“We are all victims in-waiting.”
As expected, the death of their almost-witness is a bureaucratic nightmare. Vegas is rudely pulled back into reality as he stands next to the body and gives his statement to his colleagues. While answering endless questions, his eyes keep skipping over to the area around the dead man. There are red, grey and white fragments and globs all over the street, glistening sickeningly in the rays of the setting sun. Burst like a watermelon indeed. They collect his handgun. Thankfully he hasn’t fired it, otherwise this nightmare would be even worse. At some point Pete shows up, they exchange a quick, guarded look, then Pete is pulled aside to give his statement as well, before he has the chance to talk to Vegas. Which suits Vegas just fine.
He does not want to talk to Pete right now. He’s had time to come back to his senses and is horrified with himself for losing control up on that roof. When he is asked to walk his colleagues through the scene inside the building he gladly takes this opportunity to escape. The further away he gets from Pete, the better. Out of sight, out of mind. If only that worked. He still has the taste of Pete in his mouth, and it’s very distracting.
All the procedures take a while. He asks someone to drive Pete back to the police station and then drags out the time to make absolutely sure Pete is gone before he finally heads to his car. He even manages to avoid running into Pete at the police station where there are more interviews, more papers to fill out, more reports to write. All of this is a great distraction and Vegas welcomes it. He does not want to think about what happened on that roof. Not yet. Maybe another day. Or week. Or year. Or maybe they can just pretend it never happened?
He goes home late, eats something and has a glass of wine. Remembering the absolute terror he felt on that roof when he thought Pete would get shot. Remembering their kiss. Madness. He is an idiot for giving in to his feelings. An absolute idiot. He absolutely does not have flings with people from work. What is worse is his reaction to the kiss. Vegas doesn’t think he will ever get enough of Pete, and that scares the hell out of him. If his father finds out… No, he needs to put a stop to this. He cannot be selfish and get Pete killed. His phone rings. “Vegas?” It’s Pete. How did he even get this number? Doesn’t matter.
“Sorry, I don’t have time to talk, I am kind of busy,” Vegas replies stiffly and then hangs up. He takes another sip of wine, and sighs. Not today. And he doesn’t pick up the phone when it starts ringing again.
----------------------------------------
The next morning his luck runs out. When he arrives at their office, Pete is already sitting at his desk and has obviously been waiting for him. Vegas closes the office door behind him and leans against it to buy himself some time. Pete is wearing one of his strange shirts again; this one is cream coloured with a variety of mushrooms printed on it. Why on earth would anyone wear something so hideous? This is so Pete. Vegas can’t help but smile. “I really hate your shirts.”
“Says the man with ten plain white t-shirts in his wardrobe.” Pete returns the smile, his dimple showing for a moment, but then he turns serious. “We need to talk.” And here we go…
“Do we?” Vegas pushes away from the door and walks over to his desk, taking a seat. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, but it seems unavoidable, and so he turns his chair with a sigh towards Pete who is watching him closely. “We could just as easily decide not to talk about it.”
“Seriously?” Pete folds his arms before his chest. “That just convinces me even more that we do need to talk about what happened. Our professional relationship makes this really awkward. You know I could lose my licence over the kiss if anyone finds out?”
Vegas sighs deeply. He has spent half the night turning yesterday’s events over in his head, and as far as he is considered, he has found the perfect explanation and solution for this situation. “What is there to talk about? It was a one time thing. We were in a life and death situation. That kiss was a normal reaction after being in mortal peril, it happens a lot in highly stressful situations. The adrenaline makes you do things you normally wouldn’t do. That is all.”
Pete arches an eyebrow at him and narrows his eyes. “So what you are saying is that the kiss was a mistake? It was just a kiss and nothing more?”
No. “Yes.” Vegas nods, trying to convince not only Pete but himself. “It was a mistake. A temporary lapse of judgement. That is all.” And he hates himself for saying this because that kiss was everything.
It seems Pete isn’t happy with what he is saying. He has grown awfully still in his chair, and Vegas can see how he is clenching his jaw. “I disagree.”
“You really shouldn’t read too much into it,” Vegas hears himself saying. “Honestly, it didn’t mean anything. You must have been aware that I feel a certain amount of attraction towards you.” Understatement of the century. Vegas burns for Pete. “Now that we’ve kissed we got it out of our system and can go back to how everything was before.”
Pete is taking a deep breath, still outwardly calm, but Vegas notices that his hands are clenched into fists. “So you got it out of your system? You are done with it? That’s it?”
You are my missing puzzle piece, Vegas wants to scream. I won’t ever be done with you! Instead he shrugs casually as if this isn’t a big deal at all. “Yes, that’s it. We should just forget about it and move on. That way you also do not need to worry about doing something that is in conflict with your work ethics. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone and it will never happen again.”
“You might be done with it, but I’m not.” Pete’s voice sounds increasingly strained. “I’m not in the habit of going around kissing people and then just forgetting about it.”
“That’s too bad for you. Just deal with it. As far as I am concerned, this is over and done with. We scratched an itch. And now it’s time to move on.” Wow, Vegas is surprised with himself how calm and cold he sounds, when he is feeling the direct opposite.
“You want me to move on…” Shaking his head in disbelief, Pete gives Vegas a furious look. “You come on to me this whole time, you get unreasonably angry with me when I try to keep my professional distance, then you take the opportunity to scratch your itch. You kiss me while I am in shock because someone almost killed me and then fell off a roof before my eyes and then you tell me to forget everything and move on? That’s it? Seriously? Who do you think you are, to make such a decision for the both of us?”
When Pete puts it like that, Vegas has to admit it sounds as if he is a bastard. I am doing this for your own safety. You cannot get involved with me. “It’s really pointless to argue about this. As far as I am concerned, this chapter is closed. It was a mistake that will not be repeated. Get over it. I have already forgotten about it, and so should you.”
“Vegas!” Yes, Pete is angry. Not as angry as in the car when he almost killed them, but definitely the same level of anger as when Vegas handcuffed him to the handrail. “You have no right to make a one-sided decision about this for the both of us. This is not how it works. What I feel is important too.”
What do you feel? Vegas would really like to know. Was it as earth shattering for you as it was for me? Are you replaying that moment over and over again in your mind, as I do? But instead he shrugs nonchalantly. “Just move on, Pete. Don’t do the boring thing and be clingy over a little kiss.” And he dies a little bit inside when he says that.
“Are you really sure this is how you want to play it, Vegas?” Pete double-checks quietly after a moment. “Are you saying you don’t want to find out where this between us can go? Is this really the decision you want to make, completely setting aside what I have to say in the matter? Are you 100% sure you want me to move on?”
No. Vegas would very much like to have his very own ‘happily ever after’ when it comes to Pete. Pushing him away is the very last thing he wants to do but it’s either that or certain death for Pete. And so he just swallows down the lump in his throat and nods. “Yeah, I am sure. Can we go back to work now?”
The way Pete looks at him upon hearing this sends waves of distress through Vegas’ body. Deeply uncomfortable, he breaks eye-contact first, and turns back to his computer, determined to put everything behind him. Moving on. There are no more comments from Pete on the subject either. For a short while, he seems to be busy with something on his computer, but soon enough he quietly packs his bag, leaves and doesn’t return for the rest of the day. And not the next day either. Or the day after that.
----------------------------------------
Vegas isn’t sure what to feel about Pete’s absence. On one hand, he is happy because this is what he wanted. His strategy worked, great. On the other hand this is agonising. It feels as if a part of him is missing; when did he get so used to having Pete around? This sucks. Vegas resorts to working overtime again. At home he is stress-cleaning and going for long runs. This really sucks.
Since their witness is gone, they are back at the starting point. It’s damn frustrating. At least Vegas gets his weapon back when it becomes clear that it wasn’t his fault the man fell off the roof. He goes back to the crime scene and fine-combs all surrounding houses just in case there’s another witness they might have missed but comes up empty handed. Another dead end. The more time goes by, the higher the chances that their killer will strike again. One more dead body would be a disaster.
One of the bodyguards who used to work for his father had a saying: Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, you realise you’re standing on another trapdoor. The next day that trapdoor opens underneath Vegas when he least expects it. All it takes is an email from Arm, with an attachment. The long awaited image of the tattoo from their John Doe, victim #2. Vegas clicks on it, watches the image load and then draws in a shocked breath. Fuck. The trapdoor opens and he falls. Fuck.
Arm has outdone himself, as expected. He sends along a lengthy report about the chemical composition of the ink used for the tattoo and the methods he used to preserve the skin, clean it and then prepare it for photography and all that, but all those technicalities blur before Vegas’ eyes. The only thing he sees is the tattoo itself, and cold dread floods him.
To the uninformed, it looks harmless enough. Just some pointy shield encircling an abstract flowery design. Vegas knows better though. He has grown up with his father and uncle telling him that this is supposed to be a Fleur-de-lis. A symbol of purity since antiquity. What a fucking joke that it has been chosen for the Theerapanyakul family crest. Purity, my ass. The purity of the Main family while the Minor family does all the dirty work. Vegas feels a headache developing. What the fuck is John Doe doing with a tattoo of the damn Theerapanyakul bodyguard pin?! He can already see the complications arising from this, not good, not good at all! How on earth is he supposed to handle this? Should he tell anyone? What a mess! He will need access to the bodyguard database, and he can forget going through official channels for that. Chan, Uncle Korn’s head of security, could help, because he’s been around for ages. But he can’t approach Chan without his father getting wind of it. Which leaves—oh fuck—he really doesn’t want to talk to his cousin. Maybe it will be best if he asks Porsche for help with this. Porsche can mediate, because mediation will be needed. Both Kinn and Vegas have a nasty temper. Put them in a room together and they will be at each others throats within 5 minutes. Damn, this is giving him a headache. Vegas sends Porsche a message, informing him that they need to talk.
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The next day is a day of surprises. Guess who’s back at the office? Vegas thinks he is truly pathetic for feeling such joy when the door opens and Pete walks in, carrying a paper bag. Behaving as if nothing ever happened, Pete pulls out a takeaway coffee cup and places it before Vegas, then fishes out a container with fresh pastries as well. These are apparently also for Vegas, which makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He mumbles a thank you and then dives in, because he hasn’t had breakfast yet. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Pete trying to hide a smile as he takes a sip of his own coffee and then turns on his computer to work on the profile of their killer.
Time goes by, they work in silence, neither of them wanting to risk the fragile peace between them. Shortly before lunchtime, they are interrupted when the door opens and wow, another surprise. It’s Porsche, peeking inside. When he spies Vegas his handsome face brightens with a wide goofy smile. “Finally found you.” And without further ado he enters, walks over to Vegas and gives him a hug. Vegas chuckles, he is used to Porsche being touchy-feely, and so he hugs him back. They have not seen each other in a while, and talking on the phone simply isn’t the same.
Someone clears his throat, Vegas looks up and is met with Pete’s slightly narrowed eyes. Oh. Porsche disentangles himself, casually slings an arm around Vegas’ shoulders and turns towards the other man in the office. “Oh, didn’t see you there. You’re Vegas’ new colleague?” He graces Pete with a charming smile.
Pete’s eyes flicker from Vegas to Porsche and he gives the newcomer one of his oh-so-professional, yet distant smiles in return. “Indeed I am. And you are…?” His dark eyes come to rest on that arm flung around Vegas’ shoulders, and his jaw clenches.
“I am Porsche Pachara Kittisawasd, a good friend of Vegas. A pleasure to meet you?” Either Porsche is oblivious to Pete’s body language which screams barely suppressed irritation, or he ignores it on purpose.
“Oh.” Pete tilts his head slightly to the side and looks Porsche over more closely. “So you’re Porsche…” A harmless comment, yet there is a lot of subtext riding along with it. Pete is very good at hiding what he is thinking, but right now Vegas is pretty damn sure that Pete is drawing all the wrong conclusions. Maybe that’s a good thing. Let Pete believe whatever he wants. Maybe this way he will keep his distance from Vegas and be safe.
“I’m Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham. Just call me Pete,” he nods at Porsche. “Don’t let me disturb you.” Another quick tense glance at Vegas, then Pete goes back to work.
Porsche turns back to Vegas, who can’t help noticing how happy Porsche looks. Kinn must be treating him well.
“You called, and here I am. What’s up?” Porsche then sighs. “Damn Vegas… just look at you. You need to start taking better care of yourself. You are not eating regularly, right?”
Porsche pokes him playfully in a few places and Vegas rolls his eyes and ruffles Porsche’s hair affectionately. He’s such a good friend, one of the few people who actually cares about his well-being. Sneaking a sideways glance at Pete, Vegas notes that even though he looks busy, he is watching them closely. And Vegas can see that he is brimming with hostility.
Judging from the dark expression on Pete’s face, now would be a good time to leave. Besides, he cannot talk about the bodyguard business in front of Pete anyway. “I’m fine. But if you are offering to take me out for lunch, I will of course not say no,” he suggests.
Porsche grins happily. “Great. I know this new place, the food is amazing. But it’s a little bit further away from here… how long is your lunch break?”
Should he or should he not? He really does not want to go this far, but then he remembers that keeping Pete safe should be his priority. I am doing this for your own good, sorry. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll just take the rest of the day off. Let’s have lunch first and then you can follow me home and we can… talk.” Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Pete flinch and look away. Fuck. Doing the right thing sucks.
Porsche has noticed the little suggestive pause before that last word and arches a questioning eyebrow at Vegas, who just gives him a pointed look that means ‘later’ and very lightly shakes his head.
Porsche is intrigued. “Lovely. Let’s go then. It was nice meeting you, Pete.”
Vegas quickly packs his bag and follows Porsche to the door. As he is about to step outside, he takes another quick look at Pete. Their eyes meet and Vegas’ mouth goes dry. Pete looks perfectly calm. Too calm. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all. Vegas gulps and leaves hastily. If eyes could kill…
----------------------------------------
Of course he has to explain things to Porsche over lunch. He doesn’t explain everything, hell no. Definitely not about the kiss. Vegas tries to keep it all as general as possible, but he is stumbling over his words and when he notices how Porsche can barely keep himself from dissolving into laughter, he finally gives up. “Can we just not talk about this?”
“We definitely need to talk about this. You got the hots for your colleague, and you used me to tell him to back off. If you think I am going to forget about this, you must be dreaming. Spill the beans. I want to know everything.” Porsche is having the time of his life, it seems.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Vegas insists. “You know I don’t do anything other than flings and people I work with are off limits. It doesn’t really matter if I am attracted to him, which I am only in a very minor way. I have enough self discipline not to act on that.” Except for that moment on the roof. And that moment in their office. “Really, I have it all under control.”
“Sure.” Porsche rolls his eyes, not believing a word, and eats his dessert. He is enjoying this way too much.
“So what does your colleague… Pete… think about the whole situation? Is he interested too?”
“He’s got no say in the matter,” Vegas cuts Porsche off tensely.
Porsche sighs deeply. “Oh Vegas… You and your stupid rules. This is not how it works, you’ll see. If you like him, and I think you do, you really should not shut him out. Trust me, this will backfire. Just have a talk, maybe give whatever is between you a try. Also… Are you really planning to live your whole life in fear of your father? It’s been so many years. You’re estranged. You really thinks he still cares?”
“I would prefer not having to find out that he still cares while standing over the body of yet another dead boyfriend,” Vegas replies without humour. “Or would you like me to give him a call: “Hey Dad, I’d like to hook up with this guy from work, you are not still against me dating men, right?” … Yeah, I am sure that conversation would go really well.”
“Okay, you have a point there…” Porsche concedes, and then wisely changes the topic. “What did you want to talk about, you didn’t say in your message?”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot…” And Vegas sighs. “I am sorry but I need you to talk to Kinn. I need access to the bodyguard records and I cannot do this via official channels. And neither my uncle nor my father must find out about this.”
All the lightheartedness drains out of Porsche, and he gives Vegas a hard and calculating stare. Once upon a time Porsche would never have looked at him like this, but that was way before he fell in love with Kinn and got assimilated into the Mafia lifestyle. Nowadays Porsche can be just as ruthless as Kinn if he needs to be, which is a pity. Vegas misses the old, untainted and carefree Porsche.
“You will need to give me more background information if you want access to those records, Vegas.”
“This is about a case I am working on. I have an unidentified murder victim who just happens to have a tattoo of the damn pin on his body. I need you to go through the database and help me identify him. All tattoos should be registered; if he is or was employed by the family and who he is. Maybe he is not involved, then I will have to figure out why he had that tattoo. But for now let’s assume he was working for the family.”
“You think you case is connected to the family business?” Porsche frowns because just like Vegas he can vividly imagine the huge shitstorm this could potentially cause.
“My hypothesis right now is that this is merely a coincidence. Maybe he’s an ex-bodyguard who had to retire for medical reasons? Or do you know of any missing active bodyguards?” John Doe was too young for regular retirement. And once you’re in, you only leave the service of the Theerapanyakul family due to old age, medical reasons or in a body bag. Both Porsche and he are both aware of that as well.
“I’ll have to check with Kinn,” Porsche admits. “How fast do you need the information?”
“The sooner, the better. This is a race against the clock; I would rather not add to my pile of victims.”
“You know that if your victim was an active bodyguard, Kinn will want to handle it. Are you okay with that?” Porsche double checks to be sure. If Kinn takes over, things will turn bloody.
“Trust me, there is nothing I would like more than to hand over this nightmare to your boyfriend,” Vegas replies grimly.
“Hey, be nice, that’s your cousin you are talking about.” Porsche threatens Vegas facetiously with his spoon.
“He’s a pompous ass only you can tolerate.” With a smirk, Vegas skilfully avoids getting kicked under the table by Porsche, who laughs.
“Jerk.”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“Asshole.”
Both of them start grinning and then finish eating their desserts. This was a very productive lunch. So far, this day is going surprisingly well. Vegas is pleased.
----------------------------------------
Later that evening his phone starts ringing. Vegas frowns, lowering the book he is reading. He’s had a very relaxing afternoon, working on his laptop from home because he didn’t want to return to the office after the lunch break. This better not be work. He is officially off duty right now, not that this has ever stopped anyone from calling him anyway. With a certain amount of irritation he picks up the call.
There’s music playing on the other end. Déjà vu. Vegas has a flashback—Yok’s voice… “Come and pick up your friend, will you? He’s had a bit too much to drink.”—and his breath hitches.
“Yok?” He is instantly on guard.
All he hears is music. No one is speaking, perhaps someone called the wrong number. He’s about to hang up again when the person on the other side finally decides to speak up after all.
“… Vegas…” Pete sounds breathless.
Surprised, Vegas frowns. What the hell? “Pete? It’s 11 pm, why are you calling me at this time?” And where are you right now? But he doesn’t ask that.
The music is very loud, and he can hear Pete’s muffled voice in the background, he seems to be talking to someone else but Vegas cannot make out what he is saying. He is starting to get bad vibes about this. And the bad feeling only increases when Pete is suddenly laughing breathlessly into his phone again. “Vegas… You know what happens when you make one-sided decisions?”
No, he doesn’t, but he has the feeling he is about to find out, and it’s giving him acute anxiety. “Pete?”
“You get to live with the consequences of your decisions.”
… Consequences… and the next thing Vegas hears through the phone, loud and clear even despite the music, is the very distinctive sound of a messy wet kiss.
It knocks the breath out of him. This is so unexpected that he has trouble comprehending what is happening. Or rather, he is in denial. No wait… this cannot be happening, right? He must be imagining things. Then Pete moans into the phone—just like he did on the rooftop when Vegas had his tongue in his mouth—and the realisation of what exactly is happening on the other end is simply killing him.
“Sweet dreams, Vegas,” Pete whispers into the phone. Click. The call ends.
Vegas can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
Like a fish on land, he opens his mouth to inhale but nothing is happening. The phone slips from his hand and falls to the floor. He can’t breathe. He wraps his arms around himself and doubles over. That sound still echoing in his ears. He can’t breathe. Black spots are starting to appear in his vision; he closes his eyes and holds himself so tight it hurts, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to splinter and fall apart into a thousand pieces. Like a piece of china shattering on a marble floor.
To his own surprise he makes a sound like a wounded animal—and finally inhales a shuddering breath. Breathing hurts. Vegas hurts. He is still bent over, rocking back and forth, trying desperately to hold himself together. Why does this hurt so much? Why does he care so much? This is not how this was supposed to go! He thought he had it all under control. A kiss to get it out of his system. And afterwards they put it all behind themselves and move on. This is not how it was supposed to go! Where do all these feelings come from? He is not supposed to feel like this! He is not supposed to feel as if he’s been mortally wounded. But he does. Damn, it hurts…
Blindly, Vegas staggers into the bedroom. Why did he go here? He doesn’t know. He goes back to the living room. The kitchen. The living room again. Aimlessly moving around in his apartment. He needs to move. Move move move! The way he is breathing sounds more and more like sobs. Damn. No way he is falling apart. This cannot be happening!
“Are you crying? You better not be crying, boy! Take it like a man! I’ll beat the tears right out of you!”
Vegas screams and lashes out, wiping the surface of the living room table clean, sending everything flying across the room. Then he kicks the table itself viciously, toppling it over. And he kicks it again. And again. Until the wooden surface splinters and breaks. Like his heart.
He hates feeling like this! Damn him! And so he continues to lash out…
Furniture topples. Things are breaking. He is venting in the old familiar way. Anger runs red through his brain, wiping away all other thoughts.
All of a sudden, he stops. Phone. Where is his phone? He must have dropped it somewhere earlier on, but where? A new urgency takes hold of him and he frantically starts searching through the mess he made in the living room. Where is the phone? He needs his phone! He needs to call Yok and check if Pete is at the bar. And if he is, he will go there and he will—
Where is the damn phone?!
Eventually, he finds it amongst the debris and types in the phone number with trembling fingers. Waiting for the call to connect.
Finally someone answers his call. “Yok… it’s Vegas.” Damn, why does his voice sound so brittle? “Is Pete at the bar? You remember? My colleague?” There’s loud music playing in the background. Vegas has a flashback to that last call and what he heard, and nearly loses it again.
“Vegas? Oh, hello. No, I haven’t seen him tonight. We’re hosting a private party, he would not have gotten in. Why? Has something happened?” Yok sounds first confused, then concerned.
And Vegas… for a moment there was a ray of hope that he might perhaps be able to do something, to stop things from happening, but that hope has now been brutally crushed and he deflates. “Okay. Don’t worry, it’s just something work related, that’s why I need to find him. Sorry for calling.” Vegas hangs up again, staring blindly at the wall. There used to be a framed art print of John Martin’s ‘Pandemonium’ hanging there, but now the picture is on the floor, the frame broken, glass shards everywhere.
Vegas feels as if something inside him has broken as well. And he isn’t sure if he can be repaired. There is nothing he can do now. Nothing.
You get to live with the consequences. The words echo in his head. Over and over again. Vegas sinks to the floor, pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Starts rocking back and forth slowly. He does not like feeling this way. He wants it to stop. He wants all feelings to stop. He does not want to feel anything ever again.
Vegas loses all concept of time.
He wants to get drunk. He wants to get high. He wants to destroy something. He wants to hurt someone. He wants to hurt himself. At some point the doorbell rings. He ignores it. It keeps ringing. The sound is grating on his nerves. He wants to be left alone! The doorbell keeps ringing.
Fine. He’ll go to see who it is and to shut whoever it is up. Permanently, if needed. Impatiently, Vegas opens the door and freezes.
Leaning all casually against the wall next to his door is the last person he expected to show up here. Once again, Pete is dressed all in black. He is even wearing those damn leather pants again. This shirt is not sheer but the top buttons are undone, just like the last time. His hair is a ruffled mess, the cheeks slightly flushed, and there’s a devilish gleam in his eyes as Pete slowly looks up and his mouth curves into a wicked smile. “Still awake? Couldn’t sleep? Did you perhaps miss me so much?”
This turns out to be the last drop; Vegas’ fragile temporary hold on his temper snaps and his world bleeds once again into red.
Red is a stop sign,
Red is a rose,
Red is an apple,
And a funny clown’s nose.
With a low snarl his hand shoots out and his fingers are grabbing Pete’s throat so hard that he cuts off the man’s air supply. It’s extremely satisfying to see Pete’s eyes widen in shock, the smile slipping off his face, but by then Vegas is already yanking him into his apartment by the neck, kicking the door shut behind them and then slamming the other man against the wall of the hallway—hard.
Red red red.
Vegas is overcome with rage. How dare Pete show up here?! He wants to play mind games? Not going to happen! He is sick and tired of these bloody games. Pinned to the wall, Pete is trying to draw some air into his lungs, and Vegas just squeezes harder, his fingernails digging deep into the skin, leaving marks and damn, it feels good. He wants to hurt Pete. Hurt him as badly as he himself got hurt by that fucking phone call.
Pete is truly starting to struggle now, fighting for air and digging his fingers into Vegas’ wrist, trying to dislodge him, but without much success. His face is turning more and more red, and Vegas watches indifferently, hearing his own blood soaring in his ears. It’s only when Pete’s lips are starting to turn a purplish-blue colour that Vegas decides to let go, and relaxes his stranglehold on the other man’s neck.
Pete wheezes and nearly collapses, coughing violently, desperately dragging air into his lungs. There are now visible marks on his throat. Maybe there will be bruises tomorrow. And then the coughing turns into a raspy chuckle and soon into a hoarse laugh. Leaning against the wall, he is laughing so hard that he is getting tears in his eyes, the sound of that laughter sending goosebumps down Vegas’ spine. Pete sounds unhinged.
A fresh swell of anger rises in Vegas. “Stop it! What the fuck are you doing here, are you drunk again?”
“…Stone-cold sober…” Pete replies in a raspy voice, between two bouts of hilarity.
They’re still standing very close to each other. Maybe he should have moved further away. Too late now. Agitated, Vegas slams his fists against the wall on both sides of Pete’s head, effectively caging him in. And that bloody madman just keeps laughing in his face. “Shut the fuck up, Pete!” Vegas growls.
This only makes Pete laugh harder. “Why don’t you make me?” When Vegas narrows his eyes and glares at him in silence, he keeps egging him on. “Come on… make me shut up, Vegas. I know you want to.” Pete leans forward, towards Vegas.
“Shut me up already…” he teases in a sing-song voice. They’re so close their breath mingles.
“Shut. Me. Up.” And then Pete closes the distance, his tongue flickers out and he licks along Vegas’ lower lip, sending electric tingles through his entire nerve system, threatening an overload. Vegas’ toes curl, it’s maddening, he is flip-flopping back and forth between rage and lust so fast he is getting dizzy from all the conflicting signals buzzing through his body. Angrily, he turns his head away, wiping his mouth against his shoulder in disgust.
“No thanks. You are smelling of someone else’s aftershave. I think you should just leave.” His voice is quivering with resentment.
Pete leans his head back against the wall, and damn, he looks sexy as hell. Vegas wants to touch him very badly but knows this is a recipe for disaster. “Jealous, Vegas? Whatever happened to ‘It was just a temporary lapse of judgement, it doesn’t mean anything, let’s just forget about this and move on?’ I simply did what you told me to, moving on—or have you suddenly changed your mind?”
The thought of Pete moving on, the sound of him moving on… it drives Vegas insane. No, he does not want Pete to move on! Well, he does. But really, he doesn’t. Not like this! “What the hell do you think you are doing?!” Vegas hisses, grabs Pete’s shirt, pulls and then shoves him hard back against the wall.
The collar of the shirt moves during this and bloody hell, is that a hickey on Pete’s neck?! Vegas cannot help it, he huffs in outrage. Mine, everything inside him screams in indignation. Someone’s put a mark on my damn property! The nerve! Vegas grabs Pete’s face roughly and turns it to the side to get a better look at that hickey and the more he looks at it, the angrier he gets.
“If you don’t like it, why don’t you put your own mark over it?” Pete has morphed into the devil incarnate before his very eyes; a devil who is playing with fire, and he knows it, judging from the barely hidden excitement on his face as he makes that silky suggestion.
Damn, he’s good at pressing the right buttons. Vegas mind goes blank.
“Hands up,” he whispers hoarsely. Pete complies instantly, lifting both his hands above his head and Vegas grabs the wrists hard and pins them to the wall, making sure he cannot move away.
“Head to the side,” comes the next command, and again Pete obeys without arguing. This gives Vegas unobstructed, easy access to that damn hickey. “I am going to mark you and I am going to make sure this fucking hurts and leaves a scar that will remind you of me every time you look in a mirror,” he threatens, feeling more than a little unhinged himself.
Pete flexes his arms to check how tightly Vegas’ hold on his wrists is and Vegas automatically presses down harder, so hard that it definitely hurts and there might even be bruises the next day, which only makes Pete purr with delight. “Please do. Want me to tell you a secret, Vegas?” And then he lowers his voice so it can barely be heard. “… I like a bit of pain… It turns me on…”
The words haven’t even fully left Pete’s mouth when Vegas strikes, sinking his teeth into Pete’s throat right on top of that damn hickey.
Vegas has never actually bit anyone except for Tem, and that was not intentional. And definitely never with the sole intention to hurt someone—until this very moment. All reason has left his brain. He wants to erase that hickey and put his mark there, that thought is all consuming. And he wants it to hurt.
Pete’s body goes all stiff, he arches his back, struggling against the hands fixating his wrists and hisses sharply in pain, and the sound is music to Vegas’ ears. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth and with grim satisfaction he sinks his teeth in even more. Deep down, he knows this isn’t in any way healthy behaviour. Pete brings out the worst in him, but he doesn’t want to stop either. Let’s just drown in this madness together.
“Shiiiiit…” Pete wheezes and tries to move away, to break free, but Vegas won’t have any of it. He uses his whole body to pin Pete to the wall and growls against his throat. A noticeable shudder runs through Pete, he is panting through the pain with nowhere to go except to arch against Vegas. And holy shit, he wasn’t lying when he said that pain turns him on because Vegas can feel his hard-on grinding against him.
With a hiss of his own, Vegas relaxes his jaw and pulls away. He takes a step back, breathing heavily. The blood in his mouth tastes disgusting, he spits it out but can still feel drops trickling down his chin. Letting go of Pete’s wrists, he uses the back of his hand to wipe it off, his burning eyes never leaving Pete’s face.
Pete whines when he loses contact with Vegas’ body and as soon as his hands are free he reaches out to try and grab Vegas’ shirt. “Kiss me..!” He sounds fairly desperate.
“Go to hell,” Vegas snarls and smacks the hands away roughly. He is oddly fascinated with the wound he’s left on Pete’s neck. It’s bleeding sluggishly; this will definitely leave one hell of a scar, and that feels immensely satisfying. As is seeing Pete so obviously aroused. But this time it’s Vegas who pulls the brake. “You think I am going to kiss you after you made me listen to you making out with someone else? You little piece of shit.” Reaching out, he sinks his fingers into Pete’s already ruffled hair and violently jerks his head to the side, then leans in and takes a whiff of Pete’s face and the uninjured side of his neck before snorting in disgust. “Bloody hell, his aftershave is all over you.” And he decides right there and then that this won’t do.
Through all this, Pete’s eyes remain glued to Vegas’ face; he is breathing hard and fast as he allows himself to be manhandled. Oh yes, he likes it, that is abundantly clear. He simply groans, with a mix between pain and pleasure, as Vegas drags him by the hair, pulling him along the hallway and then through the living room all the way into the bathroom. Vegas more or less throws him into the shower stall, Pete stumbles as he hits the tiled wall and by then Vegas is already turning on the faucet. Within seconds, Pete is soaked by icy water. Clothes and shoes and all.
“I think you need to cool off…” Vegas throws a bottle of shower gel at Pete as well which he doesn’t manage to catch in time, so it falls to the floor of the shower. “And wash that smell off you as well.” He turns to leave the bathroom.
“Vegas!” Pete calls after him, sputtering under the water that is relentlessly raining down on him and sounding very out of breath and needy. “Help me get out of these clothes?”
“Go to hell,” Vegas repeats angrily. He is not only angry at Pete but at himself as well because he wants to turn around, get into that damn shower and peel Pete out of his clothes more than anything. He wants it really badly. And that is why he walks out of the bathroom, his hands clenched into fists. Fuck these damn mind games. He firmly closes the door behind him. Safe.
“Vegas!” Pete shouts after him but he has no plans to returning to that bathroom anytime soon. Then Vegas hears Pete shout something else. “Fine, then I will just have all the fun by myself!” And this is followed by a laugh that sends shivers of dread and excitement rushing through Vegas.
Fun indeed. Yeah, Pete is having fun, and he is not quiet about it either.
Bloody hell!
Vegas knows he should leave but he remains glued to the spot, frozen in front of the bathroom door. He doesn’t even know what to feel anymore. His emotions are so all over the place that he feels lost. And Pete is the source of all of this confusion. Pete, the devil, who is on the other side of this door, in Vegas’ shower, jerking off noisily! Goddammit!
“I hate you!” Vegas yells at the door and slams his fists into it.
“I know.” He can hear Pete’s muffled laughter in reply, and then Pete moans his name. Repeatedly. In a way that is positively obscene. Vegas really wants to join him in that shower. Badly. Instead he walks away, his pants painfully tight because he is aroused as hell. But he is so done playing these mind games!
Cursing under his breath, he moves away from the bathroom door, to the other side of the room, and for the first time really takes note of the chaos in the living room. Fuck. He really made a mess earlier on. The table is broken. So are most of the chairs. He apparently flipped over the two bookshelves, the books are scattered across the room. There are glass shards all over the floor from broken picture frames. A few broken lamps too. It’s going to be expensive to replace everything. And suddenly Vegas feels very tired. He hates himself, really hates himself. Why does he not have better control over his anger? Why does he have to be like his father? Why? He doesn’t even know where to start cleaning up this mess. But anything is better than having to listen to Pete pleasuring himself.
He is just so damn tired of it all. Numbly, he goes to find an empty bucket for the glass shards but then decides to start by picking up the furniture that can be salvaged first.
When he is in the middle of picking up the books scattered all over the room, he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening and tenses up instantly. His fingers tighten around the book he is holding, he refuses to look up. Vegas isn’t ready for the next round yet.
“What a mess,” Pete remarks softly. He sounds more mellow now, perhaps he has calmed down a bit. “I really managed to piss you off, didn’t I?”
Vegas swallows drily. Is he supposed to answer that? He looks down at the book in his hands. ‘The Sunne in Splendour’, he loves that book. What was the question again? He swallows and then suddenly hears himself begging: “Can we call a temporary truce? Please?” Steeling himself, he looks up, his gaze drifting across the room and wow.
Steeling himself didn’t help. Pete deserves brownie points for at least putting on a towel. He wouldn’t have put it past him to walk out of that bathroom entirely naked just to up the ante. Not that it matters. This is lethal enough. Pete’s fresh out of the shower. His skin is still slightly flushed, and there’s a lot of that flushed skin on display because all he is wearing is a towel wrapped low around his hips. He was a bit sloppy drying his hair, it’s standing up on all sides and there’s water dripping down from it still, droplets continuously hitting his chest, mingling with the fresh blood seeping from the wound on his neck, trailing all the way down until they are soaked up by the towel. Vegas swallows hard. Pete is like a divine revelation. A beautiful sculpture. Everything about him is simply perfect. Vegas is once again stunned.
He knows he is staring, and that Pete can clearly see how this view is affecting him, but Vegas doesn’t have the energy it takes to look away. He feels raw. His protective walls have been battered relentlessly and no matter what he does, chunks are falling off before he has the time to fortify his defences again. He desperately needs a break. “Please?” he pleads once more. “A ceasefire?”
Pete takes his time to mull things over. “All right,” he agrees eventually and Vegas exhales shakily—he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding his breath.
They just look at each other for a while, as the tension drains out of the room.
“My clothes are wet,” Pete eventually remarks.
“I am sure you remember when the cupboard with my clothes is.” This is turning into a habit. Pete hasn’t even returned the shirt he borrowed the last time. Then Vegas remembers that the floor is a mess, and Pete is barefoot. “Wait. There’s glass all over the floor.”
Both of them look down. Yeah, it’s a dangerous mess. “What do you suggest? You want to carry me?” Pete jokes. At least Vegas hopes this is meant as a joke. They agreed on a truce, right?
“I got guest slippers,” he replies with a ghost of a smile, and then gets up from the floor and heads for the hallway, where they are stored by the door. Damn, he is tired. What time is it even? It must be past midnight. He finds the slippers quickly enough and brings them back into the living room, taking great care not to get too close to Pete when he hands them over. And also avoiding to look directly at him. Too much bare skin. He cannot deal with this right now. He wants to lean in, wrap his arms around Pete, hold on tight and just soak up his warmth to ground himself. Bad idea. “Here you go,” he says with an unsteady voice.
“Thanks.” Pete takes the slippers, puts them on and saunters to the bedroom to get dressed. Vegas makes the mistake to watch him as he walks away and then has to close his eyes and take another deep breath to steady himself. Why on earth does Pete have to look so good even from behind? It’s maddening.
Once again on autopilot, he goes to the bathroom to take care of Pete’s wet clothes. As expected, they’re all over the floor. Vegas isn’t sure if the leather pants can be salvaged, but he hangs them up to dry anyway. The shirt, socks and underwear go into the laundry. The shoes will take some time to dry. A quick glance into the mirror, yes, he looks as exhausted as he feels. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but there’s no time for this right now. Instead he picks up the box with the first aid equipment. He isn’t blind, he saw that the bite wound has opened again, it needs to be dealt with. Vegas put it there, he needs to fix it.
Back in the living room he places the box on the couch, and then continues to clean. After a while Pete emerges from the bedroom; he is now wearing a pair of Vegas’ sweat pants and a plain white t-shirt. Just like Vegas. Seeing Pete in his clothes does something to him that Vegas doesn’t dare to analyse any closer. “Come here,” he invites him, pointing to the couch. “Let me patch you up.”
Pete is all relaxed. It never ceases to amaze Vegas what incredible self-control he seems to have over his emotions. Most of the time he has no clue whatsoever what Pete is thinking, and while that is intriguing, it can also feel unsettling. He simply doesn’t know when Pete will decide that their ceasefire is over.
Once Pete is settled comfortably on the couch, Vegas goes to sit beside him with the first aid kit. This close, that bite wound looks really nasty, blood oozing out of the purplish swollen flesh. “Does it hurt a lot?” Vegas cannot help asking while he takes out a sterile gauze pad and drenches it in antiseptic hydrogen peroxide solution. Cleaning the wound will require him to lean in, getting awfully close to Pete, but as long as he concentrates on the wound he should be fine.
“Nah, I am okay. It just stings a bit.” Pete shrugs, but Vegas is sure he is just playing things down.
“Well, it’s about to sting a lot more,” Vegas warns, and starts cleaning the wound thoroughly. He can see the muscles in Pete’s neck flexing and growing tense and wishes he could take the pain away. The bite mark is deep, perhaps it would be better for Pete to go to a hospital after all. Maybe this needs stitches, Vegas is unsure. For now he gently covers everything with antiseptic cream and then puts some tape over the parts where the wound seems to be gaping too much for his liking. On top of that comes a fresh gauze pad that he fixates with more tape. There, this should do. “You got a tetanus shot, right?”
“I am fully vaccinated, yes.” Pete lifts a hand and cautiously touches the bandaged area of his throat. “Isn’t this a little overkill? It didn’t look that bad when I checked in the mirror earlier on.”
“It looks horrible,” Vegas insists quietly, his eyes still glued to Pete’s neck. Because there’s not just that wound. Vegas swallows hard. There are also the marks left behind from Vegas choking Pete in his fit of rage: the darker indentations from the fingernails that almost broke the skin, and the pressure marks that have already started to bruise. Vegas swallows again, but his throat feels as if he is the one being strangled. He reaches out and ghosts his fingers over those marks, and quiet despair wells up inside of him. “I am so sorry,” he whispers brokenly. “I am sorry. Just look what I did to you. I am a monster.”
“… Vegas…” Pete sighs. “Just don’t, okay?”
But Vegas cannot stop. He runs his fingers lightly across the discoloured skin, horrified at what he has done. “I am sorry. I could have killed you. If I hadn’t stopped in time… so sorry… I am so sorry, Pete,” he just rambles on and on.
The other man reaches out and takes hold of Vegas’ hand, squeezing it gently. “Look at me, Vegas. I am alive. Nothing really bad happened. Just let it go. I’m not holding it against you, all right?” And he softly strokes his thumb back and forth, trying to comfort Vegas in his distress.
A shudder runs through Vegas’ body. He tears his eyes away from the damaged throat, finally daring to meet Pete’s eyes. They are sitting right next to each other on the couch, their legs nearly touching. Pete holding his hand is comforting and makes another section of his protective walls crumble.
Again, Vegas swallows hard. “You have to stay away from me,” he finally demands bitterly, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I am not safe to be around. I am a loose canon. I am just like my damn father… shit… I never thought I would say that, but it turns out I am truly my father’s son. I am so damn sorry, Pete. I don’t know what got into me. Sorry.”
“Nonsense. Your father sounds like a true douchebag, whereas you only have some slight anger issues.” Pete bumps his shoulder playfully against Vegas. “Lucky for you, you have a psychologist right here next to you. Because I am not going anywhere, Vegas.”
“You must have a death wish.” Vegas is so damn tired he has trouble concentrating on this conversation and even keeping his eyes open. The muted light in the living room isn’t helping; it just increases his body’s need to finally get some rest after these extremely exhausting last hours. With a deep sigh, Vegas leans back against the couch and after a minute or so his eyelids flutter shut. He is still awake, he only needs a moment of rest. He is also aware that Pete is still holding his hand. They are tethered together and it feels nice.
“Please stay away from me. My father is going to kill you,” he whispers, trying one more time to warn Pete.
“We’re not living in the Middle Ages. This is modern day Thailand and your father can’t just go around killing the people he disapproves of, Vegas, so don’t worry. Nothing is going to happen to me.” Pete sounds terribly confident, but the problem is that Vegas knows his father isn’t playing by the rules.
“I’m trying to keep you safe, you know? The further you stay away from me, the better. I don’t want you ending up dead or hurt.” His head is feeling very heavy, his whole body sags sideways, until Vegas’ head comes to rest on a firm warm surface. “Pete? I don’t like how you make me feel,” Vegas mumbles sleepily.
“I don’t like how you make me feel either,” Pete admits softly. “Vegas?”
“… Hmmm…?”
“Don’t push me away again. I don’t like this at all.”
“… Mmmm…” Vegas hums and drifts off to sleep while leaning against Pete’s side, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder.