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Vegas finds himself captivated, dwarfed by the enormous painting.
He takes exactly one step back and makes sure he’s properly centred; he wants to take in as much of it as possible.
Vivid colours contrast off of one another, the rich greens of the forest meeting deep black feathers and bright yellow bills. Vegas’ eyes sweep over the same spots multiple times, finding something new to admire with every pass.
The great hornbills take up the majority of the painting, long bodies stretched out horizontally as their open bills meet in the middle. When he first laid eyes upon it, Vegas thought they were supposed to be kissing. Looking at it now, he sees they’re actually sharing some sort of fruit. He can’t tell which one of the two is offering it and which one is receiving, but the longer he studies the painting, the more certain he becomes that it doesn’t matter — the focus is not on the act itself, it’s on the impact.
Both birds are massive, hints of their impressive wingspan obvious with the stretch of their bodies. The distance separating them doesn’t deter them from reaching across the treebranch they’re sharing to meet one another. They’re rare, regal, proud creatures, and yet for each other they bow their heads low, reaching out in a way that has got to be uncomfortable, all just to share a piece of fruit with one another. All in the name of love.
The ambient sound of the art gallery filters back in as his focus switches from the painting in front of him to the warm hand that settles on top of his shoulder blade.
For the first time in an indeterminate amount of minutes, he turns to look at something other than the work of art that had been monopolising his attention.
It’s worth it, just to be greeted by the dimple that makes his heart beat double time every time.
“Guess you found your favourite,” Pete says, eyes leaving Vegas to study the painting. Before following his lead, Vegas grabs the opportunity to take another good look at him, drink in the sight of him.
Vegas will never tire of seeing him experiment with suits, as he has taken to in the past year; all sorts of colours (never black), different cuts, interesting textures that Vegas loves to explore when undressing him. This burgundy, in particular, looks beautiful on him. It tapers at the waist, inviting, and Vegas has to focus on cracking his knuckles, in an attempt to keep his hands from straying. It’s a close thing.
Pete’s expression steals his attention away, the corner of his lips tilting up, knowing. The hand on Vegas’ shoulder blade runs down all the way to the small of his back and up again. “We’re here to look at the art, Vegas,” he teases.
Vegas smirks, and the once-over he gives Pete is deliberate, thorough, head-to-toe. “I am.”
He watches the flush bloom on Pete’s cheeks, blood rushing to betray him, and Vegas’ heart speeds up in his chest. He wants to kiss him, hold him down and watch as his body reacts to Vegas’ flirtation like it’s the first time, like they haven’t already had each other every single way they possibly can. Like none of it will ever be enough. (It won’t.)
Pete clears his throat, his smile sweet, eyes downcast and lashes pretty against his cheeks. His other hand lifts a flute of champagne to his mouth, and Vegas looks on as he sips from it, dry swallowing at the sight of his lips parting. He needs those lips on his.
Vegas extends a hand to silently ask for the glass, and Pete obliges without the need for questions. He does, however, speak again, possibly in an attempt to distract Vegas.
“They mate for life, you know.”
Vegas, champagne now in hand, raises an eyebrow.
“Hornbills, I mean,” Pete supplies, nodding towards the painting Vegas couldn’t take his eyes off of mere minutes ago. Oh. He’d almost entirely forgotten about it.
Instead of turning back to it, Vegas just studies the crystal in his hand. Twists at the stem until he finds the imprint Pete’s lips left on the rim. Brings it to his mouth, drinks hungrily.
He couldn’t tell you what the champagne tastes like.
A glance to the side earns him the sight of Pete, blush-pink and inhaling through his parted lips, eyes sparkling as he looks right back at him.
Vegas feels excitement, raw and electrifying, zip straight down his spine.
Like it’s the first time. But even better.
Hornbills mate for life.
Vegas thinks he understands.
—
Vegas is a second away from bursting into a reaction that will either embarrass him or leave him blood-stained and regretful. Either way, the inevitable self-loathing is a guarantee.
As he sits in his father’s chair, in front of his father’s heavy mahogany desk, on the receiving end of what can only be described as a tongue-lashing from one of his father’s longest-standing collaborators, Vegas feels the all-too-familiar sensation of self-doubt — always creeping, sickening — churn up in his gut.
The meeting started only seven minutes ago, yet those seven minutes alone have been enough to start undoing the confidence and stability he’s spent the last year building.
“So listen, boy, I don’t know what sort of pretend play you’ve got going on, but you can be sure I won’t be indulging any of it,” the man says, sneer vicious and ugly on his face, as he settles deeper into the guests’ armchair, treating it like a throne. “In fact, it was overly kind of me to wait until the expiration of the contract, instead of banging on your door the moment your daddy hit the ground.”
Vegas’ body tightens with the beginnings of barely restrained movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the exact moment Pete, who has been leaning against the bookshelves to his left, ostensibly casual, imperceptibly tenses up in response to Vegas. Ever in tune.
Unaware, or perhaps uncaring, the man marches on, relentless. “I don’t have someone else’s money to burn like you do, and I’m running a real business, kid. So if you somehow manage to convince me not to walk, you better not be expecting a renewal based on your father’s terms,” he says and scoffs, as if he finds the very idea laughable.
Vegas, given the chance to speak for the first time since the guy waltzed into his father’s former office, finds himself momentarily unresponsive as he attempts to regroup, tries to make sure his voice will come out even, when he does respond.
Pete smoothly swoops in to his rescue. “Actually, sir, Vegas is looking to conclude a brand new contract, based on his original policies and strategies.” His tone is perfectly solid, authoritative enough without being rude.
As Pete pushes off the shelves and approaches the desk, leather portfolio at hand, Vegas feels his breathing even out, the effect of having Pete close startlingly evident; you’d think he’d stop being surprised by it, after all this time, and yet.
Pete politely extends the portfolio towards Vegas but very clearly continues to address the man opposite them, undeterred by his questioning gaze. “Vegas can lay everything out for you in detail — you would be wise to listen to him. You are talking to a man whose collaborators, following the conclusion of their new agreements, have already doubled their income, compared to the previous fiscal year.”
Vegas’ heart beats hard in his ribcage, this time not with anxiety, tension or rage, but rather with the certainty that can only come from being this vocally, resolutely supported by the single person that matters most in his life. He accepts the leather folder and settles it on the desk, hands on top of it. Waiting.
He watches as the man’s eyes study Pete, standing off to the side and behind Vegas’ shoulder. His gaze falls to the portfolio between them. Calculating. Finally, it settles on Vegas. He abandons his previous sprawled-out position and leans in towards Vegas, elbows on his knees.
“Go on,” he eventually says.
A warm hand squeezes his shoulder, fleeting but supportive. Dress shoes click just two steps back, giving him room.
Vegas breathes, and starts talking.
+
Precisely thirty-four minutes later, a freshly signed contract sits on the desk in front of him, and a bodyguard stops by the office to notify him that the man’s car just left the premises.
Vegas spins the heavy office chair around, the back of his head falling against the headrest as he faces the wall. Specifically, his attention falls on the large painting that dominates the room, displayed as it is behind the desk. The lion in the centre stands proud, muzzle wet and darkened with the blood of the poor animal at its feet. Its mane blows in the wind, regal, victorious.
He scoffs. “My father always said intimidation is key,” he says, partly to himself, partly to Pete, whose hip is now resting against the corner of the desk. “Certainly scared me. Every time he called me here I knew I was in big trouble.”
He has won.
Securing this deal has been one of the most important and anxiety-inducing goals of theirs since the takeover, and yet now, despite having succeeded, despite having pulled off the near-impossible, Vegas just feels defeated.
This room, this desk, this fucking lion, they all remain tainted with the looming presence of his father, even in death. His ghost haunts this office, Vegas’ business, his life, still, lurking in the shadowed corners, waiting for the next chance to remind Vegas that he’s unworthy. Never good enough, strong enough, scary enough.
It almost makes him wanna give up.
He would, except—
“Hey,” Pete calls out gently, and he nudges the chair, encouraging Vegas to turn around and roll backwards to accommodate him as he comes to stand between Vegas and the desk.
Vegas looks up at him, eager to see what he has to say. He isn’t sure what he needs to hear, but he’s certain Pete will know just what that is.
“Fuck your father,” is what Pete ends up saying, face serious. “And fuck his stupid lion, too.” His expression breaks into a little smile that Vegas can’t help but mimic. Pete reaches out to curl a hand around the side of his neck, and Vegas tilts into it. “Your father was a loser who relied on intimidation because he had no other way to succeed.”
Vegas’ throat clicks around a dry swallow.
“Everything you’ve accomplished is because you’re smart, passionate and dedicated,” Pete adds.
It makes a shaky exhale, unbidden, leave Vegas’ chest.
Because, is that true? If so, if Vegas really is that competent, then why can’t he stand on his own? Why does he freeze up, caught like a deer in the headlights, when called to speak for himself? Why does he feel and act like a fraud, no, a child, helpless and mute, when opposite figures like his father and his cohorts?
Is this all he is? Someone who needs his hand held all the time? Who traded one crutch, hateful and abusive, for another, this time loving and supportive and way too good for him?
He snaps out of it to realise he hasn’t even come close to an attempt to hide any of these thoughts from showing on his face. It’s obvious Pete has had a front row seat to it all when he says, “None of that,” and thumbs his cheek. His free hand taps a finger against the documents and charts Vegas presented just minutes ago, showcasing their financial moves and progress throughout the year. “This? Is all your doing. Your success. It’s all you. All I did was state the facts.”
Pete moves to cradle Vegas’ head in both hands now, gentle. He runs his fingers through his hair, softly pulling it back and away from his face. Vegas sighs.
Eyes meeting steadily, Vegas doesn’t need to verbally ask for confirmation to know that what Pete is saying is true. He’s not placating him. Not just sweet-talking to comfort him. He believes it, means it.
Something inside him comes loose.
Landing the final blow against the bitter knot of self-doubt that had started expanding inside Vegas’ stomach, Pete grants Vegas something that feels a lot like absolution. “I love you, and I’m proud of you.”
Vegas’ eyes slip shut on their own accord. His spine gives out, a marionette cut free.
He’s not sure if he moves forward, or if Pete pulls him in — both are potentially true. Leaning in, he allows himself to slot directly into place, exactly where he needs to be, body on the edge of the chair, hands on Pete’s hips, face tucked into Pete’s solar plexus, warm, safe, secure.
Fingers hold the back of his skull, and all he wants to do is dig in, in, so much deeper.
He noses at Pete’s shirt, hungrily, deeply, fills his lungs with nothing but Pete.
Relaxes his jaw so he can breathe through his mouth.
I love you more, he wants to say, but doesn’t.
You make me want to be proud of myself, too, he wants to add, but doesn’t.
Pete bends down to deposit a kiss on the crown of Vegas’ head.
He’s pretty sure Pete knows.
—
Vegas makes his way through the hall, eyes bleary, the soles of his feet naked against the cool marble.
A quick check in the mirror was enough to let him know that his hair is in a disarray and the left side of his face is dominated by a fairly ridiculous pillow crease, but neither fact is enough to overpower his main woe — it’s Monday morning.
Vegas hates Monday mornings.
He cannot stand the way they violently barge in, popping the serene, perfect bubble every weekend gently envelopes him in. He loathes how they steamroll over every single warm moment Sunday nights provide, so carefully built on the foundations of the Saturdays before them.
Frustrated, he tugs at the tie around his waist as he walks, silk robe clinging tighter to his body.
Anyway, look, he understands Monday mornings are an inescapable part of the human experience, whatever, it’s just that their biggest downside is that they come with one severe side-effect: following a weekend of late starts and body-warm sheets, Vegas has to face the harsh reality of waking up in a bed that’s missing Pete.
No arms holding him close, no legs between his own, no warm breath against his skin.
No one to beg sleepy kisses from before he manages to convince himself to get up.
Because Monday mornings apparently need to remind everyone that things more important exist.
Vegas begs to differ.
“Welcome to the land of the living,” Pete teases the moment Vegas enters the kitchen.
He watches him stack the very last of the pancakes on the plate, the sight just as tantalising as the aroma that’d managed to sneak its way to their bedroom. He’s awfully torn; his heart flutters in response to Pete, his beautiful Pete, standing in their kitchen in his pyjamas, preparing breakfast for their little family, and yet… Vegas had to wake up without him over it.
He can’t help but pout.
Vegas sulks all the way to Pete, hands automatically clasping one another over Pete’s stomach. He perches his chin on top of his shoulder, making sure his expression is visible.
“No ‘good morning’?” he complains.
Pete exhales through his nose, evidently amused, and places a hand on Vegas’ temple. “I said ‘good morning’ before I left the bed. You would have heard if you hadn’t been snoring.”
Right, okay.
Vegas pouts harder. “And no kiss?”
This time, Pete actually laughs. Kinda rude. “Gave you one, already,” he says, and he lets go to busy his hands with the bottles of syrup in front of him. Vegas mourns the very moment Pete found an interest in Western cuisine, breakfast in particular. Of course, he does it to fuel and provide for their family, but at what cost?
Vegas tightens his hold a little, scoffs in an attempt to steal his attention back. When he succeeds, Pete’s gaze on him out of the corner of his eye, Vegas makes sure to furrow his eyebrows a little extra hard. “Well, I don’t remember it.”
Pete abandons his task midway through and turns around in his arms, the corner of his mouth pinched upwards. Vegas takes advantage, crowding him further into the edge of the countertop. Pete allows it, circles his arms over Vegas’ shoulders. “So what about it?” he smiles.
“So give me another one,” Vegas supplies, already stalking further in.
Sneakers squeak into the kitchen. “Oh, gross!”
Vegas begrudgingly turns his head to be greeted with the sight of Macau, fully dressed and neatly groomed, ready for school. His backpack is hanging off of one shoulder, opposite hand busy lifting a glass of orange juice to his lips.
He focuses back on Pete. “You left me alone to serve Macau orange juice?” The injustice is enough to bring a man to his knees.
“He brought me a full breakfast in bed, actually.”
Vegas’ head swivels so hard towards Macau that the top of his spine pops with it. He passively realises he’s slowly but dangerously approaching the edges of not having to exaggerate his distaste for what’s going on.
Wasting no time, Pete snaps him out of it with a small nudge of his arms around him. “He’s messing with you,” he says softly, smiling at him when Vegas turns to look at him again.
Right.
Suppressing some choice words, Vegas instead settles for an eye roll and a tsk, and dismisses the ‘chill, bro,’ that reaches his ears, followed by the clink of glass against granite and Macau’s greetings on his way out. From his spot, face now nestled in the crook of Pete’s shoulder, the rest of the world seems uninteresting.
Pete sways him a little in his embrace. “How about putting that tantrum on pause for breakfast?” he teases, and he sounds and smells so sweet that Vegas doesn’t even want to pretend to be offended.
He pulls their bodies closer together, hands finding their home on the soft flannel covering Pete’s ass, and mouths at his throat, tongue eager to taste Pete’s skin. “I am starving,” he agrees between kisses.
The way Pete reacts, alternating between pushing and pulling, soft gasps leaving his mouth in between aborted words, as if he himself doesn’t know what he wants, only makes Vegas’ temperature rise. “Vegas,” he hisses out, sounding almost desperate, exactly how Vegas likes him, needs him the most, and fingers find their way high up on Vegas’ throat, tugging at him, trying to establish eye contact, a break.
Vegas doesn’t want a break. He moves higher only to suck at the edge of Pete’s jaw, bite at the bone. He squeezes Pete’s ass, pulls him in tighter, wants Pete to feel how hard he already is for him, through the thin layers separating them; he can feel Pete, too. “I want you.”
Pete’s responding moan makes Vegas’ insides quake. Yes, he needs Pete hot for him, aching and willing, right up against the kitchen counter, next to the still-steaming breakfast he made for him. Needs him anytime, anywhere, even and especially when he’s doing his best to be responsible and take care of their family. Pete might think this house needs him (it does, even though it doesn’t deserve him), but Vegas needs him more.
He grinds into Pete, hungry for him, as fingers pull at his hair. He breathes hotly against Pete’s skin.
“Vegas,” Pete attempts again, “I have to— Venice’s breakfast—” he gasps.
Vegas’ growl sounds like a wild animal’s even to his own ears. He realises he has to move even more decisively, if he is to convince Pete, keep him for himself. He sinks to his knees without second thought, and it’s worth it even just to actually get a chance to look at Pete, cheeks flushed and those eyes of his wide, caught by surprise as Vegas looks up at him, trails his hands underneath the bottom of his shirt, hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pyjama pants.
Pete still manages to make him pause, hand on his wrist.
“What about—”
Vegas wants to break something. Maybe Pete.
Instead, he groans and leans in to nuzzle at the spot below Pete’s belly button. Inhales deeply, rubs his face into it, needs Pete to show some mercy, pity him. “Venice is not going to die if he eats his pureed fucking mango half an hour late,” he pleads with him, “But I will, if you leave me here.”
Miraculously, Pete moans, belly tensing with it where Vegas bites at him. He releases Vegas’ wrist and holds his head instead, fingers in Vegas’ hair.
Vegas needs to push this button as many times as he can, earn himself as many pretty, desperate reactions as possible. Requires them to breathe.
So he tugs at Pete’s pants, lowers them just as he lowers himself, leaning in deeper, noses at Pete’s heat and laps at his flesh. He closes his fist around him, revels in the gasp it elicits. He licks at the base of Pete’s cock, turns to look right up at him, straight in the eye, wants to be crystal clear.
“I’ll die, Pete.”
Pete doesn’t leave him.
+
The memory of Pete coming undone for him, sweet and uninhibited, stays with Vegas for the remainder of the day.
The feeling of Pete holding him close, kissing him as if he didn’t want to let him go, is what keeps Vegas going, meeting after meeting, visit after visit.
When he finally makes his way through the front door, much too late into the night, all he can think about is that Pete is in their bedroom, in their bed, waiting for him.
As he makes his routine rounds, swinging by Macau’s room, offering a ‘goodnight’ and a soft smack up the side of the head, receiving a raised middle finger in return, and checking up on Venice, spine popping as he leans all the way into the crib to leave a kiss at his temple, he’s counting the seconds until he gets to see Pete again.
And when he does—
When he does see Pete, looking soft, warm, familiar, reading his bedtime book on his tablet, Vegas feels every little bit of exhaustion leave his body in one fell swoop.
Pete looks up at him, smiles.
Vegas sighs, long and deep, and distantly wonders if his eyes are visibly welling up with the relief that washes over him.
He thinks they might be.
Pete locks the tablet, leaves it on the nightstand, and maintains eye contact as he readjusts on the bed, watching as Vegas strips down to his underwear. “Baby,” he softly says, and it tugs at the centre of Vegas’ chest as if Pete has him harnessed.
Finally, finally he crawls into bed, missing no time in draping himself over Pete, settling on top of his chest and between his legs, spread open to accommodate him. Pete’s arms envelope him, secure, welcoming him into his warm embrace. Vegas feels weightless.
“Rough day?” Pete asks, lips brushing against the top of Vegas’ head.
Vegas nods, nose hurting a little where it rubs against Pete’s shirt. It’s outweighed by the advantage of smelling nothing but Pete with every inhalation. “But it doesn’t matter now,” he whispers.
Pete lets out a soft chuckle, holds him tighter still. Close, quiet, loving.
As Vegas loses track of time, the only thing tethering him to the waking world being the gentle rise and fall of Pete’s chest, perfectly synchronised with Vegas’ own breathing, one thing becomes clear.
No matter what happens, everything will always be all right, as long as he’s got home.
Not these bricks, walls, or furniture, but anywhere and anyplace at all, as long as it contains Pete. As long as Pete, with his dimpled smile, open arms and eyes that see Vegas, all the way to his core, is here to make it home.
Vegas drifts off to sleep, holding onto the most precious thing in his life. The beating heart of his family.
Maybe Mondays aren’t all that bad, afterall.
—
Vegas isn’t sure what it is that wakes him up — nowadays, movement or noise in the dark of night doesn’t tend to alarm him the way it used to, unless he’s in an unfamiliar environment like tonight — but his brain gives him no time to investigate as his body kicks right into danger mode.
He just reacts.
Moving as fast as possible, he wraps his arms around Venice and pulls him along, up and off the bed. With a hand on the back of his head, tucking Venice as close and safe into his body as he can, Vegas runs backwards and yanks the bedroom door open. “Macau!” he calls out just once, loud and serious. Just like they’ve practised.
While waiting for Macau to respond, Vegas lightly bounces Venice, shushes him as he’s getting noisy, starting to catch on to the fact that something’s wrong.
Something most definitely is wrong.
Vegas’ eyes haven’t left the bed since he got up.
More specifically, Vegas’ eyes haven’t left Pete, who currently has a man pinned face-down on the bed, struggling and gasping in a futile attempt to breathe despite the chokehold Pete has him in.
“—hurt my family?” he hears Pete say, furious, venomous, and Vegas belatedly realises that he has to actively focus to be able to hear what’s going on, his surroundings drowned out by the loud whooshing of blood pumping through the veins in his ears.
Venice starts squirming in his hold.
Vegas needs to breathe, calm down. For both of them.
Footsteps thump down the hallway leading to their bedroom, and within seconds Macau is at the door, arms out against the door frame to stabilise him as he comes to a sudden stop.
Vegas cuts straight to the chase, handing Venice over. “Take him to your room, lock the door, don’t come out until we say so,” he says, making sure his tone allows for no further conversation.
Sure enough, Macau accepts Venice and nods, eye contact brief but reassuring Vegas his instructions will be followed.
He’s out of sight in no time.
Vegas turns his attention back to everything that’s taking place in their bedroom.
The man, who Vegas can now see is dressed as one of the resort’s staff members, seems to have given up trying to fight Pete’s hold on him. Vegas isn’t sure if that’s because the lack of oxygen is getting to him, or because whatever Pete has been hissing at him has intimidated him into compliance, but Vegas is glad, whatever the case. The less one tries to antagonise Pete, the safer it is for everyone involved.
He breathes in, steeling himself, and approaches the bed again.
Pete catches Vegas’ eye, giving him a quick once-over and a nod before turning his attention back to the intruder underneath him. He does look frenzied, hair sleep-ruffled and eyes wild, but he seems to be unharmed.
Vegas feels his heart rate lower just a tad.
“You gonna talk? Talk!” Pete yells at the man, and Vegas can see where the rest of Pete’s body tenses up, securing the hold further, to make up for his arm loosening up a little.
Instead of being smart, the guy, face obviously red even in the relative darkness of the room, roars and tries to squirm his way to freedom.
Wrong move.
Pete tightens every single hold in response, from the flex of his foot all the way to the arm around the man’s throat. The guy emits a choked-out groan and falls back into stillness, giving up. The only parts of him even remotely trying to object are his hands, holding onto Pete’s elbow.
He’s not going anywhere, now.
Warm air breezes in through the open balcony door, curtains waving with it. As it registers, Vegas realises that’s how the intruder gained access to their room.
“You’re not leaving this room without telling us who sent you,” Pete tells the man, “So you better be feeling chatty,” he says with an extra hard tug at the guy’s throat. “You see him?” he twists both of them just a little, to get him to look at Vegas.
The man attempts to nod. He doesn’t succeed, but the fact that he tries apparently pleases Pete, who grins a little manically in return. The guy can’t see it, but Vegas can.
“He’s gouged out forty seven eyeballs so far,” Pete hisses into the man’s ear. Before he continues, he makes direct eye contact with Vegas. The sizzle that goes down Vegas’ spine has absolutely nothing to do with the intruder’s presence in their room. “If I ask him to, he’s easily going to bring that total to forty eight tonight,” (even though he’s not directly looking at the guy, Vegas still registers the way his eyes widen in shock) “Maybe even forty nine, if I’m feeling particularly mean.”
The way Pete’s tongue runs over his top teeth with the threat shouldn’t be twisting Vegas’ stomach into excitedhotviolent knots. And yet.
“So what do you say?”
What the man says, apparently, is precisely nothing but a pathetic little groan before he goes limp, entirely so, this time, yielding to unconsciousness in Pete’s submission hold.
Pete eases up but doesn’t let go just yet, and fully looks up to Vegas.
“You all right?” he asks.
Vegas nods. “Venice, too, with Macau. Did he get a chance to hurt you?” Knowing Pete, Vegas doubts it, but he can’t help but want to make sure.
“No, don’t worry. Fucker woke me up the moment he opened the window. I think he was expecting Venice to be in the cradle, so he got caught off guard to see him sleeping between us.”
Vegas exhales deeply, only a little unsteadily.
Okay.
He tries to take stock of everything he’s feeling and unjumble it, all the tension gradually coming undone knowing Pete has it all under control, has kept all four of them safe, but he knows he can’t let go just yet. The night just got longer.
He nods at Pete. “I’ll fetch the zip ties and my stuff.”
Pete hums. “I’ll take him to the bathroom.”
Vegas lowers himself to his knees and drags his suitcase from under the bed just as Pete releases the man and stands up, moves to drag him away.
He doesn’t know what time it is, but Vegas is prepared to be leaving that bathroom only after the sun has shown up.
So much for being on vacation.
+
The intruder’s name turns out to be Tom.
Tom doesn’t just talk; he sings.
The satisfaction of success and the information literally gouged out of the man makes the blood in Vegas’ veins hum through his body, content. He had almost forgotten how good this can feel. How intoxicating.
But the most important factor behind his gratification…
“I’ll hunt him down, Pete, I swear,” he promises, hopes his tone is as grave and violent as he needs it to be, wants Pete to know he means it, “I’ll make him suffer.” He digs his fingers into the flesh of Pete’s hips for emphasis.
He’s rewarded with Pete’s smile, sweet and bloody around the edges, the corner of his mouth embellished with a spatter of Tom’s blood. From his spot on Vegas’ lap, stripped down to his underwear just as Vegas is, red-stained clothes discarded in the bathroom, Pete looks sated. “I know you will,” he responds.
Gentle fingers wrapped in soft, dampened cloth rub against Vegas’ skin, gently wiping away the blood on his face. Vegas didn’t check himself out in the mirror, after, but he didn’t have to. He’s long-familiar with the feeling, intimately knows the wetness of it more than most sensations, can tell even without looking that he’s wearing Tom’s blood like a mask.
A trophy.
He revels in it.
Knowing, to the marrow of his bones, that he made this man — this man who attempted to harm his family, had the nerve to try and lay a finger on Venice, on Pete — experience pain so intense, white-hot, that it made his heart stop. Forever.
He vibrates with anticipation at the idea of doing the same to the man who gave Tom his orders. No. He’s going to do more, he’s going to make him—
Pete cups a warm hand around Vegas’ cheek.
“Love,” he says, and Vegas’ eyes clear, focus back on Pete’s; they’re wild, sparkling in the dim light of dawn, bestially sweet the way only Pete’s eyes can ever be. “We’re going to make him pay.”
Vegas’ throat feels startlingly dry as he swallows. His heart thump-thump-thumps in his chest. A fire that he can associate only ever with Pete roars to life in his gut.
“But for now be with me, yes?” he smiles at Vegas, and the blood on his cheek sits perfectly in the middle of his dimple.
Vegas can only marvel at him, open his own chest wide and offer Pete his heart, everything. “Yes,” he whispers. Yes, he’ll be with him, now and forever. To hold him, love him, keep him safe, kiss him when he’s blood-thirsty and feral.
His perfect, vicious Pete.
—
“You’re perfect,” he tells him, and he can recognise the awe in his own voice.
It’s no sudden realisation, no conclusion he laboured to reach. On the contrary, it’s a truth he’s known for well over a year, one that revealed itself to him in the sinister dimness of this house’s very basement, in dreamlike glimpses of comfort, lust and sheer agony by the river, in the warm, bright glow of a brand new day while Vegas’ body was fighting to put itself back together.
From these moments forwards, every single minute lived in Pete’s presence has only served to drive the point further, deeper still, deep enough that it becomes a fundamental truth. An unquestionable fact.
“So perfect for me,” he whispers against Pete’s skin, tender and warm beneath his lips. Pete sighs and arches up to meet his mouth everywhere it trails. “Not just in this way,” he says as his middle finger rubs circles over Pete’s hole, wet from Vegas’ mouth, and sticky from the lube.
Pete keens a little in response, a soft little thing that contrasts the way his hips wantonly push off the mattress in an attempt to take more.
Vegas doesn’t give.
Not yet.
He keeps trailing upwards, leaving kisses as he goes. The very top of his glute, just shy of meeting his hip. “But also the perfect business partner.” The knots in the middle of his spine. “The perfect homemaker,” he says, “even though that’s not all you are.”
Pete moans into the pillow as the tip of Vegas’ finger, still working him but mostly teasing, breaches him for a second.
Vegas’ mouth keeps going. The shoulder blade, flexed as it is with both of Pete’s hands over his head, free of tethers but holding onto the headrest regardless. “The perfect protector of our family.” The nape of his neck, below his sweaty hair. “The perfect father to our son.”
As he reaches him, Pete turns his head as much as possible, and Vegas can’t help but nose at his flushed cheek, peck it, yielding to a proper kiss when Pete twists to take it.
Vegas’ brain, even as it tends to go offline whenever Pete is involved, especially wanting and willing like this, stays on that last thing he said. Turns it around for a second, processes it. When he speaks again, it’s without having full control over it. “So perfect, in fact, I wish we could have more.”
He sees the way Pete’s eye widens at that, hears the sharp intake of air, and feels the way his body reacts beneath his own.
Oh?
This isn’t something they’ve discussed before. He’s not sure what possessed him to say it, but—
He finds that he’s even more in disbelief of himself when he hears what his lips hurry to say without his direct approval. “Would you want that? If I could give you another one?”
His hands fly to Pete’s hips, and it’s unknown even to him whether it’s in an attempt to urge him to move or tame him, but the only certainty is that they’re arching up against him as Pete lets out one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard him make.
His heart is beating at an alarming rate, he realises. He doesn’t care. Whatever is to happen to him may just as well happen. “Yeah?” he thrusts down, cock aching as it slides between Pete’s wet ass cheeks.
When Pete finally speaks, it’s unsurprisingly only to drive Vegas closer to madness. “Give me what, Vegas?” he breathes.
Vegas groans, leans in to rest his forehead on top of Pete’s nape. He closes his eyes tightly. Goddammit. Okay, if words are what Pete needs, Vegas is going to comply. “A child,” he groans out, “Give you another child. My own. Our own.”
At that, Pete lets out a low, drawn-out, “Fuck.” He pushes back at Vegas, grinding against him harder, and the tip of his cock catches against the rim and it’s almost—
No. Vegas needs something a little different right now.
He manhandles Pete into rolling over and Pete goes easily, making no objections. As he now settles on his back, Vegas takes a moment to just look at him.
Vegas isn’t lying when he says it; Pete is perfect.
From the sweet, wild daze in his eyes and the pretty flush of his cheeks, to the rapid rise and fall of his belly and the hot arousal between his legs, he’s perfect, wholly, entirely, in every way. Vegas couldn’t get enough of it if he tried. And he does try.
“Do people make babies by looking at each other?” Pete asks, and he manages to sound halfway steady. It makes Vegas go a little wild.
He wraps a hand around him, jacks him off slowly in response. Wants to make him lose his breath. “That what you want us to do? Make a baby?” he rasps.
Pete cocks an eyebrow, shows Vegas the top row of his teeth; lets him know he’s down to fight back. “It was you who brought it up.”
Vegas tightens his hand a little extra hard, earning a hiss in response, and takes advantage of the momentary win to think how to best proceed. If this is how Pete wants it, Vegas can give back just as well.
He releases Pete’s cock to curl his fingers around the back of his knees instead. Smoothly, he pulls and pushes until he’s perfectly framed by Pete’s thighs, Pete’s knees touching his own chest. Pete’s mouth falls open, red and soft, as Vegas gets him exactly how he needs him.
“This is how,” Vegas tells him as he lines his cock up with Pete’s ass, “this is how people make babies.”
He thrusts all the way in in a single go that punches the air out of both their lungs.
Vegas holds still for a second, inhaling shakily as he gathers himself. He watches as Pete’s lower lip quivers around a breath, feels his hands reach up to hold Vegas’ sides. At Pete’s near-imperceptible nod, Vegas pulls back, almost entirely, and slides right back in, bottoming out at the exact right angle to make Pete’s eyes roll back into his head.
That’s it.
Vegas braces himself steadily against the mattress and sets a rhythm that’s bound to leave both of them breathless within minutes. He better make the best of it while they can still form sentences.
“Wish I could,” he confesses, and even as he says it he realises it’s been a truth he’s been somewhat concealing from himself too, maybe in fear of what reaction it might get from both of them. “Wish I could plant one in you.”
The sound that leaves Pete’s mouth is obscene, unholy. Vegas smiles, admittedly a little crazed.
“Wish I could fill you up. Wish it would take.” His heart beats hard with the truth of it.
“Vegas,” Pete moans, fingers digging into the flesh of Vegas’ sides. Sharp. Vegas hopes he manages to draw blood. “Yes.”
“Yeah?” he grins. The fire in his gut builds and builds with each and every thrust, roars so loud it’s liable to reach his lungs, incinerate them. “And with your tiny waist? Fuck. You would show fast, everybody would be able to see.” His brain is firing so fast, his mind’s eye conjuring up images he wishes he could brand somewhere secret.
But even so, the sight in front of him—
Pete’s been biting at his lips so hard that Vegas can see teeth marks every time he parts his lips to breathe, gasp, moan. He wants to replace the indentations with perfect casts of his own teeth, but he needs to talk more.
“Would you want that? For people to know you chose me?” he insists, maybe a little needy.
“Yes,” Pete answers, “And that you chose me,” he says. And Vegas— Well, Vegas’ heart stutters for a very dangerous second, makes him think it might just give here and now, and Vegas doesn’t know if he’d take it happily or greedily wish he could afford just a little more, now that he’s experienced this very moment.
“Oh my God,” he growls, and he can’t help but hang his head, shut his eyes tightightight, fight against the orgasm that threatens to seize his body. How can Pete think he can just say things like that, as if, as if—
Pete moves like a shark that’s tasted blood in the water.
He lowers his legs, wrapping them tightly around Vegas’ hips, and grabs at the sides of Vegas’ head, fingers slotting through his sweaty roots. He supports Vegas’ head upwards, establishing eye contact, and physically urges him to pick up his pace.
“Are you gonna give me what I need?” Pete asks him. “Tell me,” he insists when Vegas only nods, speechless.
Vegas tries to swallow against a way-too-tight throat. He’s mind-numbingly close. “Gonna fill you up,” he chokes out.
Vegas can feel Pete’s chest vibrate with a groan where they’re flush against each other. It makes his own ribcage rattle. Seemingly not done with unravelling every little piece of Vegas by hand, Pete speaks again, and this time, this does it. “Yes, knock me up.”
His eyes remain wide open, and yet Vegas sees white. As he finally loses grip on himself, muscles spasming, coming so incredibly hard his ears start ringing, Pete’s voice still manages to break through the noise.
“So perfect,” is what he hears Pete gasp, and if it turns out to be an auditory illusion Vegas can’t find it in himself to care, as he comes deep inside of Pete, filling him up.
He fucks into him, not entirely controlled, and tries to savour the way this very moment in time feels, all his nerves aflame, heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, unbelievably satisfied, and yet forever hungry.
When Pete draws him down for a kiss that is almost entirely too hot for how deep and sloppy it is, the vice of his legs tightening around Vegas’ hips, keeping him completely still and as deep into Pete as physically possible, Vegas finally registers the wetness between their stomachs.
He pulls back only a little, ending the kiss to look into Pete’s eyes.
The breath that leaves him as Pete looks right back is shaky. He really came untouched.
Pete gives him a little smile. “I told you, you’re perfect for me.”
The way Vegas’ body gives up on him, limbs unable to hold him up and spine straight up quitting its job as he simply falls into Pete’s arms and hides his burning face into the crook of Pete’s neck, should be even more embarrassing than it feels, he’s sure.
Pete’s body vibrates with a sweet chuckle, and he wraps his arms around him, holding him close. A kiss finds the back of his head. “Now don’t move,” Pete whispers into his hair as he hooks one ankle into the other, securing the hold on Vegas’ lower body, “We have to make sure it takes.”
Vegas’ brain goes fuzzy.
—
The next Monday morning Vegas wakes up alone, he takes the kiss Pete gives him over Venice’s high chair, however chaste, and holds it in his chest throughout his entire morning routine.
When he comes out of the walk-in closet nearly an hour later, fully dressed and ready to brace himself as the day meets him head-on, he’s caught off guard by the sight of men in uniforms exiting his fath— his office.
Pete comes out after them but stays by the door, content to let one of their bodyguards see the strangers out.
Vegas waits to make eye contact, lifts an eyebrow in question.
Pete smiles at him and beckons him close with a move of his hand as he disappears into the room.
This is interesting, to say the least.
Vegas follows him into the office with a small amount of uncertainty lodged in his throat. He’s sure it can’t be bad, whatever it is; Pete could never do anything that Vegas would be dissatisfied by. But the wariness can’t be helped. Especially when it comes to this room.
When his legs finally bring him where he’s gotta be, they freeze the moment his eyes process what’s in front of him.
Pete rests against the all-too-familiar mahogany desk, half-sitting on the front edge of it. Behind him, an explosion of colours dominates the wall that everyone faces the moment they enter this office.
Instead of the dark, gloomy yellows and violent splashes of red that Vegas had come to know all too well, Vegas’ eyes now readjust to take in all the rich, vibrant greens, and the vivid yellows. Where his father’s totem had once been, perhaps for way too long, now sit two proud symbols of togetherness.
The solitary lion that only knew destruction has given way to the pair of great hornbills that had monopolised Vegas’ attention and sent him into a bit of an art-induced spiral a couple of months back.
“What do you think?” Pete asks, and Vegas thinks he detects a small amount of doubt in his tone.
Startled, he realises he hasn’t reacted at all since the moment he stepped in.
Fuck, he didn’t mean to—
He properly makes his way into the room and comes to stand in front of Pete. He takes his hands in his, squeezes and makes sure to maintain eye contact even as he feels his eyes start to burn. He has to. “Pete, I love it,” he says with every ounce of certainty in his body.
A breath of visible relief leaves Pete, and Vegas’ heart beats with the satisfaction of knowing he did that. Pete smiles, squeezes right back at Vegas’ fingers. “When I saw how taken you were with it at the gallery, I felt maybe you thought the same thing I did.”
Vegas’ chest tightens.
“You deserve to make this space your own, now. It shouldn’t reflect anyone else’s character,” Pete says, and Vegas is pretty sure that his eyes must be welling up by now. “I took the initiative with the painting, but you should be the one who gets to pick the new desk and the ch—”
Vegas shuts him up with a kiss, wills his throat quiet with his hands cupping the sides of Pete’s neck.
He kisses him until Pete’s breath belongs to him, until Pete’s arms press wrinkles into his suit.
When he pulls back, it’s to rest his forehead against his, look into his eyes even if they go a little unfocused due to the proximity.
“You’ll have to help me, of course,” he tells Pete.
Pete’s smile fills Vegas’ stomach with butterflies. “Of course.”
Almost distantly, Vegas realises that, at some point, he started tearing up; he can feel it on his cheeks, warm and wet. They’re happy tears, he recognises, good ones. Pete closes the distance not so much to kiss them away, as to steal a little bit of them, share it between them. Vegas stills in a little moment of awe, as he feels his tears persist on his cheek, and watches them shine on Pete’s bottom lip.
The butterflies in his stomach mix with the heat burning deep in his gut, his heart leaping with it.
Like it’s the first time. But still so, so much — impossibly better.
Hornbills mate for life.
Vegas understands.