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Vegas sometimes feels like his existence is a poison.
He never really used to care. After all- a life spent in isolation meant a life unable to infect anyone else. The people who got close enough to touch deserved their fate, and they usually didn’t live long enough to spread the rot. Pete had once asked him, coming down from the hazy cloud of subspace and stroking lazy circles into Vegas’ chest- am I the only person you’ve slept with who’s lived to tell the tale ? Vegas had laughed, at the time, because what a peculiar thing to ask after sex. Then he had pressed a featherlight kiss to the other man’s temple and crooned- no one before you ever mattered .
Except- that’s just it. Pete matters. People who matter shouldn’t be exposed to the rotting abscess that had carved a hole in Vegas’ chest and made its home within his bone marrow since the very first day papa took a hand to him. The only person who’d ever mattered before Pete was Macau, but the sickness ran in his blood, too. Vegas could only shelter his little brother so much when the root source of the disease was screaming and hitting them every day. But Pete- his Pete - was an unlikely cure through the decay. Vegas craves every kiss like a hit, and he feels each one sing through his poisoned veins like the only thing keeping him alive.
Sometimes, on rare nights, when the rot infests his cold, dead heart, he thinks Pete really is the only thing keeping him here.
He still remembers with startling clarity the feeling of the gun nestled just under his chin- before Pete interrupted with his baffling loyalty and endless tears and I’m hungry . Vegas still doesn’t know why the other man stopped him. They both know a world without Vegas would be a better world overall. But that doesn’t apply to Pete ’s world. This isolated little life that they’ve made for themselves in the wake of so much. For some reason, Pete wants Vegas with him- in his head, buried underneath his skin, burrowed inside his heart like a parasite. It’s kinder than someone like Vegas could ever deserve. He still doesn’t know how he got so lucky.
But it’s hard, some days, to pretend like his existence isn’t built solely off sickness. On days like today, Vegas wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball in their bed and shake apart until the rot becomes something more manageable. However, because that simply isn’t a reasonable emotional response for a grown, 25-year old mafia heir, he finds himself in situations like this- infesting everyone and everything around him. He’d told Porsche to lay off him today, but the inexperienced fool simply couldn’t do anything without the Minor family’s favorite bloodhound, apparently.
Vegas curls his lip and presses the muzzle of his gun harder against the temple of the man currently sniveling at his feet.
“You weren’t trying to run without holding up your end of the deal-” He draws out his words into a taunting croon. “- were you ?”
The fear that blows up the man’s pupils makes the wicked thing inside Vegas thrill. He grins, and he can feel the air grow colder. His men shuffle around him like restless collies. All of them are big enough that they could snap Vegas’ neck in a heartbeat, but they’ve seen what he can do to a man- and they fear him for it. The power is dizzying.
“No-no, Khun Vegas, this is a misunderstanding,” babbles the man helplessly. “I swear-swear, the Minor family will get their money, I just need a few days-”
Vegas slides the gun down to the man’s quivering lips and shoves it inside his lying mouth on the next beat.
He clicks his tongue and coos. “Now, now , you talk pretty, really, but I remember we set up a day for all that-”
The gun pushes deeper, and the man chokes. Vegas giggles and pats his bulging cheek condescendingly. He’s sort of sweet-looking, like this. Young. Scared. This kind of thing used to make heat simmer in Vegas’ belly, but all he can think about now is Pete’s defiant glare. He never knew that willful resistance could taste so much more savory than blind subservience.
“-and I’m sorry to say, but it looks like you’re past the mark.”
If it were any other day, he may have drawn things out. He loves making pretty boys scream and beg almost as much as he loves watching the life fade from their eyes. But today isn’t any other day, and Vegas’ blood sings with the urge to kill- to spread his infection to some other unfortunate soul. So he pulls the trigger without any fanfare and watches a bullet punch a hole clean through the man’s skull. The noise of the slaughter echoes deafeningly in the hollow confines of the warehouse. Brain matter splatters across the grimy floor. A speck of blood lands on Vegas’ chin, and he swipes his tongue out to taste the spoils of his kill.
He feels dangerous, wild- the blood rushes through his ears. The man’s body teeters for a few moments, and Vegas kicks it back into a miserable little heap of soulless gore on the floor with the tip of one polished boot. His neck prickles with the urge to do more- to maim this man who thought he could get away with crossing him. He thinks briefly to the assortment of torture equipment above his bed. Maybe he could tell his men to leave- clear out the place- and then come back and have his fun. This man is pretty, sure, but he’d look even prettier with his face caved in and his ribs pried apart.
Vegas could tear out his heart with a pair of pliers and stomp on it until it becomes nothing but a bloody mess against the concrete. If he has to feel like this inside, he’ll be damned if he’s the only one. He’ll channel his demons into a macabre caricature of his pain or target it inward on himself. The knife on the nightstand is always there if he decides to go that route. That had become the road less taken, however, after Pete noticed the scars on his thighs when the red lights in his room caught a little too much skin, and Vegas got a little too comfortable. It’s the first time the other man had ever safeworded.
Pete could take whips and chains and bruises without faltering, but the evidence of Vegas’ misery etched into crisscrosses along pale skin had brought tears to his eyes.
And it’s the thought of Pete that makes him force his gaze away from the body on the floor and bark out the order in English. “Clean this mess up.”
Immediately, his men are on it, like vultures circling their prey. Vegas has always valued good relations with the Minor family bodyguards, but today he has to actively restrain himself from grabbing the nearest man and bashing his head in. That twisted thing inside him roars. He doesn’t know what’s causing it, and that’s the worst part. Normally, when he got like this, Pete would take his hands and look at him with those all too knowing eyes and hum- think, Vegas, there has to be something that caused you to feel like this . But there isn’t today. He hadn’t had any nightmares of his papa recently, or come across Porsche flaunting the signet that rightfully belonged to him , or gotten into a nasty spat with Kinn.
He just feels- bad . Pent-up. Like he needs to break something, and taking a life wasn’t enough. His head spins as he leaves his men to tend to the body and goes outside for some fresh air. He’s sure the tension is reflected even in his stride. Vegas had always been taught to carry himself like he takes up more space in a room than he really does. Chin up, shoulders squared, back straight. It was a direct challenge to Kinn, as his entire existence was crafted to be. You must make yourself bigger , his papa would always order. Intimidate with your presence . So Vegas stalks now like a jaguar on the prowl over to his motorcycle.
His fingers sift around the pocket of his leather jacket until they grasp a flimsy ornate box, and he fishes out a cigarette while fumbling for his lighter in the other hand. He lights up and leans back against the motorcycle, feeling the heat of the steel through his coat. There’s a thin sheen of sweat forming on his brow. Pete would make fun of him, if he were here- mocking Vegas’ proclivity for layering in 95 degree weather. Not for the first time that day, he longs for Pete’s presence. The other man had gotten antsy in the months following Vegas’ recovery, and despite the younger insisting they could live comfortably off his inheritance alone, Pete wanted to work.
I’m not your trophy wife , he had insisted, and then grimaced when Vegas asked if that would really be so bad. Yes, it would. I’ve worked for the Main family for nearly a decade. I’m not built for sitting around . Neither of them had deigned to bring up that Pete craved the violence of their lifestyle more than Vegas sometimes. Moral of the story, though, is that Pete’s off doing fuck knows what for Porsche, and Vegas is alone and feeling like shit. He takes a drag off his cigarette and succumbs to the familiar sensation of thick hot smoke polluting his rotten lungs. His hand is trembling. He feels like an exposed nerve- raw and oversensitive.
Through the static rapidly descending upon his brain in a noisy pink haze, he hears the steady sound of approaching footsteps. Someone’s saying something. Khun Vegas . One of his men, then. Vegas doesn’t have the capacity to register what’s being said to him. He turns around lazily, leaning one arm against his motorcycle. An older man stands before him. Posture relaxed, mouth running- like a house cat purring at a tiger. Except he’s too stupid to realize it. Vegas’ grip on the cigarette tightens. The guard has gone silent now, seemingly waiting for an answer, but all Vegas can focus on are two things.
One- he hates the man’s shirt. It’s some grotesque orange thing with too many buttons undone in spite of the guard’s age. Second- he’s never seen him before. This must be one of Porsche’s new hires, then. It’s those two things that threaten to snap the tight band in his chest, but the one that really does it is simple- he seriously doesn’t want to be bothered right now. With that in mind, Vegas hums- offers his most winning smile- and steps toward the man.
“Say that again?” He coos, and then shoves the lit end of his cigarette into the man’s eye.
The scream that follows is almost enough to soothe the swirling black mass inside him. Almost, but never enough.
━━━
He doesn’t leave bed for the rest of the day.
There’s still blood on his hands- encrusted over his blotchy knuckles. He tucks them against his chest and floats aimlessly for as long as it takes for the infestation in his cortex to rattle out of his shaking limbs. It doesn’t work. Nothing ever does. Shooting that man earlier, and then mutilating the guard after- it all flashes through his head in unsatisfying bits and pieces. Like sweets without sugar.
The turbulence of emotions swirling in his chest has not ebbed in the slightest. It continues to buzz just underneath his skin like a swarm of flies. He thinks his phone has been going off on the nightstand, probably with a flurry of furious texts from Porsche- maybe a few check-ins from Pete because he knows how much Vegas hates being left alone.
It all fades into the background- in the end.
He has no idea for how long he lies there, curled up and shaking underneath the covers like some rotten little creature, but eventually he startles awake to the sound of the door opening. His first thought is that he doesn’t know when he fell asleep, and his second is Pete . The mattress dips beside the miserable little ball Vegas has made for himself under the blankets.
His eyes feel scratchy, and when he swallows, his throat is gritty and stings. It’s befitting of something as sick as him- a reflection of his insides. But Pete doesn’t draw back like any reasonable person would. Vegas doesn’t know why he doesn’t draw back. He just pulls the covers down so Vegas’ pallid, monstrous face is out in the open and runs his fingers through the younger man’s hair.
“Rough day, baby?” He asks gently- far too gently for the amount of blood that stains Vegas’ hands.
It makes something nauseous and indignant coil in the younger man’s stomach. He rolls onto his side to dodge the hands in his hair- even if he craves the small comfort- and turns his back on the other man. Not even he can explain the sudden onslaught of repulsion that ripples through him at the kindness being handed to him on a silver platter.
He had been longing for Pete all day- craving his touch like a dose of heroine- but now it all feels wrong. Those soft hands that cradle him like something precious should be reaching in and bleeding out the black decay at his center. He’s always relied on Pete to mold him back into something mildly worthy of salvation ever since the safehouse.
Instead, the older man just hums sympathetically and returns his hand back to petting Vegas’ hair- unphased. “It’s okay, Vegas.”
It’s not, though. It’s not, it’s not, it’s not . Why can’t he see? Vegas tries to shrug him off again and burrows his face deeper into his pillow. Pete ’s pillow. It smells like his vanilla body wash. The real thing is right here, so why does Vegas feel so strung-out and aggressive? Violence brews under his skin, curling in his stomach like some stifled, angry little thing. He hasn’t felt quite like this since his papa ruined the food he made Pete at the safehouse.
Like that time, too, Pete doesn’t know when to stop pushing. “Are you mad that I left?”
Quick as lightning, Vegas jolts up and clasps his hand around the older man’s throat. Pete makes this startled, choked off little noise, his eyes going slightly wide behind the curtain of bangs shielding them from Vegas’ sight. The sound is enough to make the younger hesitate- to remind him of spilt noodles, and a knife to the throat, and waking up to an empty room and dried blood on the floor.
The white noise in his head subsides just enough to check. “Color?”
Pete, the little mynx, has the audacity to flash a grin- all teeth. “Green.”
Vegas smacks him clean across the face.
He barely gives himself time to savor the exquisite pain that flashes across the ex-bodyguard’s face before he wrenches him down amongst the tangled mess of pillows and blankets by the grip around his neck. Pete goes willingly- because they both know he could turn things around and overpower Vegas in a heartbeat- and the privilege doesn’t feel any less empowering. Vegas once thought that he could only ever feel strong taking the power from other people, but being willingly gifted it? Pete has introduced him to a much more fulfilling sort of thrill.
Hand still clenched tight around the older man’s throat, Vegas leans down to nip his jaw.
“Feeling bold today, puppy?” He coos silkily.
Pete’s throat spasms against his hand. Vegas traces his thumb across the older man’s pulse point- which is going hummingbird fast. It makes something like twisted satisfaction pool hotly in his stomach.
“You’re- just- throwing a tantrum,” Pete manages to wheeze out.
Vegas sees red. He tangles his hand in the other man’s hair and wrenches his head back, biting down meanly on the pale expanse of his throat that is not currently smothered by his hand. Pete gasps, shuddering in a mixture of shock and pain and pleasure- probably- the little masochist. His eyes flash in the red lights, and he twists against Vegas’ grasp. He doesn’t use his full strength, leaning into the next smack that rains down across his flushed cheek. It’s intoxicating.
“Keep it up,” Vegas hisses. “We have all night to correct your attitude.”
Warning bells should maybe be ringing in his head that the anger he feels isn’t solely aroused by the scene. His brain sort of feels like it’s melting. The rot thrums through his veins like heady poison. He traces a slender finger across Pete’s lips- one kiss, and he’ll taint the pretty little angel demanding salvation in his sheets. The older man seems to notice him drifting off into the black hole of his thoughts, and suddenly, a sharp pain shoots through Vegas’ fingers. He yelps and yanks his hand back with a start.
“I have teeth, too, y’know,” Pete snarks- annoyed, or impatient, maybe. “Are you going to keep me waiting, Khun Vegas ?”
Vegas shoves his stinging fingers back into the ex-bodyguard’s mouth and presses deep enough to bruise. He wishes he could reach further- twist his hand into Pete’s ribs and cradle his heart, coveting it for his own.
“Well, if you ask so nicely,” he hums. “Who am I to deny my pet?”
With that, the rest comes easy.
Since Korn made them move into the Main family compound, he hasn’t been able to set up his chains on the ceiling for easy access. In fact, their toybox had been cut down to at least half its original size by the time they moved in. There was simply too much, and both of them knew that Korn would have someone go through all of their stuff as soon as they got settled- which didn’t bother Vegas, but Pete seemed pretty mortified at the prospect of his old boss finding a leather collar with his name engraved on the tag. Shame- because Vegas had really liked that one, but he likes Pete and wants him to feel comfortable more.
The point is, though, they’re limited on resources, but Vegas makes do and binds Pete’s hands together with a good old fashioned pair of boring metal handcuffs. He mourns the sight of the man strung up all pretty by his ankles, too, but Pete’s submission is just as beautiful no matter what form it comes in. Vegas’ fingers trace the older man’s lips, his fluttering lashes, the sharp line of his jaw- and then he digs his nails in on the next beat. He thrills when he trails his other hand down to check Pete’s pulse again and feels it thrumming against his fingertips- thud, thud, thudthudthud . The older man exhales shakily, his hot breath curling against Vegas’ palm.
The younger always had a fascination with the intricacies of human behavior, and Pete is his favorite study in the subject. How does one have so much strength- so much beauty - and settle for a weak, putrid little creature like Vegas? The man in question presses a fleeting kiss to the ex-bodyguard’s rapid pulse and smirks against the older man’s bruised skin. Pete’s eyes flit down to look at him, already slightly dazed, but unbelievably fond. Vegas tries to ignore how that expression- turned on him, completely undeserving of such affection- makes his chest feel like it’s being split open.
Both of them are still clothed at this point- with the exception of Pete’s shirt. Vegas hasn’t quite decided what he wants to do tonight. Mostly- he just wants to hurt something. It’s what he’s good for. Well- aside from sex. Funny how the only two things he’s ever had a talent for in his entire goddamn filthy life are so contradictory. He’s a master of pleasure, and pain, and none of the in-between. Pete fills those empty cracks left in his wake. They fit together like some perfectly fucked up puzzle. Vegas stares down at the man spread out before him now with nothing short of reverence.
Then Pete whispers, for some reason, like he thinks that the younger man needs to hear it. “I love you.”
The darkness bubbles and overflows, and Vegas bleeds.
He feels like he’s watching from outside his body as his hand lurches up to grab Pete’s neck- not nearly minding his technique as much as he should be- and his other hand delivers another hit to his already-reddening cheek. Pete seems startled by the unexpected outburst because as rough, and cruel, and malicious as they could be with one another in their little game- neither of them ever denied each other an I love you . With their past, it wouldn’t make sense. But Vegas makes some furious, animalistic sound and pushes Pete’s face into the pillow by his hair. His hands are shaking. The dried blood from his kill earlier still stains his hands, but his sweat has rubbed it off in thin red streaks against Pete’s neck and face.
There’s no way the older man hadn’t noticed, but he hadn’t asked any questions because it’s Vegas, and for some fucked up reason- blood or not- Pete accepts him. He feels vaguely like a dog who tore up the furniture while his owner was away, only to be met with an understanding hand when they came home. Except Vegas is supposed to be the owner. He doesn’t really feel like he’s capable of looking after anything right now. The worst part is that Pete notices . He bucks his head back against Vegas’ shoving hands, and he rolls onto his back to dislodge the smaller man- and those damn eyes , they take one look at the monster Vegas has become- and he knows.
“Red,” the older says, but it’s not like Vegas has to do anything because he has the handcuffs off himself on the next beat.
And everything- everything feels wrong . Vegas’ head is spinning. Pete’s staring up at him in concern, lips twisted in a confused little frown, and Vegas thinks he might be saying something, but it’s all static again. He looks at the spot beside the older man’s head on the pillow, trying and failing to unfocus his eyes. His heart beats so quickly it feels like it’s trying to burst out of his ribs.
Pete’s hand comes up to trace his quivering, bitten lips, and Vegas flinches back so violently he nearly falls off the bed. A hand snaps out and catches his arm, and it feels like hot coals searing through Vegas’ skin. Binding him with a cuff of flesh. All he can think is- red, red, red. Red lights. Pete’s voice- red . Red static. Blood. So much blood.
“ Vegas !” Pete shouts over the flood. “Breathe. Everything’s okay. What’s wrong?”
That’s just the thing- Vegas doesn’t even know. Uneasiness worms under his skin. His mouth is dry. Hysterically, he thinks that Pete looks good fresh off a job. His suit jacket and button-up had been discarded long ago, but his hair is still messy from the wind, and the jewelry he had deigned to wear glints prettily on his ears and fingers.
There are purple bruises scattered all along the pale expanse of his neck and chest. Satisfaction blooms in Vegas’ stomach like a wicked flower at the sight, and then a wave of shame wilts the blossom at its roots on the next beat. Hadn’t he hurt Pete enough? The monster within him twists and writhes like maggots in his gut.
He doesn’t realize he’s wheezing, choking out little garbled phrases that make no sense- sorry, are you- I shouldn’t- you’re - and the realization makes him feel all the more pathetic. His shoulders are shaking. He wrenches free of Pete’s suffocating grip and clambers off the bed like some wild thing. Fingers ghost across his bicep, but he’s already up and staggering toward the bathroom before Pete can get ahold of him again.
“ Vegas ,” the older man says- sounding desperate and confused in a way Vegas never wants to make him feel. “Vegas. I’m okay. You’re okay. Whatever’s wrong, we’ll fix it- just don’t run away from me right now.”
Vaguely, the younger has half the mind to consider that Pete was teetering on the edge of subspace just moments ago, and probably wants Vegas to stay- not only as an assurance for Vegas- but for himself . Except Vegas has spent his whole life running, and not even this new desire to serve Pete over himself can overpower his cowardice. So he ignores the reaching hands and shaky pleas that make his heart splinter and spasm black poison, and locks the bathroom door behind him.
Immediately, he crumples to the floor.
That ugly, monstrous, poisonous creature within him bursts at last.
He tries to find the air he needs to sob, but it gets caught in his throat, so a stuttering little noise like a wounded animal escapes him instead. The tears pour hot and heavy down his flushed face. His whole body shakes- decades of hurt and sorrow and self-loathing all flowing out of him in a violent display of human anguish. He buries his face in his knees and screams .
It feels like the only thing he can do- right now- to expel the pain tormenting his very being. The voice in his head, the one that sounds a lot like his papa, pumps more acid through his veins- disgusting, worthless, vile. Vegas tears at his hair and slams his head back against the door to silence the onslaught of poison.
He thinks he hears Pete shouting at him through the flimsy barrier that separates him from Vegas’ infection. Poor, optimistic Pete, who thought he could find something worth salvaging in Vegas’ demons and got stuck in a cage with them instead. Red, red, red - Vegas thinks hysterically. He’s all alone out there after you made him cry red .
He slams his fists into his own arms to silence the accusations. Self-loathing prickles hotly all along his neck and down his spine. He remembers the sting of his papa’s ring and the condescension in his voice. Do you think Kinn cries when he gets yelled at? Vegas can’t imagine Korn ever treated Kinn, and Tankhun, and the rest of that miserable litter like papa treated him.
His nails find his wrists. He drags thin lines across the milky expanse of skin like some rabid little animal. The pain sings blissfully through his nerves like liquid gold. Tears clump on his lashes. His breathing is going all funny from the force of his sobs. He thinks that the door frame might be rattling against his back- that Pete is trying to slam it open like a retriever trying to get to its owner- and the thought is slightly hysterical.
Pete is no dog. He’s a human, made of flesh and blood and undying devotion, and he’s Vegas’ most important person in the entire world- shackled to his sins. The door shakes. Bruises bloom in red splotches down Vegas’ arms. There’s blood dripping from his pale wrists onto the tiled floor and the fabric of his flannel pajama bottoms.
The blood stops his crying- at least.
All the commotion behind him has gone silent. Vegas tips his head lazily back against the door, chest stuttering over unsteady inhales as he tries to right his breathing. He’s absolved of the white noise in his head by the hook of nails under his skin and the steady trickle of blood leaking down his arm. Bleeding out the rot. He swallows thickly, tongue swiping across his dry lips. Everything hurts. The physical pain is an exquisite relief from the mental anguish that had reduced him to this pitiful little lump on the floor. He lets his tearful eyes flutter shut.
There’s a soft knocking on the other side of the door that vibrates through Vegas’ weary bones. “Vegas? I need you to answer me, or I’m going to pick the lock. Are you okay?”
Vegas hums. ‘Okay’ is subjective. Him shivering and bleeding on their bathroom floor probably wouldn’t look ‘okay’ to anyone else- but he feels better now than he has all day. He wishes he could show Pete. His teeth are the only bones the other man can touch, but Vegas wants him to reach in and feel how the others have finally ceased their wretched shaking within the frail prison of his skin. He’s okay- sure. Okay. Is Pete okay?
“I’m fine,” he calls back hoarsely. “How- how are you?”
Silence- for a few beats- and then in a soft, ragged little voice. “ Worried , Vegas. I want you to open this door and let me see you.”
It’s the ghost of their past clawing at Vegas’ chest. Turn around and let me see you - Pete had practically begged at the poolside. Now, Vegas stares down at his lap and wonders if it’s worth being shot again. Not Pete- Pete is always worth it- but facing the reality that awaits him outside the door. The angel waiting because Vegas clipped his wings and denied him anywhere else to go ever again.
Pete - with his fluffy hair and crescent eyes and sunshine smile that only Vegas ever saw through- waiting because he's always been a fixer, and Vegas has given him infinite broken pieces to meld and cut his hands on. The younger man sighs. His eyes feel swollen, and his face is too hot. The scent of copper hangs heavily in the air.
“I’ll come out,” he says finally, an unflattering, tinny rasp to his voice. “I’ll come out, Pete, but you- you should wait for me in the living room. I just need- a few minutes alone .”
To clean up my mess , he really wants to say, but he knows the door would come caving in on top of him in seconds if he did that. Pete is stubborn like that. Even before they became intrinsically intertangled, he didn’t want Vegas to hurt himself. He showed Vegas his scars in the purple-blue haze of the safehouse- a caricature of his pain taken out on his arms in thin, jagged lines.
Vegas had kissed each one, imprinting himself over the painful reminders of Pete’s past anguish. His hurt runs deep- maybe even deeper than Vegas’ own- but he bears it well. Vegas himself wears his trauma like chains around his wrists and ankles. It’s how they ended up here. Papa’s probably rolling in his grave.
“Vegas,” Pete replies, eerily calm. “What did you do?”
Damn him for always knowing. Vegas breathes through his nose to stop the violent rebuke rising in his throat. His emotions have always been a whirlpool of chaos. Pete had been trying to convince him to go to a shrink for months. It gets tiring , he had hummed, tracing sunshower patterns into Vegas’ arm. Having no control over your feelings, doesn’t it ? Truthfully, it was- it is- exhausting, that is. Vegas doesn’t know why he feels half of what he does at any given time, and so strongly, too. But Pete sticks around anyway, and Vegas can stop himself from snapping- from spitting that vile poison in his blood- if it means Pete will always stick around.
There’s still a sharp note to his voice when he answers. “ Nothing .”
“I don’t believe you,” Pete counters immediately, taking on that knowing, stern tone he always does when Vegas gets like this. “You don’t get to lie to me, Vegas.”
Vegas grits his teeth. “Drop it, Pete.”
The doorknob rattles. “ No .”
All at once, Vegas feels the sturdy wall behind his back cave, and- suddenly- Pete is only a few feet away. The scent of his lavender cologne washes over Vegas in heady waves. He tucks his arms tighter to his chest, smearing red across the white fabric of his shirt. The eyes searing holes into his back feel damning. There’s a shaky exhale, and then Vegas hears more so than feels Pete fall to his knees behind him. Just like that night at the poolside, indeed- Pete wraps his arms around Vegas’ quivering frame from behind and rests his chin on the younger man’s bony shoulder.
Vegas can feel the ex-bodyguard’s breath in his chest when the older murmurs- completely serious. “I should have broken down that fucking door the second you were out of my sight.”
It’s a dizzying sort of warmth that spreads through Vegas at the cool solemnity in Pete’s voice. He’s never been the type to be coveted. Too ugly- too broken. A good fuck, maybe, but nothing worth keeping. Yet Pete holds him tightly enough to crack bones- like he’s worth something- and presses a fluttering kiss to the nape of his neck where goosebumps have risen. The sensation, so unfamiliarly gentle, is what snaps Vegas out of his head and into his body once more. Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of the bleed in his heart- the sting in his wrists and the pulsing ache on his arms- and he goes slack in Pete’s warm embrace. He’s shaking again. A stray lock of hair falls over his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and then whimpers on the next breath. “ I don’t know why… I’m sorry.”
Pete just hums. “I’ve got you.”
━━━
Vegas drifts in the aftermath.
He thinks that Pete leads him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and cleans his sluggishly bleeding wounds with stinging disinfectant- and maybe presses a kiss to Vegas’ forehead when he hisses in pain- but the rest just fades into the silence. He feels hollow. Where the poison had once festered lies only gutted marrow now, and Vegas doesn’t know what to do with the emptiness. It’s not as freeing as he’d hoped it would be. Pete talks to him through it. He takes a cool rag to Vegas’ swollen eyes and upturns his palms to wipe away the dried blood from the violence that feels like forever ago and coos- it’s okay, baby. I have you .
They end up in bed, eventually, and Vegas wraps his freshly-bandaged arms around Pete’s waist and buries his face in the older man’s stomach. He feels arms entangle around his shoulders in turn, and he has the vaguest thought to ask Pete- once again- if he’s okay. The frightened child within him wants to ask- are you leaving now ? Have I finally scared you away ?
Instead, what comes out- in rough, crackling tones- is. “Did I hurt you?”
Pete makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat. His nimble fingers find Vegas’ hair. It makes the younger man feel like some spoiled house cat.
“When-” Vegas has to clear his throat, thoughts running together like honey. “-When you safeworded, earlier, did I hurt you?”
The hands in his hair falter for a moment, and then resume their petting on the next beat. Vegas squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t like that. The thought that he could have hurt Pete again in a way he didn’t like feels more damning than the static had.
“No,” Pete finally answers. “You didn’t hurt me. I safeworded because you looked two seconds away from hyperventilating.”
He hesitates, and then adds contemplatively. “I didn’t like that you didn’t say ‘I love you’ back, though.”
Vegas tenses. His grip tightens on the older man’s narrow hips. He presses a fleeting kiss to the ex-bodyguard’s stomach- just below the scars engraved by his own belt- in a desperate attempt to convey his remorse. He’d tear out his own heart and serve it on a silver platter if that’s what it took to prove to Pete that he loves him. Irrevocably- intrinsically. They’ve melded together by now. Vegas would sooner kill them both than allow Pete to stop loving him. He’d given him his chance back at the hospital- you can leave now, I won’t stop you - but Pete had handed him back the leash and Vegas will be damned if he ever lets it go again. Pete is his.
“I love you,” he insists, but it sounds like a needy whine- frantic for Pete to believe him. “You’re the most important person in my life.”
Pete sighs, and his fingers trail down to the nape of Vegas’ neck. He plays idly with the hairs beginning to curl there. Both of them are due for haircuts.
“I know,” he finally says, dark eyes flitting down to meet Vegas’ own. “I love you too.”
Even sideways- from Vegas’ view- Pete looks like an angel. His hair is fluffy and unkempt, and he’s drowning in one of Vegas’ bigger hoodies. The red lights highlight the sparkle in his eyes and the flush on his pretty face. The younger nuzzles against the older man’s stomach, breathing in the scent of lavender and floral laundry detergent- and below it- simply Pete. His eyes flutter dangerously, but he has to say it again. A hundred times, a thousand - so long as Pete believes him. He shouldn’t fall asleep feeling unloved.
“Love you,” he warbles out. “I love you.”
He thinks he hears a chuckle, and then a featherlight kiss is dropped against his temple that makes everything else feel unimportant.
“Thank you,” Pete hums softly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
There’s the slightest shuffling, and then the light clicks off. “And I love you too- again.”
Just like that, Vegas falls asleep feeling a little less rotten, and wakes- later- in bits and pieces.
He thinks he was dreaming of the safehouse. Except in the dream he was watching himself torture Pete and couldn’t stop it. He’d spat such cruel things, in a voice that was so distorted and venomous it couldn’t have been his, but Vegas knows it was because he’s wicked down to his core- I think I’ll take a pet . Pete’s screams still ring in his ears over the sound of the bat swinging and bones dislodging.
It’s a little disorienting, all things considered, to wake up to the same red hue he had abused and violated his beloved under so long ago. Vegas comes back to the waking world with a hitching little breath. The first thing he registers is that his head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, and his face is swollen and puffy. Everything aches like he’d run a marathon the day before. He buries his face further into the pillow under his head, making himself small amongst the blankets. Pete had compared him to an armadillo- once. You curl up like one , he had teased, flicking Vegas’ forehead. Or would you rather I compare you to a hedgehog ?
Moral of the story, though, is that Vegas feels a little miserable in that soft sort of way that settles almost comfortably into your bones- like he needs a hug and a warm drink to keep from wilting. But, mostly, he’s just tired. He lets his eyes flutter shut again, for the briefest of moments, until he realizes something with startling clarity, and they shoot back open. The familiar rise and fall under his head isn’t there anymore. Pete ’s not there anymore. The realization settles bitterly under Vegas’ skin. Somewhere, deep in the darkest depths of his mind, he wonders if he’s finally been abandoned- if Pete hasn’t realized he’s not worth all the trouble.
The gun in the nightstand beckons him.
It’s approximately at that moment, as Vegas’ thoughts start racing, that he sits up with the full intent of searching for Pete- only to feel a sharp pull in his wrist and the cool bite of hard metal. His stomach sinks. He’s familiar with this feeling. Breaths going a little unsteady, he tilts his gaze down to his wrist. Sure enough- the metal cuffs he’d used on Pete last night bind one of his pale hands to the headboard now. The vertigo of the situation is dizzying in all the wrong ways. Vegas has never been the one chained before. He flinches at the sound of the door opening across the room.
“Morning, baby,” Pete chirps happily, balancing a plate of what looks like simple porridge and a glass of water in his arms.
Vegas can’t help the swell of affection that curls like a sun ray in his chest. Pete must have showered while the younger was still sleeping, and his hair is still damp and floppy around the edges. There’s a smile lighting up his face, and it isn’t one of those soulless, customer service sorts that the older man had been flaunting for years. It’s real, and blinding, and all for Vegas . The younger watches as the ex-bodyguard bounds over to his bedside like a hyperactive collie and sets the plate of food on the nightstand. Vegas would tease him for his eagerness to please if there weren’t more pressing matters to attend.
The younger man shakes his wrist slightly, rattling the cuff to catch Pete’s attention. Pete lifts his head, but seems otherwise unbothered, his eyes not even sparing the restraint a flitting glance. Indignation rises in Vegas’ chest, and his eyes narrow to sharp slits.
When he speaks, a practiced sweetness falls from his lips as easily as flower petals. “Puppy, what’s this?”
Pete hums, and on the next beat, the glass of water is pressed to Vegas’ chapped lips. He wants to fight, but his mouth is dry and his throat is too sore to put up a fight. Still, he shoots out his free hand to grasp Pete’s wrist, and he can feel the other man shudder.
“ Answer me ,” he demands once he’s downed about half the glass- not so kindly this time. “I’m not playing with you.”
But, apparently, Pete’s playing with him . The older grins cheekily and twists his hand out of Vegas’ grip, dancing just out of the younger man’s reach as he sets the half-empty glass on the table and reaches for the porridge. Vegas will be damned if he’s about to pretend like everything’s normal and eat breakfast right now. Annoyance prickles down his neck, but deeper than that- interest . His Pete is so fucking interesting. Even now- chained and confused- Vegas thrills at the challenge, the mystery . Life never gets boring with Pete.
“I’m upset with you,” the older finally says, and the admission settles like molten lava in Vegas’ stomach. “You upset me yesterday.”
Vegas’ mind reels. Something like fear raises alarm bells in his head. Never in his life had he ever feared hurting someone until he met Pete. Pain was pleasure. He got the same dopamine rush making people cry that other people got watching their favorite movie or eating really good food. Then Pete showed up with his beautiful smile, and unbreakable spirit, and unbelievably gentle hands that wanted to fix what was already too far broken. A guiding light in Vegas’ darkness- the one man in the entire world who couldn’t be consumed by it. Vegas doesn’t want to make him upset. The knowledge makes his eyes misty and his chest hurt.
He doesn’t realize that Pete has gotten closer until he feels a warm huff of air against the top of his hair- exasperated- and fingers intertangling with Vegas’ own fidgety ones.
“Y’know,” he starts, tracing circles along the back of the younger man’s palm. “If someone would have told me a year ago that Vegas from the Minor family would tear up at the thought of upsetting me, I would’ve laughed.”
Vegas groans and lets his face fall forward into the ex-bodyguard’s stomach. The action isn’t immediately met with rejection, so Pete can’t be too upset with him.
He mumbles petulantly into the fabric of the other man’s tee. “Don’t make fun of me.”
Pete laughs, and the sound is bright like twinkling bells. “It’s okay. I like it. I’m the only person who gets you like this.”
Vegas lifts his head, staring incredulously up at the older. “Needy?”
“Unguarded,” Pete corrects seriously. “Sensitive. Everyone’s afraid of you-”
His fingers trail up the younger man’s neck, trailing a line across the sharp outline of his jaw. Vegas shudders and lets his eyes flutter shut at the sensation.
“-but I get to see what’s behind the mask. You just want love.”
He flashes another grin- this one ten times more wicked. “You may have made me your pet, but I made you weak.”
Bile rises in Vegas’ throat. That ugly thing inside him that raises its hackles in the face of any form of vulnerability or weakness roars. Pete must see it, too, because his roaming hands turn mean and tighten on Vegas’ chin. Forcing him to look at him. The shackle on the younger man’s wrist burns fiery tracks down the veins in his arm to his heart.
“Is that what this is, then?” Vegas croaks, tilting his head toward the cuff. “A punishment? To make me feel weak like I did you?”
Pete’s eyes flash. “Don’t flatter yourself. You never made me feel weak.”
Then his gaze softens, and he runs a finger along the younger man’s cracked lips. “But- no. This isn’t a punishment. It’s a precaution.”
Confusion momentarily overrides the boiling emotions in Vegas’ chest.
He raises an eyebrow. “A precaution for what?”
Pete scoffs, and it sounds entirely too derisive for Vegas’ taste. He wants to silence the noise with his lips- swallow it down and make Pete whine instead. It’s a much prettier noise.
“Porsche called me,” reveals the ex-bodyguard- unimpressed. “He told me you made a mess on the job yesterday- specifically, a bloody one.”
Vegas sneers. “And this is news to anyone? Tell Porsche if he doesn’t like how I work than he can leave me the fuck alone.”
“You know that’s not why I brought that up,” Pete counters without missing a beat. “I’m talking about why you did it.”
He leans down so that their noses are nearly touching. “I’m talking about the fact you didn’t come to me when you were feeling bad.”
Vegas lurches forward, capturing the older man’s lips in a vicious kiss. Pete actually makes a startled noise and wobbles on his feet a little, but Vegas holds him still with a tight grip on his shirt and nips his soft lips till he tastes copper. Shut up , snarls the dark thing in his mind. You’re prettier when you shut the fuck up . They both know that’s not true. Pete would be pretty no matter what, and Vegas would worship him every day anyway. Still- he doesn’t let the older go until he’s satisfied he’s made his mark. When he finally draws back, Pete makes this needy little noise that Vegas is sure he doesn’t mean to, teetering forward on his feet, and it makes gooey satisfaction pool in the younger’s stomach.
He flashes a bloodstained grin. “Down, boy.”
Pete chuckles darkly, and his hair has fallen over his eyes now, but Vegas doesn’t need to see the danger in them to feel it.
“Typical,” he hums, suddenly, brushing a stray lock of hair out of the younger man’s eyes. “Any time you feel like you’re losing the upper hand emotionally, you turn to sex because it’s the only time you feel like you have any power. Do you feel powerful, Vegas?”
Suddenly, the handcuffs make a whole lot more sense. Vegas tries to jerk forward, to do- something . Anything to make Pete stop looking at him like that, stop talking to him like that . But the metal bites his already raw wrist. The worst part is Pete’s brow furrows briefly in discontent, and though he knows not to draw any closer right now because Vegas is strung-out and nothing less than rabid right now, he still-
“Don’t pull on those. You’ll reopen your cuts.”
Vegas wants to scream and cry simultaneously. If he strains hard enough, he can see the puffy white scars on Pete’s chest through his shirt, and all he can think is- I didn’t care when you were hurt. When I hurt you. So why do you? Instead, he reverts back to what he knows best: cruelty. Defiance. His favorite defense.
He yanks harder on the chain just to prove a point and jabs silkily. “What’s the point if I don’t come out a little bit hurt to fuel your ego?”
The spattering of bruises on his wrist sing with pain of a self-serving kind. Cool metal bites into his scabs. He thinks he may feel the wetness of blood against his bandages, and it just spurs him on more. The dull ache brings to life something within his cold, dead heart that only Pete can also bring him.
Then, without warning, a hand snaps out and holds his arm still. “No, that’s you .”
Pete looks angrier than Vegas has ever seen him- wild and debauched. He squeezes the younger man’s arm tightly enough to break bone if Vegas moves too quickly. There’s blood smeared across the ex-bodyguard’s tightly-pursed lips.
“I’m the opposite,” Pete says solemnly, completely unsmiling for once. “You scared the fuck out of me last night, so I wanted the reassurance that you couldn’t get up and blow a hole in your head while I was showering and making breakfast.”
“So you chained me to our bed?” Vegas asks sharply, and he’d thought the poison had been expelled entirely last night, but it escapes him now in a flood. “If I wanted to kill myself, I’d find a way. You can’t keep me here forever.”
Some unidentifiable emotion crosses Pete’s face. His fingers are trembling where they trap Vegas’ hand against the bed. He squeezes harder, until a shaky gasp of pain escapes the younger man’s lips.
“I would,” he admits in a rush- fervently- like some holy disciple. “If I ever thought you would try to leave me, Vegas, I wouldn’t let you go.”
The admission settles in the fevered air between them like a promise and a threat all at once. It knocks the breath from Vegas’ lungs. He stares up at this man he caught and coveted, and looks at him- really looks at him- and finds the same swirling black devotion reflected in his eyes that Vegas hates himself for feeling. Pete bears his soul, running a finger along the bleeding cut on the younger man’s lower lip, and Vegas feels himself smile. He twists his hand in Pete’s grip and laces their fingers together. They’re both shaking and desperate.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers- reverent- because it feels like his chest will burst if he doesn’t say it. “So fucking beautiful.”
Pete hums, and in the next beat he’s in Vegas’ lap- breaths mingling in heated puffs. Their wounds graze when they kiss, this time, and it’s a different sort of pain. It feels liberating- where the cuts on his wrists had felt punishing. Pete’s fingers dance lightly along the cuff, mapping out the evidence of his loyalty. He tastes like copper and mint.
“Vegas,” the older says, once they part, but it comes out more like a whimper. “Don’t hurt yourself anymore.”
This time Pete’s the one bearing his soul. He bumps their noses together, eyes resolute and misty and so, so fond. Vegas has no idea what deity he pleased to deserve the gift of this man and all his devotion, but he thinks he’ll be praying at their altar for life if it means keeping Pete here- in his lap, in his bedroom, by his side. He wants to bottle up all the crazed affection he sees in the older man’s eyes to get drunk off of later. Instead, he buries his face in the ex-bodyguard’s neck and lets his eyes flutter closed. He can feel Pete’s breathing on his neck.
“I don’t think I want to,” he admits, shakily, but means every word. “When you’re with me.”
Pete hums against the younger’s shoulder. “It’s a start.”
Hearing that- it feels a lot like love.