“Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we are opened, we are red.”
When Pete wakes him with a kiss, the car is parked, and when Vegas opens his eyes sleepily, the first thing he sees is Pete’s smiling face in the darkness. Dimple alert. He can’t help himself, he reaches out, slips his hand around Pete’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss. Mmmm… nice. Their lips brush against each other, causing the familiar electric tingle that is so addictive.
“Time to wake up, sleepyhead,” Pete murmurs against his lips.
“Mmmm…” Vegas hums happily. He wants to be woken up like this every morning. Then he notices that it’s dark outside. And that they’re in a car. And he remembers everything else, and his good mood disappears.
“Are we there yet?” Wherever ‘there’ is.
“Yeah, we have arrived.” Reluctantly, Pete withdraws and prepares to get out of the car.
A glance at the clock confirms that they’ve been driving for nearly 2 hours. Wow, where are they? Vegas stretches and then pays more attention to their surroundings. Somehow he expected another city, maybe a small town, but this place looks like the deepest countryside.
“No spa?” he jokes half-heartedly. “And here I was hoping you would be keeping me in style during this little outing.”
His fingers resting on the door-handle, Pete glances back at Vegas. The joke doesn’t make him smile. He just gives Vegas one of his intense looks, and Vegas feels a sliver of unease slide through him.
“I love you,” Pete tells him quietly, his voice heavy with a lot of unspoken emotions. Vegas meets his eyes and forces himself to smile despite a growing disquiet.
Then Pete exits the car abruptly and there is nothing left for Vegas to do but to follow his lead. They’re indeed somewhere in the countryside; the property they are currently on appears to be far from any larger road. It’s very quiet here, no sound of cars, just a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the nearby trees, and the crickets chirping in the darkness. Thankfully the full moon is providing enough light for Vegas to get a better look at the building ahead. Well, this is definitely not someone’s residence. It looks more like an abandoned barn, or a warehouse.
Pete is a few steps ahead, waiting; one look at him and Vegas’ stomach drops. The vibe, the body language… it seems the predator has come out to play.
Pete rocks back and forth on his heels, watching him quizzically, and finally arching an eyebrow at Vegas. “Coming?” he asks in that silky voice of his, and Vegas gulps.
Every step he takes towards Pete is taking a lot of effort all of a sudden. Don’t do this to me, please don’t do this to me. Vegas thought they were trying to work things out between them, but perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Pete has grown bored with him already.
Warily, he glances at the looming building ahead, swallows hard and gives Pete a weak smile. Vegas wasn’t kidding when he said he would walk into a burning building with this man. And he’s going to follow the predator into this warehouse, even if his heart is breaking, and his danger sense is screeching at full volume.
But a short distance from the door his body goes on strike, and he comes to an abrupt stop. His legs just won’t move forward. He feels frozen in place.
Vegas clears his throat. “I don’t think I want to go in there,” he says quietly, with an audible tremor in his voice.
Pete huffs softly with disappointment and impatiently taps his fingers against his leg. “Nonsense. Just come along, Vegas. It’s been a long day and a long drive, let’s go inside. I’m tired.” But he doesn’t look or sound exhausted. Vegas could swear Pete is brimming with barely contained nervous energy. He’s excited, that’s what it is.
“Pete?” Vegas swallows hard. “Did you lie to me again?”
Pete becomes still, slowly raising his dark, burning eyes until he’s looking straight at Vegas. Oh shit. Yes, it’s definitely Pete’s dark side that is firmly in charge right now. “Yes, I did,” Pete admits softly, and something inside of Vegas breaks when he hears those words.
The disappointment is crushing. Why is this happening to me? Goddammit, why?
“I love you, Pete.” Vegas just needs to say it out loud one more time, because nothing has changed, he still loves this man. And then he can’t keep himself from asking something else, his voice heavy with apprehension: “Are there going to be any flowers inside?” Vegas doesn’t think he can handle those flowers; whatever Pete is up to, even if he is to die here tonight, he would rather not relive that particular horror too.
“No flowers,” Pete reassures him calmly. “It would have been a nice touch, but you were very clear about not liking them.” The Abyss gives Vegas a charming, dimpled smile, holding out its hand invitingly. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
Resigned to his fate, Vegas takes Pete’s warm hand, lacing their fingers together. Mine. My soulmate. Love of my life. “Sure, let’s go,” he tells the monster, squeezing its hand before following it into the darkness.
----------------------------------------
The inside of the warehouse is shrouded in murky shadows. Vegas can’t see anything. He follows Pete blindly, holding on to his hand, trying not to trip over his own feet as they navigate the sweltering darkness. I need a hug, is all he can think about at this moment. I really need a hug right now. He is so damn scared he hardly dares to breathe. He wants the monster to stop leading him further into the unknown; he wants to be hugged instead. I love you but I really want to kick your insensitive ass right now.
Judging from the echoing sounds of their steps, it’s a sizeable area. From the outside, the warehouse looked spacious enough to park several cars inside. It seems to be largely empty, at least Vegas thinks so, but it’s so dark he has trouble seeing further than Pete’s figure, leading him through the gloom.
What did I do to deserve this? Underneath all the fear, Vegas feels heartbroken. He is so damn tired of it all. All these lies. All these killings. His serial killer boyfriend. His life has never been easy, then Pete showed up and everything went to hell big time. He’s so damn tired of it, Vegas just wants it all to end. I can’t do this anymore, I really cannot do this anymore.
When Pete—no, the monster… the Abyss… whatever—when he stops, Vegas just walks on, closing the distance between them. He releases his hold on Pete’s hand and instead slips his arms around the other man’s waist. Even as he feels thoroughly demoralised, he rests his head on Pete’s shoulder. Pete smells so good, as always. Vegas is so insanely in love with him, even with this dark version of Pete, and it is tearing him apart. He doesn’t want to face whatever Pete has in store for him, not just yet. He just wants this hug.
“I don’t know why you are doing this to me,” Vegas mumbles. He’s so pathetic, he’s practically begging to be comforted by the person responsible for putting him through all this.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he can feel Pete hugging him back. He is on edge; Vegas can feel the tension in his body as he nuzzles Vegas’ hair.
“I’m doing this because I love you,” the monster explains, as if that is a valid reason.
Vegas just sighs, too depressed and scared to start an argument.
“Vegas…” Running out of patience, Pete slowly pulls away, but at least he is kind enough to gently kiss Vegas’ cheek one more time. “I have a surprise for you, are you ready?”
If only he wouldn’t sound so cheerful. Talk about reading the room. Pete really needs to work on his empathy.
No! Vegas wants to shout at him. No! Fucking red! No! But instead he hears himself sighing his agreement. “Sure, bring it on, Sunshine.”
“Stay here. I’ll turn on the light,” the monster tells him enthusiastically before disappearing into the darkness. Vegas swallows hard. He’s not ready for this. There’s this huge lump in his throat; he feels as if he’s being strangled by it. No, he isn’t ready.
From a distance, he hears Pete moving around, then there’s a ‘click’, and suddenly light floods the area. Vegas is blinded, closing his eyes against the abrupt brightness. No, he’s not ready for this.
“You can open your eyes now,” Pete giddily calls out to him, but Vegas doesn’t want to open his eyes. Not now, not ever.
“Seriously Vegas…” It sounds as if Pete is coming closer again, and there’s that growing edge of impatience and irritation in his voice once again. “Just open your fucking eyes already.”
I hate you. Gritting his teeth, Vegas cautiously opens his eyes, blinking several times, as everything shifts into focus. He doesn’t know what exactly he expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t this. It’s an anticlimax of sorts, all of Pete’s other murder scenes have so far been outrageously bloody and over the top. This one here is not like them at all, perhaps because it isn’t a crime scene—yet.
The cop part of Vegas takes over, mentally noting all the details of his surroundings. A warehouse. Stone walls. Windowless. Bad ventilation. Hot inside. High ceiling, enough to park a truck in here, perhaps even two. Metal roofing. Large doors on the other side of the building, for easier vehicular access. Concrete floor. Large steel-plated area right in the centre of the room. A drain in the middle of it. And by that drain…
Vegas makes a strangled sound at the back of his throat.
A metal chair with armrests, connected to the steel flooring. And that chair is occupied; someone is sitting on it. The ankles of the person are handcuffed to the front legs of the chair. The wrists are handcuffed to the armrests.
His father!
No. Oh no. Not this. Oh no.
Vegas can feel his legs getting all wobbly, and for a fleeting second he wonders if he’s about to faint. Then the gagged figure on the chair slowly lifts his head and glares in their direction.
“Pa…”
Vegas’ knees hit the floor hard, as his legs finally give in. It hurts, but the pain hardly registers. He’s in complete shock. He expected a lot of things, but not this. He lied. It hurts so much. Pete promised him, and it was all a lie. Once a liar, always a liar. Vegas should have known better. He should have specified the no-kill promise he extracted from Pete, made his father totally off-limits. He should have known better!
Pete doesn’t even spare Vegas a glance as he leisurely strolls past him towards Khun Gun. He seems positively giddy with excitement about this surprise. “I’m sorry for lying to you, Vegas. Well, technically speaking, it wasn’t a real lie, it was more an omission of certain facts.”
Then he turns his attention towards his captive. “How are we doing, did we have a nice little nap?” Pete seems to enjoy this greatly, smirking down at the furious, immobilised man. “Excuse me for not removing the gag just yet, you would just ruin the mood with all your foul words.” Chuckling, Pete condescendingly pats the man’s head.
The head of the Minor family growls. There’s not much else he can do to voice his displeasure at this point. He bucks against the handcuffs, but they don’t give even an inch.
His father definitely drew the short straw in whatever fight brought him here. Pete was just a bit roughed up, but there is a lot more bruising and blood on his father. Khun Gun’s customary beige suit is stained dark in many places, with cuts and tears all over it. Even the flamboyant neckerchief is torn.
… his father…
… Pa…
Vegas finally finds his voice again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Pete! Have you lost your mind?!” He doesn’t even bother to get up; he simply crawls, frantically, across the floor towards the chair holding his father. Oh God. This cannot be happening, he needs to do something!
“Actually, I’m remarkably clear-headed for once.” Pete steps aside so as not to block Vegas’ path. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that this man here is the source of all our problems.”
“This man is my father!” Vegas shouts at Pete. He has finally reached the chair and starts to examine it. Fuck! It’s solid metal and has been welded to the floor expertly. Now he knows what Pete has been doing all these times when he disappeared.
His father shouts something inarticulate from behind the gag, and Vegas flinches at the tone of voice. He recognises the anger. Oh yes, his father is very angry.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, trying to push and pull the chair, but it doesn’t move at all. Fuck!
Clasping his arms behind his back, Pete watches all this curiously, making no attempt to stop Vegas. Or rather, it’s the monster watching everything.
“Yes, he’s your father, but he’s also a truly despicable human being. Let’s face it, Vegas, your father has been abusing you physically and mentally since your early childhood.” He sneers at Gun. “Karma’s a bitch, eh? Guess you didn’t expect someone to finally stand up to you, and especially not your son’s boyfriend.”
In his quest to free his father, Vegas is now fumbling with the handcuffs holding the ankles in place. Fuck, those are the same kind of high-security handcuffs Tawan used on him. Fuck! Pete has fastened them really tightly too; his father must be in pain.
“Give me the damn keys, Pete!” Vegas snarls at him, trying not to listen to what he is saying, because it’s just making him even more upset. And then he apologises again to his father, “I’m so sorry Pa, I’ll fix this, just a moment.”
With a bemused expression on his face, Pete watches him struggle with the handcuffs, totally ignoring Vegas’ request for the keys. “You’re not getting them off this way, Vegas. You really should know better. You tried to get out of them for days during your captivity.”
On the verge of tears, Vegas stops his frantic rescue attempts and turns to fully face Pete. “The keys! Now!” he demands forcefully. “This madness stops right here and now! You really went too far this time!”
“I haven’t even started yet,” the Abyss points out mildly. “And you can forget about me giving you those keys, this asshole isn’t going anywhere. We’re all gathered here to fix the problem he poses, so start paying attention, Vegas. I know you’re regrettably upset about your father’s predicament, but it really can’t be helped.”
“Pete…” Dismayed, Vegas stares at his boyfriend, but doesn’t really recognise him. This is the monster in its full glory. He’s caught a glimpse of it before, just moments before it shot him. It’s terrifying. Should have shot him when I had the chance—the thought flutters briefly through his mind. Too late now. Didn’t even bring a weapon here. You’re such a fool, Vegas, such a damn fool. Vegas is at a loss for words.
“Now, where was I…?” And then Pete surprises Vegas by removing his father’s gag. “Be nice now, will you? You should be part of this discussion, that’s only fair, since it concerns you.”
Still kneeling at his father’s feet, Vegas watches wide-eyed, cringing when his dad instantly starts to curse. Yup, that was to be expected. And while Khun Gun is spewing forth obscenities, Vegas warily sneaks a peek at Pete again. What will be his next move? For now the monster is just listening to the truly vile words thrown in his direction.
“You’re dead, you’re so fucking dead!” Khun Gun shouts at the top of his lungs, glowering at Pete. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”
“Not if I kill you first,” Pete points out with amusement. “Tsk. Didn’t I tell you to be nice?” And before Vegas can stop him, Pete slaps his captive so hard that the man’s lip instantly splits. “That’s payback for hitting me, you asshole. Now shut the hell up.” Then he turns towards Vegas and gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I know he’s my father-in-law, but he really makes me angry.”
Vegas blinks. His brain has trouble keeping up with what is going on here. Everything is moving too fast; he’s still too shocked to keep up with the developments.
“… Pa…” Helplessly, he looks at both men, and then struggles back to his feet. Continuing to kneel seems like a bad choice; he is at a disadvantage in that position. But maybe standing up was a bad idea. He discovers that his legs are still awfully wobbly. Since he can’t come up with anything else to do, he awkwardly tries to use the cloth of his shirt to dab at his father’s bleeding mouth, but that only makes Gun focus his anger on his son instead.
“You useless piece of shit, you call yourself my son?! You allow your little boy toy to do this to me?! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Get me the hell out of these handcuffs, boy! What are you even waiting for?! I thought you were a cop? Arrest this madman! I’m you damn father, Vegas, do something!”
Vegas flinches again, ducking his head. Old habits die hard.
Pete sees that and frowns. “See, this is exactly what I was talking about. This man is pure poison. Don’t forget he repeatedly locked you in the cellar, Vegas. He hit you. He is constantly throwing abuse at you. I know you tried to explain it to me, but seriously… Can’t you see that he is messing with your head?” His voice is turning cold now. “He’s messing with you, and it needs to stop.”
There is no weapon, and nothing that can be used as a weapon either. Vegas despairs. What is he supposed to do? He needs to save his dad, but how? And even if he had a weapon, would he be able to threaten and potentially injure Pete? He doesn’t want to find out.
“Give me the damn keys, please,” Vegas begs Pete. “This is not the right way to handle my father and the complications he causes in my life. Let’s just go and live abroad, Pete. We can leave everything behind and have a fresh start somewhere else, okay? But please leave my father alone.”
“No.” There is not an ounce of understanding in Pete’s voice. He looks entirely detached and distant now, and Vegas’ heart sinks. “Your father has systematically broken you, Vegas. He broke you into pieces and then you put yourself back together best you could. But he broke you again. And again. I know you did your best, but it’s like with broken bones: you need expert help to make them heal correctly, otherwise they grow back together all crooked. And that is what happened to you, you put yourself back together the wrong way, Vegas. I thought about this for quite a while, and I’m reasonably sure I came to the right conclusion.”
Khun Gun has fallen silent as well. Maybe the seriousness of his situation is finally starting to sink in. He appears to re-evaluate the threat level Pete poses, and for the first time in his life, Vegas sees his father looking scared.
Vegas is afraid too. Afraid and utterly torn, because how the fuck is he supposed to choose between his soulmate and his father? His father’s life is at stake, and he is failing all over again. Such a loser. “You promised,” Vegas accuses Pete tremulously. “You promised me you wouldn’t kill him, Pete…”
Pete wrinkles his nose and sighs deeply. “I know. You need to understand that I love you very much, Vegas. I promised I wouldn’t kill him, and I didn’t lie about that.”
With just one step, Pete is standing before Vegas and gently cups his cheek with his hand while looking him straight into the eyes. Dark, so dark. A bottomless Abyss. Vegas can’t help but shudder as he leans into the touch.
“I did not lie. I’m not going to kill your father, Vegas,” the monster tells him with its silky voice. “You are.”
Two words. Just two words. His world falls apart with two words. Khun Gun gasps, but Vegas can’t even do that anymore. Is he even still breathing? Two words. Cruel, so unimaginably cruel. He glaringly miscalculated the depth of Pete’s dark side, it seems. Should have known better, how could he have been so naive? Fuck.
Pete’s hand feels so warm against his cheek. And the way he looks at him, as if Vegas is the centre of his world. It’s too much, Vegas cannot wrap his mind around it. So he withdraws, taking a step backward while shaking his head in denial. “No.”
Because really, what else is there to say? ‘No’ should be sufficient: he is not going to kill his father. No way. Absolutely not going to happen. And since Pete simply gives him a Cheshire Cat smile, seemingly refusing to listen, Vegas repeats himself. “No. No, I won’t.” And then the dam breaks and anger surfaces, red hot anger.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Clenching his jaw, he accusingly points a finger at Pete. “Have you completely lost your freaking mind?!” Vegas is very angry. Mind games again, he fucking hates these mind games, he is so done with this.
But the Abyss simply ignores his outburst. “I’m going to fix everything, Vegas, I have it all figured out.” Still smiling eerily, the monster takes a step towards him, and Vegas automatically retreats, his fear once again overwhelming the anger.
“He broke you, and you put yourself back together all wrong. That’s why you can’t truly accept and love the real me. You said yourself that you will always pick your family, that you’ll pick him over me. And he’ll make you leave me. You’re already thinking about it, don’t deny it. I can feel that you regret giving me another chance. You think I’m all wrong, and it’s all due to this man over there. So I’m going to fix it.”
Vegas’ breath gets increasingly uneven as he listens to Pete. His anxiety spikes to never before seen levels. Insane, this is insane.
“Just like with bones that grew back together the wrong way, to fix them you need to break them all over again, so that they can heal properly,” Pete explains with a chilling softness. “So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fucking break you, Vegas. I’m going to make you fall apart, and then I am going to put you back together the correct way, so that you can love me without being troubled by your damn conscience.”
“He’s completely insane…” Khun Gun whispers fearfully, breaking the silence. “Vegas… son… do something… save me…”
But Vegas can’t move; he is frozen in place. His anger has completely vanished and left is only terror. Yes, Pete must be insane. No normal person would come to these kinds of conclusions. Vegas is stuck here in the middle of nowhere with an insane killer, and no way to defend himself, or his father. What a fucking nightmare. Oh God, why is this happening to me?
“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads. He is back to wringing his hands. “This is Red, you hear me? Red. I am not going to kill him, you can’t make me do it. He’s my father, Pete. You cannot make me kill my father. Besides, you got it all wrong, I already love you, I really do.”
But Pete snorts dismissively at that, ignoring their colour-coded warning system completely. “You freak out when I touch you. You’re a nervous wreck when you don’t know what I’m doing at all times, because you suspect me of being out there, killing people. You won’t let me meet your family because you’re afraid of me. You don’t want me to keep my job because you don’t think I am qualified to help others because I kill people. You have nightmares about my murder scenes, you can’t even look at the crime scene photos or hear me talk about my kills without freaking out!” His voice gets louder and louder, ending in a desperate shout. Oh shit, Pete’s upset.
Still… Even in the face of that, Vegas musters all the courage he has left, and resolutely faces the monster. “I refuse. I will not kill my father. You can’t make me do it, I would rather die than kill him.”
Instead of the expected, frustrated outburst, the monster smiles at him, and Vegas’ stomach drops. He must have overlooked something. Why would Pete smile? Why…?
“Oh Vegas…” Pete tsks softly. “I knew you would say that. That’s what I love about you. You have so much integrity.” He turns towards Khun Gun and the smile he gives him is so thoroughly wicked that Vegas feels the first signs of an approaching panic attack. “Would you like me to tell you why your son is going to kill you?”
Both Vegas and his father swallow hard, united in their trepidation.
“You see—” The Abyss breaks into a wide, dimpled smile. “—I have Macau.”
The distress slamming into Vegas is so intense that it knocks him off his feet again, and he finds himself sitting on the floor. Macau. Vegas’ stomach heaves, and the next moment he is retching all over the floor. There is a dull buzzing in his ears. He’s feeling very faint all of a sudden. Macau. Oh God. He throws up until there is only bile left. Oh God. Nonono. Macau. This cannot be happening. Pete wants to utterly break him? Remake him? Congratulation, it works. Crack. The glue that holds the pieces of Vegas together is weakening.
His father is making some anxious sounds, perhaps he is talking, but Vegas shuts everything out. Macau. The one person in his life he must protect at all costs. Oh God. He feels cold all of a sudden, then hot again. He knows he is sweating and gasping for air, his heart is racing and everything in his body is going haywire. Macau.
At some point he becomes aware that someone is tenderly wiping his face with a cool washcloth, stroking his hair. “It’s all right…” the silky voice murmurs lovingly. “Take it easy, just breathe. I got you, Vegas. Everything will be all right.”
No, everything will not be all right. When he finally catches his breath, Vegas shrugs off Pete’s hand. He can’t stand being touched by him right now. He wants to get up and walk out of this warehouse, away from this madness, right into the ocean, never to surface again. But he can’t, because Pete has Macau. Just thinking about it causes a fresh spike of anxiety. Macau is supposed to be off-limits! The overall sense of betrayal about this is crushing. And another crack appears.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Slowly, Vegas raises his head until he is looking Pete straight in the eyes. “I’m never going to forgive you for this,” he states quietly. “Never.”
Pete shrugs his shoulders, and there is sadness in his dark eyes. “I know. But I love you anyway, Vegas.”
Then both of them simultaneously turn towards the man cuffed to the chair. The moment his father sees the expression on Vegas’ face, his features twist into naked fear, and he starts shaking his head frantically. “No! Vegas! You’re my son! I’m your father! You can’t!”
With a fluid motion, Pete jumps up and stretches, just like a cat. His lips curl into a cruel smile as he looks down on the distraught head of the Minor family. “I bet you regret treating your son like shit now. Did you see? He didn’t even hesitate for a second, he picked his brother over you in an instant. Not a moment of doubt. Sucks to be you right now, eh?”
Then he turns and offers Vegas a hand to help him up, but Vegas ignores it, struggling to his feet without accepting any help. Crack. He can feel himself coming apart at the edges just listening to his father’s frantic efforts to dislodge the chains holding him in place. Pete is right of course; he knows Vegas too well. The second Macau was dragged into this mess, Pete won. And it’s written plainly all over Vegas’ face for everyone to see.
Vegas drags his feet, every step is agonising, until he’s standing before his hyperventilating father. “I’m so sorry, Pa,” he whispers in a broken voice. “I’m so damn sorry, but I don’t have a choice…” Crack.
“Vegas!” His father starts crying now, big, ugly sobs. This proud, strong man has been reduced to begging for his life. He pleads and whimpers; the whole spectacle is just horrifying. Vegas gulps. He wants to look away but can’t, because if he is about to kill his father, he should have the guts to at least look him in the eyes while doing it.
“Give me a gun already,” he whispers hoarsely, glancing at Pete. “Or do you want me to strangle him?” The stench of fear rising from his father is making him nauseous. Crack.
The monster positively purrs with delight, but something about all of this makes Vegas wary. What else does Pete have in mind?
“No gun,” the monster announces gleefully. “It would be over too quickly. Your father has put you through hell, so his final send-off should put him through hell as well, don’t you agree?”
Oh God. Vegas’ can feel himself starting to hyperventilate as well, just like his panic-stricken, mewling father. He wants this to be over with. No more cat and mouse games. Oh God.
“Don’t do this to me, please. I’m not like you. I don’t want him to suffer. I just want a quick death for him.” Crack.
“You are forgetting the whole purpose behind all of this, Vegas.” Pete saunters over to his side and affectionately ruffles Vegas’ sweat-drenched hair. “You need to break. So here’s how we are going to do it…”
Completely ignoring the ever-increasing, terrified pleas of the man on the chair, he guides Vegas closer to their victim. Vegas is growing all numb; Pete is the puppet master at this point. Vegas allows himself to be guided. Run run run. He wants to hide, but there is nowhere he can escape to. Macau, he reminds himself. Macau is all that counts. Crack.
He must have been spacing out, because suddenly there is a knife. As far as knives go, it’s a beautiful one. A thin, dark blade with an intricately carved wooden handle. Pretty. Pete is showing it to him. In the background he can hear his father terrified whimpering, but Vegas is trying to filter that disturbing sound out.
“This is a handcrafted, Japanese boning knife, Vegas. The handle is oak wood, with a special kind of lacquer that is said to exude a warm sense of intimacy when in contact with the skin. It can almost be likened to the touch of an infant’s skin. Can you feel it?”
The knife is placed in his hand, and since Vegas is so unresponsive, Pete helps him close his fingers around the handle. Yes, it feels good. Heavier than Vegas thought, too.
“The blade is white Shirogami steel with a black mirror finish.” Pete places his hand over Vegas’, guiding him through a few motions, all the while patiently explaining more facts about this knife and Japanese knives in general. He would make a good teacher, Vegas notes, dazed.
“Now be careful, Vegas, this knife is exceptionally sharp.”
“… don’t make me do this…” Vegas doesn’t even recognise his voice anymore, it sounds so very faint and thin with fear. Crack.
“This is all for your own good, Vegas,” Pete reminds him softly, guiding his hand until the blade comes to rest lightly against a thigh clad in expensive beige cloth. His father’s thigh! “It will be like a rebirth. You’re like a beautiful butterfly with crippled wings, and I’m going to stuff you right back into your cocoon so that you can regenerate and start all over again.”
“Oh God…” Vegas is staring at that twitching thigh, the edge of the blade gleaming lethally in the light. Crack. Crack Crack Crack. “Please… I love you… please…”
“I love you too, Vegas,” Pete murmurs in his ear.
The pressure around his hand increases, and Vegas is forced to watch with morbid fascination as the edge of the blade disappears slowly downward into the cloth and what lies beneath. There is next to no resistance, Pete wasn’t kidding. This knife is extremely sharp.
His father lets out a bloodcurdling scream and Vegas flinches hard, nearly dislodging the blade.
Blood is welling up from the wound, red, hot blood, the metallic scent of it hitting Vegas hard in the face. Red. Red again. He hates red. Why is there so much red in his life? His stomach roils again.
…Ohgodohgodohgod…
…CRACK CRACK CRACK…
There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nowhere but…
Out of sheer desperation Vegas tries to retreat into his mind, battening the hatches. He locks himself into the darkness and the silence, shutting everything and everyone out. Safe. Finally safe. Right? Right…??? But to his horror he discovers that there’s no stopping the process now, even here he’s continuing to unravel. Cracks everywhere. So many cracks. And then he finally breaks, just as Pete predicted, the flawed glue holding him together disintegrating. He’s coming apart, bit by bit. Fragmenting. Splintering. Vegas can feel himself shattering into a million pieces, like an exploding firework, the broken fragments of him burning up as they descend, so pretty.
And then—finally—there is just darkness, and he is back in his cocoon—just as promised—immaterial, simply floating.
Time has no meaning here.
The butterfly is regenerating. Chrysalis.
The darkness coalesces, forming new ink-black puzzle pieces that lazily float through the void. And when there are so many that the void gets crowded, they start drifting towards another, snapping into place.
Click. Click. Click.
A new Vegas is taking shape, he is transforming, transitioning towards perfection. Everything snaps into place until there is just one last piece missing, a piece that cannot be found here.
Darkness. Silence. And then his consciousness returns, and with it thoughts and also…
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
There should have been silence. There should have been darkness. There is neither.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The reborn butterfly shudders in its cocoon, overwhelmed by sensations and thoughts as reality starts to intrude into its safe space.
Even with his eyes tightly closed, blissful darkness evades Vegas. There is no escape, the lights shining through the thin skin of his eyelids paint his inner sanctuary with a rose-red tinge. Red. Fucking red everywhere.
I see a red door. And I want it painted black. No colours anymore. I want them to turn black. Black. Black. BLACK!
Thoughts are going wild, skipping uncontrollably through his mind. So many thoughts. Nothing is making sense.
Vegas needs his mind to be comfortably black. Like the untouched surface of a lake during a warm summer day without even the slightest breeze. Tranquil. Yet his runaway thoughts skip over its surface like the flat river pebbles he used to collect with—notgoingtherenotgoingthere… skip… skip… skip… leaving disruptive ripples in their wake.
When the cocoon finally cracks and sets him free, it is jarring.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
There should be silence, blissful white noise, yet there are sounds. Something is dripping, a never ending monotonous sound that feels like a fingernail slowly being drawn over a chalkboard, the chalkboard being his raw exposed nerves. And in between drips… frantic panting? …definitelynotgoingthere… moving on…
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The dripping is eventually drowned out by a rhythmic thudding.
Thud… Thud… Thud… ThudThud… ThudThud… ThudThud… ThudThudThud… ThudThudThud… ThudThudThud…
Faster and faster it goes. Like rotor blades slashing through a blood-red evening sky. Vegas can feel the sound with his whole body, with his chest. Within his chest. Vibrating. Thudding. Pumping. And it takes him way too long to realise that it’s his own racing heartbeat he is hearing.
He doesn’t know where he gets the energy from, but somehow he floods his brain with soothing white noise that drowns out every other sound. Shutting out everything else. Blissful silence once more.
Vegas tries to inhale but the air is hot and moist and it feels as thick as molasses, which makes breathing a constant battle. Every cell in his body is screaming. He desperately needs air. Oxygen, he needs oxygen!
Skip… more random thoughts and ripples.
He watched a movie once, something about deep sea diving using oxygenated perfluorocarbon, and this must be how it feels like, to inhale a breathing fluid, he is choking, like that lab rat in the movie and…
Skip… more ripples.
“Breathe. Just breathe,” the calming voice of Luke Skywalker echoes though his mind. Great. Now he is channeling his own inner Jedi? What a damn joke.
Skip… even more ripples.
“Come to the Dark Side. We have cookies.”
Vegas. Cannot. Breathe. He is going to pass out. Yes please. He is going to die. Please, just let me die already. He is going to die in this silent sea of endless rolling crimson madness, going under, drowning in liquid iron that leaves such a metallic taste in his mouth that it makes him nauseous.
Is he standing? Sitting? He feels so lost, he has no body awareness at all. Instead it feels as if he’s just drifting in space. A universe drenched in vermillion, intruding even through his tightly closed eyelids. Floating. Floating in the soothing white noise that is supposed to keep him safely isolated from the harsh reality he’s so desperately trying to escape.
Skip… skip… skip…
…Free Fall… No safety nets, no regrets, no hesitation…
Tap.
There is a shadow of a touch, right between his shoulder blades, anchoring him. Light. Cool. Tiny. The size of the tip of a finger perhaps. It barely touches his bare skin. For a moment he wonders if he is just imagining it, a last hallucination while his brain is dying from lack of oxygen. Hyperventilating sucks.
Tap.
Goosebumps spread like an avalanche down his back, leaving icy numbness in their wake. Vegas waits… and there it comes again.
Tap.
He exhales painfully. There is something he is supposed to remember but he draws a blank. Something important. Something he is not supposed to forget and yet here he is, scrambling after his skipping thoughts, chasing through the white noise after the ripples to remember.
Tap.
This time the finger comes to rest against his skin and stays in place. Vegas shivers. Breathing once again becomes secondary. The pressure between his shoulder blades increases ever so slightly, bringing a hint of pain with it. Like a sharp fingernail digging steadily into his already overly sensitive skin. Pressing down down down only to withdraw without breaking contact. Resting in place, unmoving, a blunt icicle poised to stab him, impaling him like a butterfly pinned to a board in the natural history museum. He remebers what his mother said…
“It’s called a Papilio memnon, Vegas. Lovely, isn’t it? Only the males are ink black like this. You can look, but don’t touch, all right? Never touch a butterfly’s wings. They are very fragile.”
This time the pressure is more pronounced when the fingernail once again digs into his back. Right between his black wings. Black wings that are black no more, they are drenched in blood, so very red…
“Cymothoe sangaris, Vegas. They are not native. They do not belong here.” Just like me.
…and the pressure becomes so unpleasant that it snaps him right back into his oxygen-deprived nightmare. He tenses automatically, instinctively leaning forward and away from the contact, only to freeze just a second later as he remembers that he mustn’t move. He cannot remember why, but a growing sense of distress brings with it the realisation that he messed up. He should not have moved. And so he leans back until he once again feels the fingertip making contact with his sweat-drenched skin—and then some more, impaling himself on that fingernail until he can feel it slicing through his skin, sinking into his flesh. Making up for his mistake.
“Are you listening?! Are. You. Listening?! Such a fucking disappointment, just like your mother!”
Vegas’ breath hitches. His heart stutters and then picks up at an even faster pace. It shouldn’t be humanly possible—surely sooner rather than later something has got to give, and everything—his heart—will come to a screeching halt.
The pressure withdraws, the fingertip coming to rest gently against his skin. Something trickles down his spine. Sweat? Blood? He is starting to feel seriously dizzy, the sound of his racing heartbeat even invading the safety of the white noise with its persistent frantic throbbing.
And then the pressure increases once more, the edge of the fingernail finding the open wound it previously left behind without fail, and then it’s grinding into his flesh, deeper this time, and the pain it brings cuts through the dizziness and carries him straight into another memory, another voice…
“Begin by slowly exhaling all of your air out. Then, gently inhale through your nose to a slow count of 4. Hold at the top of the breath for a count of 4. Then gently exhale through your mouth for a count of 4. At the bottom of the breath, pause and hold for a count of 4. You can do that, right? Detective, I know you think this is ridiculous but please, let’s give it a try. Just once, okay?”
He remembers! The relief is so immense that he almost accidentally sways forward again, but he catches himself at the last second and just freezes in place. Like the pinned, bloody butterfly he is. He remembers. And despite his racing heart, despite being on the very edge of passing out because he is hyperventilating like hell, some of the tension drains from his body. It must have been noticeable because the fingernail stops drilling into his muscles and retreats to its resting position.
A familiar voice like liquid silk intrudes into the white noise. “Use your words, Vegas. What colour?” Garnet. Maroon. Burgundy.
And the pressure increases again, but this time it’s not only expected; he is welcoming it. With it comes the pain, and on its wings it carries a growing sense of calm. Thankfully the fingernail isn’t especially long or it would be scraping along the bones of his spine by now. Vegas is breathing deeply right through the pain. This is nothing. He can do this.
When the pressure lessens he is ready, clinging to the last shreds of his sanity. It’s difficult to think when he is drowning on dry land, his body in full survival mode. But he forces himself to exhale sharply. He can do this.
There is a soundless tap on his back.
He inhales through his nose as slowly as he is able to right now. It isn’t perfect. It’s far from gentle. It’s far from slow. It sounds plain wrong, more as if he is being strangled. His nose seems to be partially clogged, but he just snorts it in and swallows convulsively as the taste of iron spreads in his mouth. The urge to move is nearly impossible to resist. But he can do this. He does not move. He continues to inhale.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
After the last tap, as expected, the finger rests between his shoulder blades. Vegas cannot run, but he can control his breathing, he can hold his breath while his heart feels as if it’s going to explode any second now and there are small explosions of lights on the inside of his closed eyelids. He is going to die. This is it. He holds his breath in defiance. As big fat FUCK YOU to the world while the nail digs into his back once, twice, thrice and a forth time. Fuck everything.
Tap.
His breath explodes outward, he is wheezing and coughing at the same time, he is not doing well, he is messing this up again, of course he is messing this up, he is such a loser…
“You stupid boy! You only cause disaster! You aren’t even worthy of being my son.”
His eyes burning from withheld tears, Vegas coughs his way through the remaining three taps but somehow manages to hold his breath again as the relentless fingernail rams the needle straight back into the butterfly, four fucking times. And it hurts. And the urge to cough sits at the back of his throat but he holds it in.
And then it starts all over again. And again. And again. And again. A seemingly endless cycle. And somewhere amidst it, Vegas’ heart does slow down. His erratic breathing stabilises. His world constricts until there is only the white noise, and his mind filled with the endless sea of blood and the ripples that his thoughts leave behind as they skip on and on and on over its mirror-like surface.
“Give me a colour, Vegas.” The voice wraps itself around him like a caress. Mahogany. Cadmium Red. Carmine. Cinnabar.
The heat is stifling in the room, or whatever the hell this place is, and yet, Vegas still feels a slight increase of bodyheat approaching his bare back and it makes the hairs on his nape stand up. Then he smells it. He is so attuned to this particular smell that he can even make it out over the cloying stench of blood that permeates the air around him. Rosewood. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Amber. He waits.
Soon enough, hot breath is feathering along the damp back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. The heat intensifies and a whiff of air tickles his left ear. Close, so close. Vegas imagines himself as a glorious statue of blood marble. Just breathing slowly and biding his time.
The white noise fades into the background as a single, soft-spoken word slides to the forefront of his consciousness.
“Vegas…?”
There is an unspoken question in this word. A question he cannot pretend not to understand. A question he cannot ignore. Must not ignore.
God.
Damn.
Fucking.
Scarlet.
“Green.” Vegas exhales his reply with a shudder, he does not even recognise his own voice. It’s his own voice, isn’t it? It sounds so unfamiliar, so … raw? As if he’s been crying?
Reluctantly, Vegas opens his eyes and is blinded for a moment, blinking. The colours and shapes before him make no sense, weaving and blending into each other. That is fine though. This is good. Better this than… clarity. His mind instinctively shies away from following this line of thought any further as the cacophony of colours bleed away to settle into the inevitable more vivid shades of red once again as well as the shape of—notgoingtherenotgoingthere… yet … sonotgoingthereyet—so he simply blocks out reality, refuses to make sense of what—who—he is seeing before him… unspeakable horror… as his vision becomes crystal clear.
“Such a good boy,” the silky, disembodied voice behind him croons into his ear. And it makes his heart expand, filling him with such overwhelming gratitude that he aches with it. Vegas sucks in a deep shuddering breath that sounds more like a sob. He is good. He can do this.
As his awareness of his surroundings further sharpens, everything slowly starts to make sense again. His knees hurt from kneeling on the hard concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. Vegas’ whole body is an aching, tense mess. Rebirth hurts. Hurts hurts hurts. He’s stiff and sore all over, and his fingers are cramping because… oh… he’s clutching something heavy in his right hand. Long. Hard. The metal already warmed to match his body temperature. Warm, so warm, and he is so hot. Perhaps, when he eventually combusts, the metal will melt, burning through skin and flesh, encasing his very bones.
Like the Terminator… or Wolverine…
Vegas’ grip tightens. He is fine. Everything is fine. He is enveloped in a cloud of rosewood, cinnamon, vanilla and amber. It soothes his frayed nerves, filling him with serenity. It smells familiar, like home. It smells like safety. It smells like Pete. Heat meets heat, warm lips graze his neck playfully with the slightest scrape of teeth.
“Well, what are you waiting for? A written invitation?” Pete teases him mischievously.
Indeed, what is he waiting for? Vegas’ dried lips crack and start oozing blood as they curve into a genuinely happy smile. Everything suddenly makes sense, becomes natural once again; he does not even have to think as he reverently, and with just the right amount of pressure, drives the knife into the flesh before him as if it were butter. Beautiful. It feels amazing. A bit more and the knife hits the bone, and he just slides it right along the curve of the rib, like a dance, a waltz of blood and death, accompanied by a symphony of hair-raising screams.
Notgoingthereyet … notgoingthereyet … except… perhaps it’s time to stop being a chicken, and face reality, shall we?
Pete is hugging him from behind, their body heat mingles, and the familiar smell of rosewood and cinnamon gives Vegas a sense of security. The reborn butterfly crawls out of its cocoon amidst softly spoken words of encouragement.
The stench of blood and other body fluids lays heavy in the air as death sweeps into the abandoned warehouse. One cut for his mother. One cut for Macau. One cut for every day locked up in the cellar. One cut for every hateful comment, for all the violence he had to endure all these years.
It is slightly surprising what sounds a human being—his father—can make while being slaughtered slowly. And strangely enough, Vegas feels no regret whatsoever. Finally unleashed, all his bottled up hatred simply pours out of him like a flash flood. Every time the knife sinks into the quivering flesh of the pathetically wailing man before him, Vegas is cutting himself loose from his past.
As the reborn butterfly unfolds its wings, it gets easier to breathe. It gets easier to maim. Every cut to the flesh severs a dark memory weighing him down. Free. Free at last.
Eventually, Vegas carelessly drops the knife. He is done here. He has closed this chapter of his life, permanently. In a daze, he turns towards the door to walk away from everything and nearly falls; his bare feet slip on the metal floor that is now coated with blood, but then he regains his balance. When did he take off his shoes? Out, he needs to get out and get some fresh air.
Beyond the door, morning has broken, night is turning into day. Vegas walks past the parked car and out into a little meadow. The cool morning breeze feels wonderful. The grass brushes softly against his bare feet. He can hear the birds singing, calling out to each other. What a magnificent morning. Vegas stretches his imaginary wings, preparing to fly, but there is still something missing it seems, he can’t lift off.
He closes his eyes and simply stands there, until he can feel the first rays of dawn warming the skin on his face. When he opens his eyes again, the world is red, and so is he. Vegas is covered with drying blood and strangely enough, he doesn’t care. Red is just another colour now, nothing special, nothing to be afraid of. There is this great calm in his mind where there used to be only skipping fluttering chaos, it’s so damn refreshing. Taking a deep breath, he sighs. Yes, it is a wonderful morning.
There are footsteps behind him, approaching slowly. Vegas just basks in the sun and waits patiently. Closer, closer… soon the small hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he can sense the body heat of the person coming to stand right behind him.
He still doesn’t move. His patience is endless.
Eventually, the person behind him tentatively leans his head against the space between Vegas’ shoulder blades and exhales a shuddering breath.
“You never took Macau, right?” This question is merely a formality, he has already figured out everything, but Vegas asks anyway.
He can feel Pete shaking his head without breaking their body contact. “Of course not,” Pete mumbles against his back. “I promised I would never touch him; he is your brother after all. I know how much you love him.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Vegas scolds him, but without any heat. Thing is, he gets it, he finally understands why Pete has been doing all this. Getting angry about it now serves no purpose. It would be a waste of energy.
They stand there for a while, Vegas enjoying the dawn and the incredible peace that has descended on him.
“There is a water hose beside the warehouse—we should probably clean up. Dried blood is a pain in the ass to scrub off,” Pete informs him quietly after a while.
He’s very subdued, almost as if he is waiting for something. Is he worried that Vegas will lash out at him now, to make him pay for this? After pondering for a minute, Vegas decides he doesn’t feel like punishing Pete. Surprisingly enough, there’s no anger within him. Just this great, glorious calm.
“Yes, we should probably do that. Lead the way?” Vegas turns around and looks at Pete. It knocks the breath out of him. The warm rays of the morning light bathe Pete in golden hues; wherever the light touches him, his skin seems to be glowing. His hair and eyes are still impossibly dark, and there is blood splatter all over his face, but Vegas sees past that, it is merely an unimportant detail right now. Pete is so beautiful, a breathtaking golden deity of Death turned into mortal flesh, awarding him with a hint of a dimpled smile. Just… wow. Vegas swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.
Click—the last puzzle piece slots into place. Vegas’ metamorphosis is complete, the puzzle pieces are fusing together, never to be separated again.
Their eyes meet, and goosebumps erupt all over Vegas’ body. He feels like a cat in a sea of catnip, getting high simply by looking his fill. And while he’s still staring, dumbstruck like a smitten teenager, the object of his infatuation gives him a bemused look. Then Pete turns around and walks away, back towards the warehouse.
Wait a second.
Vegas needs a moment to catch his breath. This was a bit unexpected; somehow it feels like falling in love all over again, and that is damn confusing. His heart is singing, completely off key, but whatever… Vegas is having a moment here, and it’s mind-boggling. He just killed his father, for heavens sake!
And holy shit, how come he is so utterly calm about that? Shouldn’t he be feeling differently? Shouldn’t he be a ball of misery, hating himself, with guilt eating away at him? Stunned, Vegas closes his eyes, sorting through his feelings at this very moment. Nothing? Really? How is this even possible? He brutally murdered his own father and he has no regrets? No wait, there is an emotion and it’s… grim satisfaction? All those horrible days locked up in the cellar. The vicious beatings he took. Being forcefully separated from his little brother. Oh, yes… as far as he’s concerned, his father had it coming. And just like that, Vegas shrugs that line of thought off, and opens his eyes again. Now where did his little golden sunflower go?
Vegas ambles towards the warehouse again, whistling softly to himself. They really are in the middle of nowhere, no neighbours or streets in sight. What a lovely part of the countryside. He follows the sound of splashing water, rounds the corner of the building and stops to take a moment. Well, hello there… he’s found his sunflower. Pete is washing the blood from his hair with a water hose. The shirt he was wearing before now lies discarded on the ground, his bare upper body glistening in shimmering golden hues that the sun paints on his skin.
Vegas mouth goes dry. Perfection. So damn beautiful. Mesmerised, he strolls closer. Pete is humming to himself, eyes closed as he shampoos his hair and then uses the hose to rinse it. When he opens his eyes again, Vegas is standing just a short distance away from him, just out of the spray. Again, Pete teases him with a dimpled smile that makes the butterflies in his stomach go wild. Yes, Vegas is definitely having a moment here. He is hopelessly besotted. It’s absurd, he has fallen in love all over again with this man before him, but this time there are no doubts, no reservations. There is just total acceptance.
Down to earth as usual, and entirely unaware of Vegas’ ongoing emotional epiphany, Pete points to the plastic bottle on the grass beside him. “Here is shampoo, you can use it as body wash as well. I brought a fresh change of clothes for both of us too, they are in th…”
Vegas pounces and the hose goes flying, spraying them both with water. Pete yelps, but is immediately silenced by Vegas kissing him hungrily as the usual sparks between them ignite, setting them both on fire.
They probably shouldn’t be doing this right now, but neither of them gives a damn. Pete more or less rips Vegas’ shirt off; the buttons go flying in all directions, causing Vegas to laugh breathlessly. The water makes the grass slippery—one false step, and they both go down in a heap of legs and arms as they lose their balance. But not even that can stop them. They continue to kiss eagerly while peeling each other out of their remaining clothes.
Pete’s hands and mouth are seemingly everywhere; they’re rolling across the grass. Vegas grips the curve of Pete’s ass, digging his fingernails into the flesh, and hears Pete’s low moan, which is music to his ears. Too quiet though, he wages he can get a louder reaction out of Pete, and so he gives that ass a brisk slap. Surprised, Pete cries out and then immediately bites his lower lip. The expression on his flushed face is priceless.
Vegas grins, finds Pete’s nipple and twists. His boyfriend gives a sharp groan, a hard shudder running through his entire body.
“You like that?” Vegas asks him softly. Pete answers by grabbing the back of his head, sinking his fingers into Vegas’ hair, and yanking him in for an open-mouthed kiss with a lot of tongue. Vegas approves.
And the madness continues. Vegas needs this so badly, he needs a clean cut from all the pain and hurt they’ve caused each other in the past. This is a fresh start for both of them, their new beginning. Every touch, every kiss is his promise to Pete to love him, always and unconditionally. His own pleasure becomes secondary; this is about pleasing Pete, making Pete feel desired and most important of all, loved. Because he loves this man from the bottom of his heart, with his whole soul, and he needs Pete to understand this.
I love you. Vegas reverently kisses and licks the faded bite scar on Pete’s neck.
I cherish you. Crawling on top of Pete, his mouth latches onto one of his nipples. He knows how sensitive they are, and soon Pete is a moaning, shuddering mess as Vegas lavishes those nipples with attention, sucking and biting them.
You complete me. Vegas’ mouth starts travelling down Pete’s chest, scraping his teeth over the muscles of the abdomen, stopping to give a little nip now and then because that causes Pete to buck against him with a strangled hiss, which is delightful.
You are the most important person in my life. Pete is starting to breathe faster. Vegas can feel his hard muscles tensing under Vegas’ tongue as he licks his way further downward, marking him with a hickey now and then.
You are my soulmate. Pete groans loudly and writhes, his fingers digging aimlessly into the grass when Vegas closes his fist around Pete’s cock and strokes him, moving roughly up and down.
I love you so much. Pete’s eyes slide closed with bliss and he cries out hoarsely when at last Vegas wraps his lips around Pete’s cock, taking him into his mouth. Vegas is teasing him expertly, mixing pleasure with the pain Pete is craving, until Pete throws his head back, his neck corded with strain, shouting so loudly that all the birds in the surrounding trees take flight as he comes.
In the aftermath of it all, when Pete starts crying because all this love he is showered with feels too overwhelming, Vegas lovingly kisses those tears from his face as well.
And only then does Vegas take care of his own needs. He pushes Pete’s legs wide, spreading him, and then wedges his own aching erection inside of him. Tight, so damn tight, but the pressure is still bearable. Pete exhales a hissing breath, involuntarily tensing up, Vegas knows this must be painful, and so he gives him some time to adjust.
They are staring at each other wordlessly. Bathed in the morning sun, Vegas can see Pete’s eyes aren’t as black as he always thought; there are tiny specks of brown and gold dancing around his dilated pupils. Beautiful. So beautiful.
Vegas tentatively starts to rock against Pete, who shivers and responds by wrapping his legs around Vegas’ waist. After all this foreplay and teasing, holding back is proving more and more difficult. Vegas’ body constricts with need. He shudders breathlessly and arches a questioning eyebrow at Pete, who simply nods.
With a sigh of relief, Vegas withdraws almost completely, then rams his throbbing cock back into Pete. Yes! Both of them groan. Vegas is no longer holding back at all, he is thrusting hard and fast. Pete’s fingernails must be leaving deep scratch marks on Vegas’ back; to protect himself Vegas grabs his wrists and presses them into the grass and then they’re kissing once more, deep, frantic kisses that stifle the increasingly loud noises Pete is making.
Vegas breathing is getting shallower in between grunts, his thrusts more erratic. He comes with a broken yell, collapsing all his weight on Pete, and then just shivers and shudders until the quivering tension in his muscles finally eases.
“I love you,” Pete mumbles tiredly, and Vegas’ mouth curves into an exhausted smile.
“I love you too.” Vegas buries his face against Pete’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin.
Too worn out to move, they rest in each other’s arms on the soft damp grass. The air smells of warm earth and sex. Vegas can hear the leaves rustling in the nearby trees and the water that is still trickling from the hose. Occasionally a butterfly flutters past them, and a lone shimmering dragonfly zips through their field of vision.
“Before I forget…” Pete stretches and reaches out to his discarded clothes to fish something out of the pocket of his pants, handing it to Vegas. “What do you want to do with this? Shall I dispose of it?”
It is a ring; solid gold and quite valuable, or so Vegas has been told all his life. Blood has seeped into the engraved Theerapanyakul coat of arms and dried there.
“The King is dead…” Pete remarks quietly, resting his head against Vegas’ shoulder. Both of them look thoughtfully at the golden signet ring that Vegas is holding up, shimmering and glittering in the sunshine, marred by the darkish blood specks.
Vegas remembers his humiliating wheelchair journey through the Main family mansion. The way everyone looked at him as if he were the scum of the earth, just because he belonged to the Minor family.
Main family.
Minor family.
What a load of bullshit. Time for a change.
“Long live the King…” Vegas says softly, slowly slipping the golden ring onto the index finger of his left hand. It’s a perfect fit, as if made for him. And it’s not nearly as heavy as he always imagined it to be. “… and Sunshine, you should see me in a crown.”