and in the safety of their combined arms, Vegas allows himself to crumble. His mental barriers pop like a soap bubble, and the tears start rolling down his face; he leans against them and cries heart-wrenchingly.
“I killed Tem…” he sobs, and simply keeps repeating himself over and over again, “I killed Tem…”
The three continue hugging Vegas and allow him to cry, offering quiet comfort. But Vegas has cried so much these last 12 hours, he doesn’t have the energy left to cry for a long time. He’s so damn exhausted, that his tears run dry sooner rather than later. Tankhun dabs the wetness from Vegas’ face with his designer jacket, Porsche ruffles Vegas’ hair affectionately and Macau holds Vegas’ hand very tightly. It feels so damn good to be surrounded by so much love. Sometimes family is great.
“I’ve got to go,” Vegas sighs tiredly.
“Go where?” Macau wonders curiously.
“Going home with us, of course,” Tankhun declares, and Porsche nods in agreement. “You’re not staying on your own tonight.”
“I’ve got to go,” Vegas repeats, and shakes his head because he’s feeling so dazed. “I’ve really got to go.”
“Go where, Vegas?” Now it’s Tankhun’s turn to ask.
“I need to go to the hospital,” Vegas mumbles quietly.
“Oh Vegas…” Porsche casts him an understanding look and sighs deeply. “I’m sorry, you can’t do that right now.”
“Huh?”
What did Porsche say? Vegas doesn’t understand. Of course he can.
“I’ll just take a taxi if none of you can drive me,” he adds, and stifles a yawn. “What time is it anyway?”
“Why does my brother need to go to the hospital?” Macau asks Porsche, slightly confused.
Porsche looks around and then lowers his voice. “Because he’s in a relationship with the guy who got shot.”
“I thought Vegas was in a relationship with Tem?” Now Macau is completely confused.
Vegas is also confused. How did Macau know about him and Tem?
“It’s complicated,” Vegas and Porsche state at the same time.
“What do you mean, I can’t go to the hospital?” Vegas turns towards Porsche and blinks, because he’s seeing him double for a second. Damn, he is about to crash soon. He needs to get going.
“Because your father has sent someone to keep an eye on you,” Porsche points out quietly.
That sure as hell puts a stop to all of Vegas’ immediate plans. A wave of despair crashes over him again. He’s been holding it together all this time, telling himself that he’ll get to see Pete as soon as he gets out of the damn investigation room—and now this. Vegas feels himself tearing up again.
“There, there…” Tankhun slings an arm around his waist and pulls him in for a quick hug. “Come along, Vegas. You look as if you’re going to keel over any second now; you can’t possibly go anywhere in this condition; you’ll scare the hell out of everyone. We’ll go home, clean you up and feed you, and Porsche will make some calls to find out more about your special friend, all right?”
Macau glances at Tankhun and Porsche, unsure if he’s invited too, and is taken by surprise when Porsche pokes him in the side. “That goes for you too, kiddo. You’re coming with us.”
“Well, that’s settled then,” Tankhun proclaims, and drags his cousin along towards the exit. Porsche and Macau hurry to catch up with them. Vegas is too exhausted to argue or resist. And neither of them acknowledges the fact that their group is being tailed by some of Khun Gun’s watchdogs.
----------------------------------------
“Just a quick snack, a change of clothes and I’ll wash my face—then I really need to find a way to somehow sneak into the hospital,” Vegas reminds Tankhun once again, as he’s being pulled along through the Main family mansion.
He’s been trying to explain this to his cousin, his brother and Porsche over and over; they always nod, but he has the feeling they aren’t taking him seriously at all. He knows it’s risky, but he’s surely going to die if he can’t check up on Pete soon.
He doesn’t know how to explain it to them; he really needs to go to the hospital and see Pete. Touch him. Reassure himself that he’s still alive. It feels as if someone has torn him in half; this enforced separation is killing him. It was difficult enough already handing Pete over to the paramedics, and Vegas’ heart has been aching ever since Pete was carried away on the stretcher. He simply can’t take it anymore, he needs to be by Pete’s side.
“Yes, of course, but have something to eat first,” Tankhun explains as they enter his apartment. “I’ll get you some food and arrange for some clothes as well. I hope you’re not attached to what you’re wearing right now, I don’t think those can be salvaged.” He looks his cousin over and frowns, but behind the bossy behaviour Vegas can sense Tankhun’s deep unease. This must be unsettling for him. It most likely brings back bad memories from his childhood.
“I’m sorry,” Vegas mumbles tiredly. “Sorry for being such a burden. I’ll leave as quickly as possible.”
Tankhun brushes Vegas’ apology aside. “Nonsense. You are family, not a burden. Porsche and Macau, clean him up a bit. I’ll be right back with food and something to wear.” He strides out of the room, calling for his bodyguards.
The three men left behind look at each other.
Porsche points towards one for the doors. “The bathroom is over there, Vegas. Go take a shower. I’ll make some phone calls in the meantime.”
Like a robot following orders, Vegas wanders into the bathroom, completely numb with exhaustion. Such a large bathroom. Light and airy. Tankhun actually has rubber ducks lined up on the edge of the bathtub; they come in different colours and sizes. Rather pretty. Vegas has already forgotten why he came in here and stares blankly at the kaleidoscope of colours.
“Damn.”
Someone behind him sighs and when Vegas turns his head he sees his brother and Porsche, both looking at him with concern.
“Huh?” Why do they look so concerned? Is something the matter? Vegas is so tired he can’t think straight.
“You’ve been in here for nearly 10 minutes, Vegas, apparently just staring at the wall,” Macau tells him solemnly.
Oh. How embarrassing. “I was supposed to do what?” Vegas has to ask, because he can’t remember.
“You need to clean up, Vegas,” Porsche reminds him patiently. “Go take a shower.”
“I don’t need a shower, I’ll just splash some water in my face,” Vegas mumbles, but both Macau and Porsche shake their heads.
His brother steps closer and gently turns Vegas around so that he’s facing the mirror above the sink. “You really need a shower, Vegas. Look at yourself.”
Vegas doesn’t recognise the man in the mirror. Is that really him? No wonder everyone is treading on eggshells around him, looking concerned. He looks like the walking dead. There’s dried blood splatter everywhere; he’s covered in it, clothes, throat, face, hair, hands. His eyes are red and swollen from all the crying. He looks more dead than alive at his point; no wonder everyone thinks he will collapse any second.
“…Oh…”
“Macau will help you clean up,” Porsche decides.
“Why me? I think I should check on Tankhun to make sure he picks clothes Vegas will actually be able to wear,” his brother protests.
“Because Kinn will kill me if he finds out that I was in a bathroom with a naked Vegas. And if Kinn doesn’t kill me, Vegas’ boyfriend will do so as soon as he’s out of the hospital.”
Macau is astonished and Porsche nods grimly at him. “Trust me, that one is a vicious little cinnamon roll. Suits Vegas perfectly, if you ask me, much better than … well…” And he shuts up because he almost mentioned Tem, and wouldn’t that have been awkward.
“Fine, I’ll clean him up.” Macau is intrigued, but apparently decides to ask more questions another time. He shoos Porsche out of the bathroom.
Vegas tried to follow their conversation, but his thoughts keep drifting off; he can’t focus on anything right now. What was he supposed to do again?
“Let me help you take off those clothes,” his brother reminds him gently, then assists Vegas in peeling off the blood-soaked jeans and sweater.
The skin underneath is smeared with blood too, even his underwear. So much blood… Vegas breaks out in cold sweat. All Pete’s blood.
Macau manoeuvres him into the bathtub, adjusts the water temperature, and methodically showers Vegas off, using a washcloth to rub away the dried blood. Vegas sits there with his eyes closed, he’s so damn exhausted. He wants to help but simply doesn’t have the energy left for it. As Macau rinses his hair, Vegas can feel tears gathering in his eyes again. He sits there like a heap of misery while his brother massages the shampoo in.
“Am I too rough?” Macau asks anxiously when he notices the state Vegas is in.
Vegas shakes his head. He can’t stop the tears though; he really is no longer in control of himself.
“I just…” His voice breaks and he shrugs helplessly. “I just want Pete…” he whispers then, with so much heartache in his voice that Macau flinches in sympathy. “I can’t do this anymore… I need Pete… I’m so scared of loosing him… I really need Pete.”
Macau swallows hard, then drops the shower head and hugs his brother tightly. Vegas clings to him and cries quietly.
“I can’t do this anymore… I really need to see Pete…”
“I’ll fix it,” his brother promises solemnly and kisses the top of Vegas’ head. “I promise. I’ll make sure you get to see your Pete as soon as you’ve eaten something, all right? Let’s just finish cleaning yourself up first.”
Vegas nods quietly amidst tears, and Macau continues. It takes a while until the water runs clean. Vegas is bundled into an enormous, fluffy towel, then Macau leads him back into the living area. He’s noticed that Vegas is limping, so a while later one of the in-house doctors shows up, take a look at the cut on the sole, cleans it, tapes it and puts a bandage over it.
Vegas is in such an exhausted daze that he has trouble staying awake. He can’t sleep yet though, he needs to find a way to get to Pete first.
Speaking of which… Porsche returns while Macau is drying Vegas’ hair. “Found him!” he announces proudly. “I got the hospital and the room number.” And since he knows from personal experience what information Vegas craves the most, he adds: “He’s doing all right. They had to operate to remove the bullet. He was very lucky; the bullet somehow missed the ribs, lung and artery, only damaging the muscles, and got stuck in the shoulder bone. But he lost a lot of blood and had to get a transfusion. The nurse I spoke to said he’s still unconscious, but they expect him to make a full recovery.”
Vegas breathes a sigh of relief, all the tension draining out of him. He would cry again but it seems he has run out of tears. “Thank you,” he whispers softly. “Thank you.”
Porsche smiles. “When you’ve eaten something, and are dressed, I’ll smuggle you out of here. Macau will stay to distract your father’s goons so that everyone thinks you’re staying overnight with the Main family.”
Vegas feels overwhelming gratitude at this moment. He doesn’t know what to say.
“Tankhun got you some clothes too. Something you can actually wear…”
“I heard that!” And there is his oldest cousin again, marching into the room. His bodyguards trail behind, carrying an assortment of plates which they place on the nearby table before Tankhun shoos them out of the room again.
“I’m not giving you any of my designer clothes,” Tankhun informs Vegas. “Because I know you have no fashion sense to appreciate them. So you will have to make do with those boring bodyguard suits. You can skip the jacket though, way too warm for that. Now go and eat. I got you rice porridge and fruits and fresh orange juice. No more coffee for you. Go on, eat. I know you’re not hungry, but you need food to function.”
It is true, Vegas isn’t hungry but everyone is making a fuss over him so if eating will make them happy, that’s what he will do.
While he eats and gets dressed, all he can think about is Pete. I need to hold on just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer.
----------------------------------------
Vegas hates hospitals. He’s so out of it he can’t even remember how Porsche managed to smuggle him out of the mansion; he’s having blackouts. One moment he was in the car, and now he’s limping along a seemingly endless hospital corridor, following Porsche, who guides him gently with a firm grip on his arm. The sound of their shoe soles on the rubber floor brings back dark memories. No, Vegas does not like hospitals at all. He hates the smell. He hates the silence. He hates the frantic bursts of activity when the monitor alarms start beeping.
Just a little bit longer. Almost there. He just needs to hold it together a little bit longer. Vegas stumbles and would have fallen, but Porsche holds him up.
“You can do this,” he tells his friend quietly. “Come on, Vegas, you can do this.”
Vegas nods, or at least he thinks he nods. He feels so numb and tired. Everything keeps blurring before his eyes, and then snaps back into focus. So damn tired.
Almost there, almost there.
At some point Porsche opens a door and leads him through it. It’s a hospital room like countless others, nothing special here. The light has been dimmed, but Vegas can still make out a single bed surrounded by quite a bit of machinery. Lots of muted blipping and humming noises with the occasional beep.
The moment Porsche releases his hold on him, Vegas is limping towards that bed and the person lying in it. Pete is connected to the machines with a lot of cables. He’s on an IV drip, too. He looks very pale, but at least someone took the time to wipe away all the blood from his bruised face. Vegas looks down at his motionless, unconscious boyfriend and can feel himself starting to tremble.
“I’m sorry I’m late…” he whispers hoarsely, stifling a sob. “But I’m here now, Pete.”
With numb fingers, he pulls a chair closer to the bed and sinks down on it because his legs will no longer support him. From somewhere behind him, he can hear Porsche say something, but all his attention is focused on Pete now. Porsche can wait.
“I’m here now…” Vegas gently takes Pete’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV line, and lifts it to place a soft kiss on the palm. “I’m here now…” He rubs his face against that palm, needing the skin contact to ensure himself he’s not just imagining it. Then he laces their fingers together and lowers the hand back onto the bed. “I’m here, Pete… everything will be all right now.”
With a deep sigh, Vegas leans forward until his upper body is supported by the bed and his cheek is touching the hand that he’s holding on to for dear life. “I love you so damn much,” he mumbles as his eyes flutter shut. And then he promptly falls asleep.