It’s amazing how someone can break your heart
and you can still love them with all the little piece
What a gigantic clusterfuck. Vegas is a bit in awe at how well he managed to fuck things up this time. Weeks of planning down the drain because his heart is staging a rebellion, overthrowing his brain. I want my fix, whispers his body and sides with the heart. Two against one. Wow.
Stunned, he sits in the car watching the police swarm the building. There is nothing he can do, absolutely nothing. He managed to warn Pete, who is now stuck in the building with no way out because Macau, the evil genius, insisted on welding all the other exit points shut. Just to be on the safe side. There is just that one entrance left, and that is currently being blocked by the entering police force. Well, shit…
A quiet panic takes hold of Vegas. They’re going to catch Pete. They’ll catch him, and if they don’t shoot him on the spot, they’ll capture him and cart him off to jail. All the bloody secrets will come to light and then Pete will get executed. And it’s all his fault.
Both Porsche and Macau warned him that he would regret this, and he does. Oh, how he regrets it now. What a stupid, stupid idea! Surely there is a better way to handle this mess between them, but Vegas has been blind, stuck in denial, running away from his emotions. And now he has to face the consequences. Fuck!
There’s nothing he can do, he just has to sit here and wait and pray that Pete won’t resist the arrest. Pray they won’t shoot him. No shots being fired is a good sign, right? How long since they entered the building? Vegas wants to scream, but instead he wrings his hands. Please don’t kill him. I don’t think I’ll be able to continue living if he dies.
The minutes trickle by, the officers outside are calm, there is no excitement, no hectic communication between them and their colleagues inside. This is a good sign, right? Vegas’ phone plings and he nearly jumps out of his skin, hoping for a message from Pete, but it is only Porsche and Macau, checking in to see how everything is going. He can’t deal with them right now, he is too damn stressed and embarrassed for folding so easily, and so he ignores their messages.
He needs to stay put. If he goes in there, and encounters Pete in handcuffs, he isn’t sure what he will do. As thoroughly unhinged as he’s feeling right now he might try to break him free, and that would make everything so much worse. Vegas needs to stay put, and he hates it. Not to mention that he hates himself as well. I am so screwed. Seems he has been thoroughly mind-fucked. Brainwashed. Whatever you can call this. Is this Stockholm Syndrome, he wonders? Or a variety of it? It simply can’t be normal that he is still so emotionally attached to this madman who shot him.
Vegas checks the time. Fiddles with his phone. Checks the time again. Wrings his hands. Watches the activities of the police officers on the other side of the street. Checks the time again. When the van of the CSI team pulls up, Vegas has had enough. What the fuck is going on inside? He needs to know. He can’t wait any longer, so he exists the car and crosses the street.
He isn’t supposed to be here; another police department handles this part of the city, so inserting himself into this investigation might be tricky. But one thing Vegas has learned over the years is that fortune favours the bold. If he acts as if it’s his goddamn right to be here, then less people will question him about his presence. And that’s exactly what he does. He channels his inner mob boss and stalks confidently past the other police officers standing around the building’s entrance, simply waltzing past everyone into the house.
Vegas gets a few curious glances, but no one stops him. This used to be some sort of industrial building that was converted into a loft; there are a lot of hallways and stairs. Vegas walks past doors leading to other parts of the building that have been welded shut, and can feel the lump of dread in his throat getting bigger. There is no way Pete could have gotten out of this trap; once he got past the entrance it’s basically a one-way route to the loft, with no way to escape into other areas of the house. He swallows hard. Yup, he really fucked up this time.
He ascends the last set of stairs and runs into his first real obstacle at the door to the loft—a police officer standing guard, who stops Vegas. Narrowing his eyes in annoyance, Vegas flashes his ID, but the man is stubborn and demands to know what he’s doing here. Since Vegas is of higher rank this doesn’t sit well with him at all, and he makes that very clear. As soon as he drops his name, all opposition to his presence disappears. Every cop has heard of his family and knows not to mess with them.
One step and he enters the apartment that looks just the same as when he was here the last time. Well, not exactly. For example, the bloody furniture that had been missing last time is back in place. Chan kept the furniture? Good grief, that man is a perfectionist.
The place is crawling with cops, and Vegas feels yet another spike of anxiety hitting him. Where did Pete go? Was there anywhere to hide in this loft, some place they’ve overlooked in their preparation? This is really stressing him out. Not to mention that this place brings back really bad memories.
Vegas spies the person who appears to be in charge, and goes to introduce himself while trying not to look at the chain on the other side of the room, the chain and the body it’s holding up. He really needs to have that talk with Macau. His brother has succeeded in turning this into a frighteningly real crime scene.
The detective in charge isn’t all too happy to have Vegas intrude upon his crime scene, but Vegas can be charming and insistent when he wants, and so eventually he gets his way. He’s allowed to stay here as long as he doesn’t interfere with the proceedings. Fine with him. He tells them this might be connected to a case he’s working on, so they leave him alone.
From the sidelines, Vegas finally allows himself to look at the dead body. A loan shark, Macau said. Someone who tried to embezzle money from their father. Should have known better, and now he’s dead. His father can be quite merciless when it concerns money issues. How Macau managed to smuggle the body out of the basement is a mystery to Vegas. But he did it, and now it’s hanging there, dangling on the chain. This could have been me, Vegas thinks, and feels goosebumps erupt along his spine as the memories of his time with Tawan catch up with him.
The man was beaten to death. His father’s men usually employ steel bars or baseball bats for this, and accordingly the corpse looks pretty bad. All visible skin and a lot of the clothes are caked with a generous amount of drying blood. The body is relatively fresh, only a day old according to his little brother. Vegas feels a hint of admiration at how perfectly they’ve staged this crime scene. The only one missing here is the murderer. Where the hell did Pete go?
For a brief moment, Vegas ponders what Pete must have thought, entering the loft and seeing the body hanging there. Did he even for a moment think it was Vegas? How does a serial killer feel when walking into a crime scene that isn’t their own? Do they feel anything at all? Fascination, perhaps? Vegas groans softly, because if he follows this line of thinking there can only be madness ahead. He needs to stop this, stop thinking, stop trying to understand. No matter how confused he might be emotionally, he’s still crystal clear about the fact that he’s dealing with a killer here. Pete is a damn psychopath, with all that it entails.
And where the fuck is this madman? After slowly taking a tour around the body, Vegas starts wandering through the rest of the loft, always careful to stay out of everyone’s way. Some of the cops have now left and the CSI team has arrived in their stead. Not Arm this time. It shows; they’re pretty sloppy when it comes to wearing PPE.
The bathroom is empty. Vegas sees a toothbrush and a hairbrush there that he recognises from his apartment—they’re Pete’s, it must be Macau’s work. No place to hide in here though, unless Pete turned into a mouse and crawled into the narrow ventilation shaft.
Where the fuck did he go? Vegas catches himself wringing his hands again, he’s so damn stressed. He hasn’t been out and about for months, and now he’s been thrown into an active crime scene with people everywhere. It feels a bit too much. He’s suffering from sensory overload.
Exiting the bathroom, Vegas glances around. Where could he be hiding? Under the various couches? Unlikely. The outlets for the ventilation shafts scattered around the loft aren’t large enough for a fully grown man to crawl into. He puts on some gloves and wanders around, peeking into the cupboards. Clothes, just clothes, as expected. Some items he recognises. There is that damn lavender shirt; Vegas inhales sharply and his heart aches.
Pete is nowhere to be found. Not under the bed. Not in the kitchen area either. Vegas feels a growing desperation. Where the hell did he go? There is no way he managed to hide anywhere other than in here. So where did he go? He’s terrified that the remaining cops having a look around, or the CSI team, will stumble across Pete first. Exactly what he is planning to do should he find Pete, Vegas doesn’t know. He hasn’t planned ahead this far.
To keep up appearances, he keeps doodling in his note-pad, as if he’s taking notes about important things. To make matters worse, his phone keeps plinging. Porsche and Macau are getting worried. ‘Change of plans’, he messages them. ‘I’ll explain later.’ He can already imagine their response to this fiasco, and he’s not looking forward to it.
Should have stayed at the safe house, he thinks gloomily. At least his life was less stressful there. He’s been back out in the world for half a day and his body is already buzzing with adrenaline. This isn’t healthy. Maybe he should take up mindfulness? Damn, where is Pete? And damn this hellhole here too! It’s just as hot and stuffy as he remembers. Vegas can feel the sweat on his back where the uniform shirt sticks to his damp skin. This sucks. Everything sucks. His whole life is a freaking disaster.
“Is it okay if I open a window?” he asks no one is particular, and gets an absent nod of consent from one of the cops.
The loft has several large, floor-to-ceiling windows, through which one can see the night sky outside. It’s pretty dark already, and there are no street lamps nearby or any other light sources near the building. Vegas makes a beeline for the window by the kitchen, because he remembers Tawan opening it at some point. He picks that window because it’s furthest from the working CSI team; he imagines Arm scolding him for opening a window while he was still processing a scene, but these guys don’t seem to mind at all. They haven’t even yelled once at the cops still walking all over their crime scene. Not that Vegas cares much; he’s stressed and sweaty and wants access to fresh air.
The windows of the loft all have waist-high grates installed to keep people from tumbling out accidentally. As Vegas touches the handle to open the window he notices that this one isn’t closed entirely, it’s just leaning against the frame, but not locked. An instinctive shiver runs through him. No way. Surely Pete wouldn’t …? Vegas takes a deep steadying breath because this is a hypothetical question at most—of course Pete would be crazy enough to do this. He saw the man jumping off a building after all! But holy shit…
A cautious glance around confirms that no one is paying attention to him. Projecting a calm he doesn’t feel, Vegas pulls the large window open and is immediately hit with that refreshing cool breeze he’s been longing for. Fresh air at last. For a second he debates turning around and just walking away. He still has time to do this. Seeing Pete from across the street earlier on was bad enough already and shook him to his foundations. Is he really ready for this? Will he ever be?
Maybe he is wrong though… Vegas takes a step forward and leans casually against the grate, looking out into the night sky. The breeze ruffles his hair like a gentle touch. It’s a starry night with very few clouds. A new moon, so the surrounding buildings and alleyways are cast into shadows. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Accompanied by the murmur of the working police officers behind him, Vegas lowers his gaze slowly. This building is made of brick, with a rough rugged surface. The wall is uneven, bricks jutting out at a regular interval, just enough for…
Barely visible in the darkness, there is a shade pressed flat against the wall, just beneath the grate down to his right. Like a gecko, or a free climber, clinging to the minute protrusions provided by the bricks by the fingertips. Vegas sucks in a startled breath. The shade moves ever so slightly, reacting to the soft noise he made, black hair giving way to a pale and very familiar face as the figure clinging to the wall looks up at him. Time slows to a crawl. Vegas’ heart does a happy little skip, and his body reacts with a shiver of delight. Sulking, his brain retreats into a corner, admitting defeat. Their eyes meet and once again Vegas shudders under the onslaught of conflicting emotions washing over him.
It’s been three months. He wants to step on those fingers clinging to the wall, grinding them against the bricks under his heel until they cannot hold on to the stones anymore, until the figure falls down down down, out of sight and to his death. He wants to reach out and grab those wrists and hurl that person inside to safety. He’s so angry and so worried. It’s maddening.
As if he were able to read Vegas’ thoughts, Pete’s lips curl into a slow Cheshire smile, and the second those dimples appear, Vegas’ legs turn into rubber. He tears his gaze away, suddenly feeling hot all over his body. He’s so screwed. He can feel Pete’s gaze on him, how it wanders over his body, and it only fans the flames within him. He’s so screwed. Distance, he needs some distance to clear his mind. Blindly, Vegas turns around and walks away from the window, leaving it wide open.
He heads all the way across the large room and leans against the wall there, inconspicuously doing his breathing exercises, because he’s caught himself hyperventilating again. Shit shit shit. There are cops everywhere. What a fucking mess. Whenever someone walks closer to the now open window, Vegas nearly has a heart attack. The notebook in his hands becomes his lifeline. He just writes down everything he sees, playing along, treating this like just another crime scene, all the while aware of Pete clinging to the wall outside. What if he falls? Would serve him right though. No! Pete must not get hurt. Vegas is thoroughly confused.
Time crawls by agonisingly. Soon there is just one more police officer left besides the CSI team. Vegas keeps himself busy by talking to his colleague, exchanging work anecdotes. The coroner comes, the body is removed from the chain, placed into a black body bag and lifted onto a stretcher. While it is being carried outside, the CSI team bags the chain. Work is slowly drawing towards an end here. His colleague seems tired, so Vegas offers to wrap things up here so that he can go home already. Of course that idiot jumps at the chance. Then it’s only Vegas and the sloppy CSI team. The breeze blows into the loft through the open window and Vegas has to resist the urge to go and check if Pete is still there, or if he has climbed somewhere else.
“Go ahead, I’ll close up here,” he tells the CSI team an hour later. The staged crime scene has been processed, all evidence has been labeled and bagged. Tiredly the team carts everything downstairs to their van. When the door finally closes behind them with a click, Vegas exhales and closes his eyes for a moment. This was such a close call. He has really lost his mind, coming up with an insane plan like this in the first place. Breathe in. Hold breath. Breathe out. Hold breath. He doesn’t move until he hears the faint sounds of car doors closing and the van driving away.
I’m not ready for this, he thinks, panicky. He should simply leave, but his body refuses to cooperate. The entrance door beckons to him, but instead he heads for the window like a sailor drawn forward by the siren’s song.
“They are all gone now.” Vegas is not looking down, just leaning against the ornamental grate, staring blindly into the night.
“About time,” comes the equally quiet reply from somewhere beneath him.
Simply hearing Pete’s voice again after all this time evokes fear and longing in equal parts in Vegas, and that only increases his confusion. Then there is quiet cursing from below.
“Bloody hell, my fingertips fell asleep…”
No, Vegas tells himself. No. I won’t do it. I won’t, I really won’t. And he actually manages to hold himself back as he watches how the dark figure slowly emerges from the shadows, pulling himself up, using the grate as a handhold. Vegas is feeling so damn torn it wouldn’t surprise him if he actually split into two different people anytime now. I won’t do it, he tells himself again and despite of it finds himself reaching downward, grasping Pete’s wrists. The touch causes the all familiar electric tingles. Vegas is disgusted with himself. No willpower whatsoever, he is such a damn idiot. He pulls, and Pete pushes himself upward. Vegas’ self-hatred is like the magma rising inside of a volcano. The more angry he gets at himself, the more force he channels into pulling Pete back into the safety of the room. A last hard yank and Pete more of less sails over the edge of the grate, bumping into Vegas. They stumble backwards. Immediately Vegas drops his hold on Pete’s wrists like a hot potato and takes a few steps further back. Distance. He needs distance.
They’re finally face to face again, about the same distance apart as they were that day when Pete put a bullet into him, Vegas reckons. A fresh feeling of betrayal wells up within him as those memories resurface, and he grits his teeth.
Not only that, but his danger sense is kicking in again, tell him to get ready to run run run because the monster has arrived and will pounce him anytime now. Fuck. The whole damn situation is surreal. He’s face to face with Pete, and yet it feels more as if he’s unexpectedly meeting the identical but minutely different twin of the man he’s been dating for a while. This is Pete, but then it again it isn’t, not the Pete he remembers.
He’s not looking good, that is Vegas’ first thought. Pete’s face appears sharper somehow, more drawn, more tired, as if he’s been living hard these past three months. His hair is longer, too, and unexpectedly wavy at the tips. And the whole body language is different; in jarring contrast to the easy-going way his Pete used to move around. It’s as if Pete has shed his mask, stepping out of the shadows of deception to finally reveal his true self—the self he’s most comfortable with. There are just tiny differences in how he moves, but Vegas takes note of them all. Pete’s body movements are more controlled, smoother. He carries himself with confidence, seems to be more aware of his surroundings. I thought I knew you so well, he thinks bitterly, what a fool I was.
For now, his fear of the predator before him keeps his anger in check, but his self-control has worn very thin. He should probably say something. Anything. Because he has a lot to say. But words have deserted him; Vegas is temporarily struck speechless. All he can do is to stare angrily at his nemesis. Something’s got to give—he feels like a pressure cooker on full heat with a blocked release valve.
Pete seems entirely unconcerned. He stretches leisurely, once again reminding Vegas of a big cat. As if hanging on the side of a building while hiding from the cops is an every day activity to him. Maybe it is? Who knows.
“What a vicious little plan that was, Vegas… I have to admit I’m impressed, I really didn’t see that coming.” He smirks at Vegas who is glowering darkly at him. “Well, aren’t we a bloody ray of sunshine tonight? Cheer up, your plan failed, I am fine.”
Pete’s snarky tone of voice makes Vegas’ hackles rise and he makes an incoherent, furious sound, curling his hands into fists. He shouldn’t have sent that damn message, warning this asshole. He should have told his colleagues where Pete was hiding. He should have stepped on those fingers. Vegas heart and body might be thrilled to be in Pete’s company again, but the more rational part of him is experiencing acute anger issues.
“Shut the hell up, you freaking psycho, or I’ll toss you straight back out of that window,” Vegas whispers harshly.
His anger just seems to amuse Pete. The threat simply causes him to laugh. “You say I’m a psychopath like it’s a bad thing.”
It’s really the last straw. Vegas snaps. With a snarl he launches himself at Pete and slams his fist into the man’s face. He laughs?! The asshole dares to laugh?! Vegas’ vision turns red, just like those damn flowers Pete loves so much. Red Red Red. Three months of resentment and anger explode, and the next moment they’re engaged in a furious scuffle.
Vegas rages, wildly swinging his fists, not really bothering where they hit, as long at they hit something. Preferably Pete. Everything is fair game, he sinks his fingers into Pete’s hair and pulls him forward, banging his head on a conveniently nearby wall. Blood drips from Pete’s nose, more red. Everything is red. He is kicking too, scratching whatever he can get a hold of, elbowing Pete’s ribcage, blindly doling out violence. Pete throws up his forearms, trying to block the blows raining down on him.
Red hot anger. Vegas tackles him and they go down together, rolling across the floor. Vegas receives a hit to his solar plexus that leaves him temporarily stunned, and Pete pulls free, scrambling away on his hands and knees. But Vegas catches him again and yanks him back up by the hair. Then they’re wrestling each other once more, and Vegas is delivering another frenzied series of punches. He’s totally lost control, he just wants to make the other man hurt.
“I hate you!” he grunts every time a blow connects, causing Pete to hiss in pain. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
It’s difficult to say how long this goes on. At some point, Vegas’ muscles start burning, his knuckles ache dully. He’s running out of steam, the red slowly fading away, allowing reality to intrude long enough for him to realise that Pete is mainly blocking his blows, defending himself but not actually fighting back.
Before Vegas has time to think some more about this and what it might mean, Pete suddenly flips them over, straddling him, and grips his wrists hard, pinning them to the floor and effectively stopping Vegas’ onslaught. Both of them are panting hard, Vegas struggles briefly against the iron hold on his wrists but doesn’t put a lot of energy into breaking free. Yes, he has finally run out of steam.
Pete has scratch marks on one of his cheeks and is bleeding freely from both mouth and nose, the blood dripping from his face like shiny red pearls. Vegas really did a number on him. He’s a mess. They stare silently at each other, their harsh breathing echoing through the loft.
With a last spark of rebellion, Vegas makes an attempt to rear up and shake Pete off, but apparently Pete is done with being a punching bag. He growls in warning and slams Vegas’ wrists hard against the floor.
“That’s enough now!” he snaps sharply.
The immediate anger might be gone, but that’s far from the only emotion Vegas is feeling right now. He can’t make sense of this emotional turmoil. The man currently pinning him down has manipulated him and betrayed him; they’ve hurt each other emotionally and physically. He’s even tried to straight out kill Vegas. He’s also made Vegas feel real love for the first time in his life and has given him precious moments of blissful happiness—a feeling of finally having found his soulmate. The phrase ‘It’s complicated’ seems to suit their relationship perfectly. Yes, it’s very complicated.
“Let go,” Vegas whispers, barely audible, as the blood continues to drip from Pete’s nose down onto his chest. The thought skips through his mind that the uniform shirt is ruined. Bloodstains are a pain in the ass to get out of the fabric.
Pete furrows his brows. He seems unsure how to react to this quiet demand. If anything, his hold on Vegas’ wrists gets even tighter.
“Let go,” Vegas insists again, this time more forcefully.
He dislikes being restrained like this; they’re way too close when it’s distance that Vegas needs right now. He needs physical distance to this madman because their current skin-to-skin contact is sending a flurry of electrical tingles up his arms. Why is his damn body reacting so traitorously? Vegas wants to get up and run, and never, ever look back again. This infuriating psychopath tends to have this effect on him and he resents it.
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For a while he thought he could stop running, and have his very own happily-ever-after, but now the impulse to flee is back, and stronger than ever.
Pete quietly shakes his head, sending an arc of tiny scarlet droplets to the left and right. His look is so intense that Vegas wants to turn invisible and disappear. I can’t do this, he thinks desperately. I’m not ready for this, not now, not ever. Pete seems to be looking right into his very soul, there is nowhere to hide. Why can’t he turn off all these feelings? Just looking at Pete’s face makes every single shard of his shattered heart vibrate with longing. I shouldn’t be feeling like this, he tells himself. This is wrong.
“Let go,” he tries again, the despair in his shaky voice noticeable.
“Are you going to continue beating me up?” Pete asks him warily. “Because I really don’t feel like taking any more hits.”
Vegas shakes his head mutely. The violence has drained out of him. Pete is safe for now.
“Are you going to run then?” is the next question, and this time Vegas detects some underlying tension in Pete. He tries to sound nonchalant, but it’s obvious that the answer to this question is important to him.
Again, Vegas simply shakes his head. He wants to run, yes, but he won’t. He can’t spend his whole life on the run from this man. At some point he has to stop and face the music. No more running.
Pete hesitates. He seems to be feeling just as torn as Vegas, but slowly the hold on Vegas’ wrists lessens. It’s clearly a struggle for Pete to give up the upper hand; he’s gritting his teeth, and winces in pain from his split lip.
“Let go…” Vegas implores him softly one more time, and reluctantly the fingers around his wrists are removed at last. Pete places his hands right next to Vegas’ arms, still leaning forward, looking intensely at the man below him. Hesitantly, as if he is unsure of what reaction this might provoke, he gives Vegas a tentative smile.
Vegas heart thumps painfully as butterflies erupt in his stomach. He’s so screwed. He never really had a chance. Pete is going to destroy even the few fragments of his heart that remain intact. And the worst part of it is that Vegas will allow him do it, because he finds it impossible to stop loving Pete. He’s completely unable to do anything about it. He has been trying for three months to move on, and it was all to no avail.
With trembling fingers, Vegas lifts his right hand. Pete tenses and narrows his eyes, coiled to defend himself if needed, but Vegas simply ignores it. With a sigh he reaches up and very gently uses his thumb to wipe at the blood still dripping from Pete’s nose. It doesn’t stop the bleeding. Vegas can feel a shiver passing through Pete. Why did I have to fall in love with you, he asks himself. Why you, why not someone normal? Love shouldn’t hurt this much, right?
They stare at each other, spellbound once again by each other’s presence. At least Vegas is spellbound, he isn’t so sure about Pete—maybe he is faking it again. Then Vegas’ hand drifts downward, along Pete’s throat to the back of his neck. He tugs gently. Pete resists for but a second, then he gives in and allows himself be pulled down towards Vegas.
And after three long months Vegas finally gets the hug he so desperately pleaded for just moments before he got shot. He closes his eyes, wraps both arms around Pete’s neck, and holds on for dear life. Good Lord, how he needs this! It’s balm to his injured soul and heart. It isn’t that he has forgotten all his grievances, or that he is turning a blind eye to the fact that he is dealing with a serial killer, but damn, he really needs this hug right now, after all he’s been put through by this idiot.
Pete takes a deep, shuddering breath and then goes all limp, melting against Vegas, burying his face against his neck. Vegas can feel Pete’s fingers carding through his hair and it feels so damn nice. He’s doing the same, running his trembling fingers through Pete’s silky hair, basking in the feeling. He feels like sobbing. Hiding his face against Pete’s neck, he inhales shakily, the all-familiar cinnamon and rosewood scent engulfing him. It’s like coming home, at long last.
“I missed you so damn much,” Pete mumbles against his neck, his warm breath fanning over Vegas’ skin. “You have no idea how much I missed you.”
Vegas can feel Pete’s blood trickling down onto his neck and holds on even tighter. It’s sheer madness, he knows it. But he’s missed this like crazy, touching this man, holding him; yes, he’s missed Pete terribly. He’s been in denial about this for the longest time, but now the damn puzzle piece is back, slotted right into place, and it’s as glorious as it’s scary because he really cannot see a future for them. For his own sake, the time has come to make a last attempt to end this, to let go. He knows it.
“48 hours,” Vegas murmurs softly, memorising the feeling of Pete’s firm body in his arms, his unique scent, as many little details as possible.
Pete tenses slightly, and makes a questioning sound.
Time to let go. “48 hours,” Vegas repeats, his voice hoarse with grief. “You have 48 hours to wrap everything up, pack your belongings, and leave.”
Pete tenses even more; his fingernails are now digging into Vegas’ scalp. He’s not reacting well to Vegas’ words, as expected, but it can’t be helped. It’s time to let go for both of them.
“48 hours to leave the country.” Vegas rubs his face against Pete’s shoulder. He never wants to forget the feel of it.
“Go abroad, somewhere far, far away. Find yourself another identity, you’re good at that. Leave and never ever come back to Thailand.”
“Vegas…” Pete clings to him tightly.
Vegas can feel how he tenses in shocked disbelief, how Pete starts shaking his head in refusal.
“You have 48 hours.” The last fragments of Vegas’ heart are shattering to dust. This is killing him. “After 48 hours I will go to the police and tell them everything.”
Pete freezes. Vegas can feel every beat of Pete’s heart pounding frantically, because they’re pressed so tightly against each other. No, someone isn’t happy at all about these developments. Pete probably thought Vegas had capitulated unconditionally, that everything would be going his way now. This must be coming like a shock.
Vegas runs his hands over Pete’s back, stroking the tense muscles underneath the soft shirt gently. The thought of never again touching Pete is akin to torture. But he needs to cut himself loose from this unhealthy addiction.
“I’ll tell them about your fake identity,” he whispers in Pete’s ear. “I’ll tell them about the disappearance of the real Pete. I’ll tell them about your manipulation of Tawan, how you got him to kill the real Pete’s parents. I’ll tell them how I saw you kill Tawan. I’ll tell them about the damn lilies, about all the people you killed because of your insane fixation with me. And I’ll tell them how you shot me on the property you stole from the real Pete.”
“Vegas…” Pete sounds seriously distressed now. He keeps shaking his head in denial, his breath hot against Vegas’ throat. “You can’t do this.”
“48 hours. Just run, please…” Holding back his tears, Vegas nuzzles Pete’s neck and then hugs him as tightly as possible. “Please leave. Just go abroad. You are ruining my life. I’m a cop, you’re a serial killer. I can’t bring myself to kill you, and I can’t live with you being on death row, or rotting away in jail. So please let me go and leave the country, I am begging you.”
“No.” Pete continues to shake his head. In his misery he doesn’t even notice that his fingernails are digging deeper and deeper into Vegas’ scalp, drawing blood. “I’m not leaving. You’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you. We can work this out.” His voice breaks at that point, and a shudder runs through his whole body. He seems to be hovering on the edge of tears. “I promise… I promise we can make this work, Vegas.”
Vegas swallows hard. He feels like crying himself. “I don’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth at this point,” he admits with a heavy heart. He has been lied to so many times already; at this point he thinks not even Pete himself knows what the truth is anymore. “Just let me go. I swear to God I will go to the police when the time is up. You say you love me? Then leave while you still can.” And before Pete can stop him, Vegas pushes him off and rolls to the side to get some distance between them.
Pete is so stunned that when he lands on his back he just stays in that position. He blinks repeatedly, the struggle to make sense of Vegas’ threat clearly written all over his face. The blood from the nosebleed is all over his face, and probably all over Vegas shoulder and neck as well.
Vegas gets on his feet, feeling drained. At least he didn’t dissolve into tears, that counts as a small victory, no? He brushes the dust off his uniform, deliberately refusing to look at Pete lying there on the ground. He’s said what he wanted to say; it’s better not to allow this to drag on any further. Because beneath all his heartache there is still the rage, bubbling quietly, waiting for an opportunity to be unleashed again, and Vegas doesn’t trust himself not to seriously hurt the man who calls himself Pete the next time he explodes.
“Farewell,” he says curtly and turns, heading towards the exit.
“Vegas!” Despite the harsh beating he took earlier on, and the pain he surely must be in, Pete is up on his feet in an instant, rushing after Vegas. He grabs his arm, yanking him to a stop. “Don’t you dare walk out on me. This isn’t over!”
Vegas turns halfway around and simply slaps him with his open hand full across the face. Pete is forced to release him and takes a step back, then steadies himself. He stares at Vegas, stunned.
“48 hours,” Vegas reminds him quietly. He’s done, he can’t take it anymore. “Leave the country, take all your damn lies and stay the hell out of my life. I don’t ever want to see you again.” He heads for the door again.
“But you love me…” Pete calls after him. Vegas has never heard him this upset. “You said you love me…”
Vegas turns his head one last time, giving the man he loves more than life itself a hard look, and snorts disdainfully. “You’re delusional. Me loving someone like you? Who in their right mind would ever love a psychopathic killer like you?” I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Pete flinches as if Vegas had physically hit him, his face turning deathly pale, and he looks as if he’s just been dealt a death blow.
I’m sorry, Vegas thinks again, in quiet despair. He turns to the door one more time. He will not turn around again. He won’t. Vegas takes all his unwanted feelings for this man and puts them temporarily on ice.
“48 hours. Don’t bother trying to change my mind. I’m going to stay with my family where you can’t reach me, and I will turn off my phone. And after exactly 48 hours, I will go to the police. Good riddance, whoever you really are. Live your life, do whatever you want, as long as you keep a continent between us.”
And with those words, Vegas really does leave. Unhindered, and without a single backward glance. He walks out of the loft, all the way back to his car, not giving a fuck about leaving the apartment unlocked.
To be honest with himself, he expected Pete to make another try to convince him, but there’s no one following him or pleading with him this time. Vegas notes with bitterness how disappointed he is about that. I’m such a loser. Numbly, he starts the car and forces himself to drive off.
Vegas is not going to his family, of course he isn’t, that was a lie. No, he is going to a hotel, with the firm intention of staying there for the next 48 hours. Once he has checked in, he calls Porsche and Macau. “Want to know what happened? Then feel free to drop by, I could use some company now. Oh, and please bring booze. Lots and lots of booze.” He gives them his address and hangs up without further explanation. And then he turns off his phone, just like he said he would.
48 hours. If he gets really drunk, those 48 hours will go by in a haze, and he won’t be able to fold again. Please let this be the end of it.
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“I don’t think I can do this…” Vegas is lying facedown across the hotel bed, drunk and feeling sorry for himself. He’s been drunk for a while, a very long while.
“Yes, you can,” his little brother insists, pulling Vegas’ head up by the hair before he suffocates himself, and helping him into a more comfortable position. “Just a few more hours, you got this.”
Porsche is sitting on the floor beside the bed, humming some melodramatic love song while sloppily compiling a break-up playlist for Vegas. He’s just as drunk as Vegas; Macau is the only one of the three of them who is still relatively sober.
“I was so mean…” Vegas sighs pitifully. “I am a mean, evil person,” he tells his brother, blindly feeling for the bottle of liquor he knows must be somewhere nearby on the bed. Or is that already empty? He can’t remember. He just feels sad. Really, really sad.
He turns to his back and just keeps rolling until he rolls right off the bed, landing next to Porsche. “Poor Porsche, was evil Kinn mean to you too?” he mumbles, the room spinning around him.
“Vegas!” Porsche exclaims happily, abandoning his task for now. “Vegas, don’t be sad anymore. I’ll find you a much better boyfriend. You can date Tay.”
Vegas vaguely remembers Tay being one of Kinn’s friends, some sweet gentle soul.
“Nope, won’t work,” he declares dejectedly. “Way too nice. I like bad boys.” Then he remembers the ultimate bad boy he just walked out on and groans once more. No more bad boys for Vegas. “Should just marry one of the girls Pa is throwing at me…”
“Since when are you bisexual?” Macau asks him curiously while pouring Vegas yet another drink.
“He’s not!” Porsche informs him, momentarily distracted from his matchmaking attempts. “And that’s why this is a stupid idea.”
“Fine, I could become a monk instead…” Vegas suggests, taking the glass from Macau and downing it in one go. The liquor burns all the way down.
His brother and Porsche chortle as they envision Vegas as a monk.
Vegas thoughts drift again. “I should just call him and apologise for being so mean…” he mutters once again, and rests his aching head on the carpet.
“No!”
Both Porsche and Macau seem to think this is a bad idea. Not that Vegas could really make a phone call even if he wanted to. Macau has confiscated his phone and locked it up in the little hotel-provided safe. Apparently he suspected that at some point Vegas would fold—again.
“No phone calls,” Macau reminds Vegas sternly. “None of us is leaving this room or calling anyone until that plane leaves.” And he hands Vegas more liquor.
… Plane…
Another wave of despair washes over Vegas. Porsche has found out that Pete’s booked a plane ticket, all the way to the USA. He really is leaving the country. Vegas is never going to see him again. Never going to kiss him again. Never going to touch him again. Pete is leaving, just as Vegas told him to.
“… I never want to love anyone ever again…” he sniffles, curling up on the floor, resting his head in Porsche’s lap.
Porsche smiles drunkenly and ruffles his friend’s hair. “Love sucks!” he declares in solidarity, because look at what it’s doing to his best friend.
Macau just rolls his eyes at both of them. “You two are pathetic.”
As the only sensible person left in the room, he keeps supplying everyone with alcohol, and occasionally with food as well, while making sure his people keep a close eye on the man his brother so desperately wants to get rid off.
Vegas knows in the back of his fuzzy mind that Macau has promised to have people at the airport to ensure that Pete really does board the plane and stays on it until it lifts off. Macau is a great little brother. But shouldn’t he be in school? Or university? He really should ask him about that someday when the room isn’t spinning around him.
“You think he’s really leaving?” he asks no one in particular. “Cause then it was just another lie… he wouldn’t leave if he really loves me…”
“I thought you want him to leave,” Macau reminds him gently.
“I don’t know what I want,” Vegas answers truthfully. Trying to think is difficult when his mind is a drunken mess. “I don’t want to be lied to,” he decides then. “He lies all the time. He said he loves me. And then he leaves me. So he lied.”
Macau sighs deeply. “Just go to sleep, Vegas. Everything will be fine when you wake up again.”
“Promise me?” Vegas mumbles, closing his eyes while Porsche continues to ruffle his hair.
“I promise you,” his brother tells him softly, and Vegas nods off.
“We’ll fix this,” Porsche promises, and promptly falls asleep as well.
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Vegas is sober again, the 48 hours are up, and Pete is gone. He’s left the country, just as Vegas begged him to do. Or rather, as he threatened him into doing. Whatever—the only thing that counts right now is that Pete is gone. He is really gone.
It’s finally over. Vegas can’t wrap his mind around it, part of him experiences an enormous relief, while another part of him just feels betrayed all over again. You said you love me and you left anyway. Yes, Vegas knows this makes no sense. After all, he wanted him to leave.
Pete is gone, and Vegas is grieving. He pulls a lot of connections to have someone keep an eye on Pete in the other country, like an early warning system, just in case he should decide to chance it and return. This is a necessary precaution. Vegas hasn’t forgotten he is dealing with a serial killer who cannot be trusted.
The 48 hours are up, and Vegas finds himself standing before the police station, unable to step inside. He simply cannot go through with it. There will be no report filed. They’ll never catch their serial killer. He just cannot bring himself to sic the whole Thai police force on Pete. With a sigh, he turns around and heads over to have some coffee in a nearby café instead. Loser. He is such a loser. And a lousy cop too.
Instead of filing a report, he puts Pete’s name on a traffic alert list, red-listing him for entry. Just in case…
Pete is gone, and strangely enough the weather is fine, people are smiling and laughing around him, and life goes on.
Numbly, Vegas returns home. Even the hallway outside of his apartment holds so many memories of Pete that Vegas nearly turns around to return to the hotel. But he has to stop running away. Life goes on after all. The atmosphere inside the apartment feels oppressive. Everywhere he looks, some small detail reminds him of Pete.
Vegas gets a large black plastic sack from the kitchen and starts to go through ever single room systematically, collecting all of Pete’s property. It seems to be all over the place. It’s surprising how many things he finds; and they didn’t even live together officially.
Toothbrush, hairbrush, beauty products, shower gel, razor, shoes, Pete’s favourite mug, the tea he used to drink, his collection of various dried chillis, all the extremely spicy frozen food, the self-help books about relationships, and all the little gifts they brought home during the museum sightseeing spree. The colourful blankets and pillowcases. And Pete’s clothes. Everything needs to go.
The clothes are the hardest to dispose of. All the atrocious shirts. The leather pants. The black see-through shirt. Vegas dies a little bit while folding them and putting them in yet another plastic bag. Those damn atrocious shirts. It hurts. Everything goes into the trash. An hour later Vegas goes down and collects all the plastic bags once more from the trash cans, putting them into storage instead.
He changes the sheets, the pillows and the blankets. Everything gets washed at least twice. He airs all rooms and deliberately lights some incense. And when the night comes, he goes to sleep on the couch. Pete is gone, life goes on, but Vegas doesn’t know how he is supposed to live without a heart.
Pete is gone, and apparently is making no attempt to return to Thailand. Vegas has outsourced keeping an eye on him to Porsche, because he can’t deal with this himself without falling apart.
Pete is gone, and Vegas goes to work again. The only people glad to see him back are Arm and Pol. Everyone else keeps a wary distance from him. Vegas spends his days in solitude in their little X-Files office, with the Swiss flag on the wall and the huge murder board showing him Pete’s victims in all their gory detail.
Who could have predicted everything ending like this? A few months ago he had a team; now one of them is dead, and the other one has fled the country. The victims stare accusingly down from the whiteboard because instead of being their voice of justice Vegas has let their killer escape. And that’s why Vegas keeps the murder board. This is his punishment.
Besides, no one else knows that there will be no other murders, that this case is effectively closed. Now Vegas is the one faking it all; he dutifully writes his reports and meets with Arm to discuss the physical evidence of the cases, pretending to look for more clues that Vegas suspects are non-existent. He briefly plays with the notion that he might perhaps come across hitherto unperceived clues that could lead to another murderer, that this was all a huge misunderstanding, but deep down he knows better.
Pete is gone and Vegas dives once more into the depth of the database, looking for more victims. Because there must be more, so many more. Vegas also does a bit of online research and downloads a variety of studies on serial killers. He finds FBI publications about profiling and downloads them too. And since he has nothing else to do, he spends a lot of his time at the quiet office reading them.
Pete is gone and Vegas discovers that he’s faked it all. The whole damn profiling bit. Complete and utter rubbish. He must have had a blast, pretending to profile his own crimes. A part of Vegas wants to crawl into Pete’s mind and look for his motivation for everything. The rest of him shies away from this task. He’s afraid what he might find there.
Pete is gone, and Vegas doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he is coming to terms with the fact that he’s been dating a serial killer. How does one move on from such a shocking discovery? He’s looked into the abyss, and the abyss stared right back at him, gave him a dimpled smile and kissed him until he was breathless. Vegas looked into the abyss and thought it was just a momentary darkness, a vague shadow, nothing to worry about. Vegas looked into the abyss and refused to recognise it for what it truly was. How does one move on from something like this?
Pete is gone, and there is an ominous silence from the Theerapanyakul elders. Vegas has escaped their clutches once again and surely they can’t be happy about it. Porsche deflects any questions about how Khun Korn reacted to the news that the blackmail evidence is gone. That alone is worrisome. Macau sports a black eye during one of their Zoom meetings. Vegas clenches his hands into fists, and later that same day logs into an online account, retrieving a file from an archive he stored there. Using yet another anonymous email account with a VPN, he sends a copy of that file to the Thai revenue department and takes a screenshot of the ‘Sent’ notification. That screenshot he emails to his father, but with a six hours delay. And just like that one of Khun Gun’s money laundering accounts is gone, just as Vegas threatened all these years ago before leaving the family, and Macau is safe once again. As for what they have in store for Vegas himself, who knows? Only time will tell.
Pete is gone, and Vegas is pretending to be fine. He’s faking it well, so well that he almost believes himself that he’s doing perfectly fine. He’s fine, nothing to see here, move on. Everything’s all right until he cleans the apartment and finds one of Pete’s atrocious shirts underneath the bed; the one with the Care Bears on it.
He’s doing fine, until he isn’t.
That night Vegas curls up in his large bed, clutching that damn shirt, burying his face in it, searching for the last faint remnants of Pete’s scent.
Pete is gone, and Vegas is not doing well at all.
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The days drag by, each one unbearably long. Vegas shouldn’t feel stressed because there’s not much for him to do at home or at work, and yet, he is stressed. So much so that he takes up knitting again. He also sets up a rigorous exercise regime for himself as a much needed stress release valve. Spare time becomes his enemy; as soon as he has nothing to do, his thoughts drift and the heartache returns. Is this how break-ups are supposed to feel? Vegas wouldn’t know. This is his first break-up.
And so Vegas pretends that the last few months never happened. He goes right back to the schedule he had when his world was still whole. Too little sleep, long working hours, and lots of exercise. And when he starts waking up in the middle of the night, breathless and unable to recall anything about the dreams that make him so horny that he nearly comes in his sleep, he takes the rational decision to do something about this. Just as he used to do before.
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It’s Saturday night and Vegas finds himself at the Hum Bar, his old hunting grounds. The dance floor beyond the bar area is packed with beautiful people; like a swarm of colourful, exotic fish they undulate in perfectly synchronised motions along with the flow of the pounding electronic dance music.
Vegas drifts through the crowds like a shark gliding through an underwater coral garden. The hundreds of glasses hanging from the ceiling reflect the lights just like sun rays hitting the surface of the ocean. The bar is very crowded tonight, a motley of colours and scents and sound. Personal space becomes non-existent; something that always bothers Vegas. He doesn’t like it when strangers constantly rub against him in the crowd.
Behind the bar he spies Yok but he stays clear of her; Yok has no filter, if he goes to say hello she might bring up topics he would rather not talk about. Besides, Vegas isn’t here to have fun. Well, not strictly speaking. He’s looking for someone to help him take the edge off things, a quick hook-up, no strings attached. Just like he used to do for years before the world came crashing down around him.
It doesn’t take long until he attracts potential prey. He always does; he’s like a sea anemone without its clownfish, potential candidates showing up instantly. All these handsome young men, and yet Vegas finds fault with every single one of them. He’s about to give up and call it a night when one of the candidates smiles at him. Dimples. Vegas’ heart constricts painfully. Bloody hell, what is he doing? This is about sex, nothing else. Anyone will do as long as he has a cock and is healthy. He looks at those dimples, longing for a dimpled Cheshire Cat smile, then takes the hand of the young man and pulls him along as he makes a beeline through the crowd towards the seating area at the back of the bar and the door to the alleyway beyond.
This is just about sex, nothing else, he reminds himself. No need to feel guilty, life goes on and sex is part of life. No one expects him to be celibate after a break up, he can fuck whoever he wants.
The damn storage area behind the Hum Bar is brimming with memories of making love to Pete here. Vegas brutally pushes those thoughts aside. I can do this, he tells himself as he gently pushes the other man against the wall. He leans in and then they’re kissing. Vegas doesn’t know what exactly he expected to feel—as kisses go this is a nice, normal kiss. The problem is that it feels wrong. He didn’t expect tingles, he didn’t hope for sparks, but this absolute feeling of wrongness catches him by surprise. Seems as if he isn’t ready for kissing just yet. Fine, he can do without the kisses, they’re not required for this, after all.
Vegas moves his mouth lower, trailing his lips along the cheek and then down to the throat, licking and kissing the skin there. Wrong taste. Wrong smell too, like cedars when it should be rosewood. Vegas shoulders through, because the other man apparently likes what he’s doing very much. No bite scar either. The man moans softly. Their hands are all over each other, pulling at clothes, trailing over bare skin, pushing clothing items out of the way. Vegas goes through the motions, doing what’s expected of him in this situation, feeling increasingly numb.
They’re standing in the shadows, the muted sounds of the music beyond the walls drifting through the area. Vegas is horny, he closes his eyes and jerks off the other man, listening to the sounds he makes in the throes of passion. Even those sounds are wrong. Too high, too low, too breathless. He shudders as the man touches him. He’s hard and horny, but the hand wrapping around his cock, stroking him, feels wrong too. Whatever!
Vegas came here to have sex and damn, he will have sex! He’s tired of jerking off in the shower. He is allowed to fuck whoever he wants. He’s no longer in a relationship.
Wrong wrong wrong, screams his heart. But Vegas has gotten very good at ignoring his heart lately. He has a condom, he has lube and is in the presence of a consenting adult who is willing to be fucked. That’s all he needs. Feelings are unwanted at this point, so he shuts them off.
All’s going well, he’s able to compartmentalise, pushing the increasing sense of wrongness aside; all’s going well until he has the other man bend over one of the crates and is about to push himself inside; his body decides right then and there that it won’t go through with something that feels so very wrong. Vegas’ erection wilts, and is gone. Bloody hell!
This has never ever happened to him before. Never. Vegas flushes in embarrassment but no matter what he does, he isn’t getting hard again. (And deep down he breathes a sigh of relief.) Well, so much for that. Vegas mumbles an apology and is met with nothing but kind understanding.
“Happens to all of us at some point,” the man consoles him.
No, not to me, he wants to scream. Never to me. He’s stunned; Pete has succeeded in ruining even his future sex life.
They put their clothes back in order and then head back inside the bar, where they split company. Vegas still can’t get over the fact that he couldn’t get it up. He never expected anything like this to happen. He wants the earth to swallow him; he’s embarrassed down to his very bones.
“I need something to drink,” he tells Yok as he takes a seat at the bar. “Whiskey. Just bring me a glass and a bottle.”
Yok seems to sense that right now isn’t a good time for a conversation, and just nods. “Sure honey. As you wish.”
Vegas looks at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He almost doesn’t recognise his own face. He looks wrong too. Everything looks and feels and smells and tastes wrong. When Yok places a glass and a bottle with amber liquid in front of him, Vegas ignores the glass and drinks straight from the bottle. Everything is wrong and he really needs to escape this wrongness for a while.