Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

… and they lived happily ever after.

This is something Pete always found a bit strange when watching movies. The big crisis is over, the couple finally got together, everything’s peachy and then the movie ends. What happens after Richard Gere climbs up the fire escape to hand Julia Roberts the flowers? What is Pretty Woman doing the whole day for the rest of her life with him? Simply looking pretty? 

And what is Pete supposed to do, now that he’s in a real relationship for the first time in his life, with none other than a hot Mafia boss?

At first, everything is easy. 

There is the coup and Vegas needs Pete to help clear house. So apart from being ‘The boyfriend^TM’, Pete is also Vegas’ personal boogieman, someone to scare people with so that they quickly fall into line. Naturally—at least in Vegas’ line of thought—Pete is put in charge of the executions. They weed out all infiltrators, and Pete disposes of them. Nice and clean, simple head shots. Perhaps Vegas thinks that Pete is enjoying this kind of work, and it’s not as if he hates it—no—but it doesn’t alleviate the buzzing either. It’s simply something he’s good at, killing doesn’t bother him, and so Pete doesn’t protest.

After a few months there is no one left to kill, Pete is out of work and bored, and so Vegas takes him along to his various meetings. As an extra guard, so to say.  Pete has to admit, Vegas is a natural leader. For someone refusing to be a part of an organised crime family for such a long time, he’s remarkably talented in stepping up and taking over all the reigns. Of course it’s not a totally smooth ride, but Vegas manages to salvage whatever problem is thrown at him. And through it all Pete stands nearby, watches, and tries not to yawn. Organising the coup was fun, everyday Mob business is boring as hell as far as he’s concerned. Hours upon hours of meetings where everyone is expected to behave in a civilised manner. Logistics. Bookkeeping. Yawn. 

It’s not as if he’s complaining about his new life; he now has a home, a hot boyfriend and they have a phenomenal sex life, but Pete cannot help feeling a bit restless. Vegas has not just one but two jobs, he’s extremely busy and loving every second of it, but it means he has less time over to spend with his boyfriend. Or is this the normal amount of time couples spend together? Pete doesn’t have a clue and there is not really anyone he can ask, so he buys more books on relationships and spends his time reading them. 

Since he isn’t allowed to play, Pete wants to work as well, but Vegas has very strong views about Pete working as a therapist again. It’s one of the few times where they actually start yelling at each other, and it ends with Vegas putting Pete in charge of the cellar, to give him something to do. 

The cellar—some of the staff still call it Khun Gun’s little torture realm. 

Vegas refuses to set foot down there, he must have some very bad memories associated with that place but it is nothing he wants to talk about. Deal with it, he tells Pete. Redecorate, do whatever you want. 

What Pete wants is to do is to explore how he could incorporate knitting needles into a new  artwork, but instead he finds himself renovating the basement. He’s unsure what Vegas expects of him, a state-of-the-art torture chamber, a ‘normal’ cellar? Or perhaps a spa area for the guards? Some holding cells and interrogation rooms seem to be the most appropriate for a Mob mansion, so that’s what Vegas gets. Nice and clean, with lots of good lighting, IKEA furniture and state-of-the-art tools for torture, they are not in the dark ages anymore after all. Vegas is pleased, even though he still refuses to go downstairs to have a look at Pete’s work himself.

Now and then, Vegas has someone who needs to be interrogated and Pete dutifully takes care of it. He’s very effective when it comes to interrogating people, always gets the results Vegas needs but inside the Abyss is yawning. This kind of work doesn’t take care of the itch, the ever present buzzing. Damn, being ‘The boyfriend^TM’ is boring. 

So Pete starts a harmless little game with Arm, leaving the corpses of his disappointingly clean mob kills all over the city in an intricate pattern. Arm is fun to deal with, but Vegas is less than pleased when he finds out about the game—Arm is off limits. No killing and no playing with Arm. Oh, and no lunch meetings either, to Pete’s surprise Vegas suddenly develops a jealous streak.

Actually, everyone who is the slightest bit interesting to both Pete and the Abyss ends up being off limits. So Pete tells Vegas that he’s going out of town for a while, to blow off some steam. At least that is the plan, but apparently the thought of Pete leaving his side is stressing out Vegas pretty badly. He starts having nightmares, and in the end Pete doesn’t leave. He just shoves the buzzing deep into a corner of his mind and tells himself to be patient. 

Now and then, when the days seem endlessly long, when there is nothing to do, when it’s just him and the cat he didn’t want in the first place because Vegas is God knows where, Pete wonders  how his life would be if he hadn’t glitched. What would have happened to Vegas if all had gone according to plan? And in these dark moments he cannot help but feel a certain amount of resentment because he will never know. This will forever be the one game he didn’t see through to the end. And he feels cheated. 

But then Vegas returns home like a whirlwind, tired after a long day of work. He complaints about how the tie has been strangling him all day, throws it into a corner, and his suit jacket as well. And before Pete can make a snarky reply, Vegas grabs him and pushes him against the nearest cupboard, kissing him until both of them are out of breath. And just like that the Abyss shuts up and retreats because Pete is glitching again, glitching badly because he’s so deliriously happy that Vegas loves him so much. All of Pete’s dark thoughts disappear, he doesn’t understand how he could ever feel that way in the first place. Vegas loves him, and he loves Vegas, and they are going to make this relationship work, they are having their happily ever after despite everything.  

Of course it would help if Vegas would work less. And if he would get into the habit to share his appointment calendar with Pete, that would be nice too, because that would mean that Pete doesn’t have to hunt down their head of security all the time to ask him about Vegas’ schedule for the day.

Today is one of these days again. 

Vegas has been gone since the early morning, and Pete is sure they had plans for the afternoon, but his boyfriend is a no-show for lunch. Bummer. The more time passes, the more irritated Pete gets. And eventually he leaves their apartment and goes to track down Jai to ask about Vegas’ whereabouts. 

The fact that their head of security suddenly looks as if he’s bitten into a lemon is a very telling cue that Vegas is up to no good. Whatever his boss is doing, Jai disapproves. Emphatically. Which rouses Pete’s curiosity. 

“Is he pretending to be a police officer again?” Pete asks, because usually that is the only reason for Jai to throw a discreet fit like this. He can sympathise with the man, if it were up to him, Vegas would have stopped being a detective a long time ago. It’s ridiculous to try and be a Mafia boss and a member of the police force at the same time, those occupations are not compatible. But Vegas is nothing but stubborn about this, and both Pete and Jai have stopped hounding him about it. 

“Khun Vegas is having a meeting,” Jai informs Pete grimly. 

Of course he is. Pete sighs deeply. “I figured. So when is he expected to be home again? We had plans, you know. I thought you were supposed to remind him of that?”

“Oh, Khun Vegas is already home,” a guard sitting at a nearby desk inserts himself into the conversation and receives the evil eye from Jai for doing so. 

All right. So Vegas is having a meeting somewhere in this mansion, a meeting that Jai disapproves of. A meeting that made him forget about his afternoon plans with Pete, which is really unacceptable. “I see…” Maybe Pete sounds a bit ominous, because Jai and the other guard exchange an alarmed look. “I guess I just have to remind him myself about our date. Which meeting room is he in?”

The head of security is looking increasingly nervous. “Why don’t you go and wait for Khun Vegas upstairs? I’ll give him a call to remind him and I am sure he’ll be joining you in no time at all.”

“I doubt Khun Vegas has his phone with him at the swimming pool,” the unlucky guard once again points out before Jai silences him with another sharp look. 

Wait a moment… “He’s having a meeting? At the pool?” Pete arches an eyebrow at both of them. “You got to be joking. Vegas would never have a business meeting there. So what is he really up to?”

The way the two men are casting longing glances at the door while staying silent really speaks volumes.

Inhale. Exhale. Stay calm. Pete forces himself to smile even though he’s pissed off. Is Vegas trying to avoid meeting him? What the fuck is all this secrecy about? “Who is he meeting with then?” he asks in a deceptively gentle voice.  

That must have been the wrong question to ask, judging from Jai’s worried expression. But since Pete keeps glaring at him, the head of security finally gives in. “Khun Vegas is having a meeting with Khun Porsche.” 

Porsche. 

Pete can feel his smile getting brittle around the edges. No wonder no one here wanted him to know about that meeting. Vegas is having Porsche over for a ‘meeting’. At the swimming pool, of all the places. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

Why does he feel so upset all of a sudden? “See? That wasn’t so difficult,” Pete manages to reply, doing his best to sound totally uninterested. “They haven’t seen each other in a while, I guess they have a lot to talk about. Maybe I should go and invite Porsche to stay for dinner.” The dimpled smile seems to reassure Jai that Pete isn’t about to do anything stupid. Who knows what Vegas might have told him? As if Pete would be upset and go after Porsche… Khun Porsche is on ‘The List’ after all—another one who’s off limits. 

“Sorry for taking up your time,” Pete mumbles and then leaves the office. He’s not going to go to  pool. No, he’s not. Vegas is meeting his best friend, that’s all. Their friendship has been strained ever since his takeover of the family business, Vegas is probably happy to be able to finally talk to Porsche.

In an unofficial setting. 
In total privacy. 
At the pool. 

An image flashes through Pete’s mind: Vegas propelling himself forward, slicing gracefully through the water with each stroke, his muscles flexing… Fuck! Pete is already turning around and striding towards the pool area located in one of the side wings of the mansion. Mine, the Abyss whispers in his mind. Mine to look at. Mine, not yours. 

Yes, of course they have a pool, this is practically a requirement for any decent-sized mansion in this country. 

Theirs lies concealed behind towering mahogany doors adorned with intricate carvings. More fucking antiques. Has anyone ever wondered if those antique doors will get damaged from the humidity? Probably not. The Theerapanyakuls are so filthily rich, they’ll just replace them with another set of obscenely expensive antique doors without batting an eyelash. 

Pete is well aware that he’s not acting entirely rational just now, and that confuses him. It’s probably the setting for this meeting that irritates him the most. If Vegas wants to talk to Porsche, fine (No, it isn’t, whispers the Abyss). But does it have to be by the pool? 

Irked, Pete pushes through those damn doors and kicks off his sandals. There are two more pairs of shoes, standing side by side, neatly arranged against the wall. One of them belongs to Vegas. With a growl of displeasure, Pete grabs the unknown pair of shoes and dumps them into the nearest trashcan. Petty, yes, but he cannot help himself. Unfortunately this doesn’t make him feel any better. 

Pete marches through the locker room, intent to barge into the pool area and disrupt the conversation but as he approaches the swing door, he hesitates. Maybe he should take a few moments to calm down again, not that he gives those two friends any reason for teasing him. 

He will be calm and collected. Entirely unconcerned. Not bothered at all. 

Or not.  

All it takes is a glance through the small glass window in the door, and a hot wave of jealousy slams into Pete, which takes him completely by surprise. 

The pool itself isn’t all that huge, just large enough to comfortably swim some training laps. Its  mosaic tiles form intricate patterns that seem to shift in the light, creating a kaleidoscope of dancing reflections across the whole room. And on Vegas. 

Vegas, who’s currently standing in the pool, submerged up to his hips, the water pearling over his bare upper body. Damn, he looks delicious. Mine, the Abyss purrs and then growls because it isn’t the only one admiring this view. 

Between the loungers surrounding the pool, Vegas’ guest is pacing, and apparently in the middle of delivering a monologue or perhaps a rant. It’s been a while since Pete last met Porsche, and he is surprised how well the other man cleans up. Gone are the days of jeans and t-shirts, Porsche’s actually wearing a suit today. Moss green, with a white shirt, the colour suits him very well. Seems Porsche has also picked up one of Kinn’s habits, he seems allergic to buttons because that shirt is showing entirely too much skin. 

Pete has to admit Porsche is attractive. All that sun-kissed skin, the laughing eyes, the easy smile, the cheerful personality. No wonder everybody loves Porsche. Whatever he’s saying causes Vegas to laugh heartily, and a sharp pain arrows through Pete’s chest. Now Porsche is gesticulating wildly and Vegas laughs even harder, and Pete feels as if someone’s trying to dig his heart out of his chest using their fingernails. 

Fuck!  

As quietly as possible, Pete opens the door to listen in on their conversation. 

“… and no matter how much I try to disentangle my foot, the sock is stuck on the damn zipper. And they are serving the dessert now and Korn keeps asking Kinn and me all these questions, trying to make polite conversation and I know I need to get loose before the damn meal is over.” Porsche rambles on and on, his voice as melodious as always. 

“But the sock is really stuck, and Kinn’s trying not to flinch or show any sort of reaction, which really isn’t easy considering that he’s hard as a rock. He’s got this panicky glint in his eyes, you know that look, totally terrified his dad’s going to notice what we are doing. And Korn’s almost finished with the dessert now, he’ll rise any moment and will expect us to follow him to the lounge for a drink, so I make a last effort to pull my foot free, but I slip out of the damn sock. What a fucking disaster, now I am half barefoot and my sock’s still hanging from Kinn’s open zipper, and Korn gets up and expects Kinn to follow, which of course he cannot do without giving everything away.”

Vegas is laughing so hard that has to wipe tears from his eyes and Pete is mesmerised. He hasn’t seen Vegas laugh like this for the longest time. Not since… he doesn’t even remember when the last time was. It’s been too long, a sentiment Porsche apparently shares. 

“Trust me, for those involved it was more traumatising than funny, but it’s nice to see you laugh like this, Vegas.” Porsche stops pacing and wanders closer to the edge of the pool. “You should laugh more often, you are way too serious lately.” 

“Yeah well…I didn’t have much to laugh about lately.” Vegas is trying to get himself back under control, his shoulders are still shaking with suppressed laughter as he answers Porsche. And again, something deep inside of Pete is aching sharply. Is it his fault that Vegas isn’t laughing anymore?

Porsche sighs and suddenly turns serious again. “Are you happy, Vegas?” 

“Are you?” Vegas deflects and allows himself to sink deeper until the water reaches his neck. “Are you getting along with your in-laws?”

With a despairing groan, Porsche runs his hands through his hair. “They are driving me insane. Korn’s a creepy bastard, always watching me to see if he can get any dirt of me so he can blackmail and control Kinn. And don’t get me started about your youngest cousin… Did I mention that Kim’s somehow developed a crush on my little brother? Now he’s serenading him like some obsessed medieval troubadour. I never know when he’ll pop up all of a sudden with a guitar to sing a terribly cheesy song with even cheesier lyrics that he composed just for Chay. And the little idiot is of course so impressed by it all. I swear, I get nauseous when I see them making heart eyes at another, it’s disgusting.”

Vegas grins and allows himself to float on his back, staring at the ceiling above while he listens. 

“As for Tankhun…,” and here the tone of Porsche’s voice suddenly changes, getting more grim.  “You know he’s having nightmares again, Vegas?”

Pete can see that Vegas is closing his eyes, just floating on his back, refusing to answer. Perhaps he knows already. 

But Porsche isn’t about to let him get away with it. “He’s being having nightmares ever since the incident at the veterinarian.”

“That was to be expected,” Vegas points out quietly without opening his eyes. “But he has a good therapist, he’ll get over the kidnapping trauma eventually.”

“Yeah well, I am sure the whole kidnapping attempt was deeply traumatising as well, but that’s not what his nightmares are about. Do you know what he screams at night?…  ‘Shut up, shut up, make him shut up! He’s in my head, make him shut up! I don’t want to hear it, evil wicked poisonous words! Make him shut up! … Wanna take a guess who he’s dreaming about, Vegas?”

A part of Pete purrs with delight upon hearing this, but the rest of him is watching Vegas worriedly.  Oh fuck, Vegas wasn’t supposed to find out about that. 

And as expected, Vegas grows very still and then allows himself to sink beneath the surface, disappearing from view. Shit. Porsche taps his foot impatiently, waiting for his friend to resurface again and Pete… Pete swallows hard, and immediately starts making a list of plausible excuses for any accusations Vegas might throw his way later today. 

After a short while Vegas comes up for air again and swims to the edge of the pool where Porsche is waiting for him. “Just say what you want to say, Porsche, don’t beat around the bush,“ he says, suddenly sounding very tired. 

“Are you happy, Vegas?” Porsche asks him earnestly once more. “Are you truly happy with him? We haven’t had time to talk, truly talk, since shit hit the fan and you suddenly took over the family business. Have you at any time actually stopped and thought about how much you have changed since he entered your life?” 

Pete narrows his eyes, experiencing a surge of red hot anger. What the fuck is Porsche trying to achieve with these kind of questions?! Stay the fuck out of my relationship, asshole!

Vegas grips the tiles at the edge of the pool, for a moment it looks as if he’s about to pull himself up and out of the water, but then he releases them again and instead brushes away the wet strands of hair that keep falling into his eyes before he clears his throat. “From your line of questioning, I assume that you aren’t thrilled about my relationship with Pete. Fine, let’s have this talk then.” He looks up at Porsche with a frown. “I wouldn’t be with Pete if he didn’t make me happy. I know this might be difficult to comprehend since our relationship has had its ups and downs, but I love him. It’s not his fault that my life has changed so much lately, it’s merely a coincidence.” 

Pete’s impressed how well Vegas has learned to lie. He didn’t even bat an eyelash lying to Porsche right now. Because it was obviously a lie, Vegas knows very well that Pete has been the catalyst of all the rather drastic changes that took part in Vegas’ life in the past year. 

“Vegas…,” Porsche sighs as he crouches down at the edge of the pool. “I know that you love him, you have made that perfectly clear already, but sometimes it feels more like an obsession than love to those of us watching it all from the sidelines. I cannot shake the feeling that he’s not as innocent as he seems. Please tell me you haven’t forgotten that you saw him killing his Ex? I mean, no one in this family is a stranger to violence and murder, but surely you read Chan’s report about the incident at the veterinary clinic as well, no?” Porsche gives his friend a beseeching look. “He slaughtered all these people, Vegas. Forget for a moment that they were thugs. Your seemingly harmless  boyfriend massacred them all. You must have seen the photos, you must have seen what he did with the bodies. What kind of person does these kind of things?”

Monster. Freak. Weirdo. The unsaid words echo heavily through the room. 

The Abyss is totally unconcerned, but Pete still finds himself cringing slightly. Porsche needs to shut up and leave. He’s messing with things he has no right to mess with. Mine, the Abyss whispers angrily. Fuck off.

Vegas cringes as well, avoiding to look directly at Porsche. “Pete’s a … complicated… person and you don’t know him like I do. He was only trying to protect both Tankhun and myself, that’s why he killed in those situations. I know Pete’s a bit socially awkward, but I swear once you get to know him better you will change your mind about him.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Vegas!” Porsche is losing his patience. “Your psychologist boyfriend put a gun into Tankhun’s hand, messed with his mind and made him shoot people. Can we please agree that that’s not an okay behaviour?! This is your cousin we are talking about after all. Who’s mentally unstable even on the best of days. And your boyfriend casually turned him into a mental wreck under the pretence of ‘saving’ him! A free therapy session, my ass! Do you know he even sent Tankhun an invoice?!”

Okay, so maybe sending the invoice was a stupid move. Too bad the impulse had been too strong to resist. Pete reckons that he’ll get an earful about that from Vegas later today; the little twitch at the corner of Vegas’ mouth is a dead giveaway of just how angry he is deep down. 

“I’ll have a chat with Pete about that, he won’t be doing that again,” Vegas reassures Porsche, and then pushes himself away from the edge of the pool and back into the deeper water. Even his strokes convey how furious he is,  but instead of exploding he’s holding it all in. Pete is impressed. Vegas 2.0 really got rid of his anger issues. Such a perfect butterfly he created. 

“In that aspect you haven’t changed at all, still running away to avoid dealing with your problems!” Porsche shouts after him. 

“Oh, shut up Porsche!” Vegas stops swimming in the middle of the pool to tread water, and to glare at his best friend. “Pete isn’t a problem that needs to be dealt with! What are you trying to do here, break up my relationship? What the fuck do you want? Should I pick someone better? Who? You? We’re not compatible, remember? We tried.” 

‘We tried’—Pete goes very still. Vegas—his Vegas—and beautiful Porsche? This is the first time he hears about it and it doesn’t sit well with him. Unexpectedly, he’s all insecure and that takes him by surprise. Best friends—with benefits? Is that why they are so close? Pete never truly understood why Vegas fell in love with him, and now he understands it even less. Maybe Vegas couldn’t get Porsche, so he settled for Pete? Is that it? Fuck, why is it suddenly so difficult to breathe? I’m in the way, he thinks. Porsche wants to get rid of me so he can have Vegas all to himself again.  

Speaking of which—Porsche scoffs loudly. “Oh please…stop trying to change the subject. Can‘t you see that I am worried about you? Stop being so blinded by love that you do not see the huge red flags merrily waving over your boyfriend’s head. You don’t need to break up withPete, I just want you to be aware of what is going on. To watch out for yourself. Besides, I wouldn’t pick you if you were the last person on earth, you are a lousy kisser.”

Another gut punch. Vegas has been kissing Porsche? Feeling a bit dazed, Pete wonders why he thought listening in on this conversation was a good idea. Now everything in his head is a total mess, his emotions are like a ball of yarn after Venice has had a go at it—a huge convoluted knot. He clenches his hands into fists, trying to breathe through it, but without success.

Pete wants to put his fist through the glass window of the door, he is so… so… Fuck! Angry doesn’t even come close to describing how he feels. Glitching again, fuck fuck fuck. He has heard enough. Is he supposed to stand here and listen to them reminiscing about their great and wonderful friendship and perhaps their shared kisses? No thank you. Porsche needs to leave, needs to leave right away before he succeeds in messing with Vegas’ mind. 

Gritting his teeth, Pete slams ‘The boyfriend^TM’ mask into place. Then he yanks the door to the pool area fully open and forces himself to casually stroll towards the pool where Porsche is still crouching at the edge of the water while talking to Vegas. Both of them seem a bit startled by his entrance. “Oh, there you are, Vegas, finally I found you,” Pete calls out cheerfully. “Hi there, Porsche, I had no idea you’d drop by for a visit. Long time, no see.” And then Pete gifts both of them with one of his dimpled smiles. See, totally harmless boyfriend here. Nothing to worry about. 

Still treading water in the middle of the pool, Vegas shares an undecipherable look with Porsche, and then smiles at Pete. “Sorry I missed our date, I hope you are not too upset about it, sunshine. I just needed to work off of some tension after the morning meeting with the suppliers, so I went for a swim and then Porsche showed up.”

Pete joins Porsche at the edge of the pool and shrugs. “Don’t fret, it’s okay. I totally understand, you two have a lot of catching up to do.” Then he glances down at Porsche, still forcing himself to smile. “Will you be joining us for dinner?” Say yes and I’ll drown you in the soup.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Vegas resumes swimming another lap. Porsche sighs and then turns towards Pete, shaking his head. “Sorry, I have to decline. I have a dinner date with Kinn.”

Apparently Porsche knows when he’s not welcome. Pete nods, and leans down towards the other man, briefly checking that Vegas is safely out of earshot before he addresses Porsche in a low voice. “Don’t ever try to drive a wedge between me and Vegas again, or nightmares will be the least of your problems.”

Eyes widening with surprise, Porsche takes a moment to stare at Pete, but then he has the gall to smirk. “Feeling a bit insecure, Pete? Is that why you’re worried that a few well placed words of mine could sway Vegas’ affection towards you? Oh, and don’t bothered threatening me, I am not as easily scared as Tankhun.” 

One. Two. Three. Four—oh, to hell with it! Holding it all in is entirely overrated. 

“Vegas is mine,” the Abyss growls lowly and before Porsche has time to react, Pete shoves him into the water. It might be a petty move, but it is very satisfying. With a yelp and a splash, Porsche lands in the the swimming pool, surely that lovely moss-green suit will be ruined by the chlorine. Pete smirks darkly.

At the other end of the pool Vegas is but a spectator, too far away to interfere. “Pete!” he calls out sharply in reproach, and Pete merely shrugs. As far as he’s concerned Porsche had it coming. 

Resurfacing, Porsche coughs and sputters, reminding Pete very much of a drowned rat. Trying to wipe the water from his eyes and face, he gives glares at Pete. “Must have hit a sore spot…” Porsche then mutters under his breath, but loud enough for Pete to hear it anyway. 

And Pete snaps. Mine, it echoes through his mind. Mine, mine, mine! And the next moment he finds himself kneeling at the edge of the pool, his hand on top of Porsche’s head, pushing him under the surface again. Fucking busybody, being snarky and trying to take away Vegas? Not gonna happen. 

“Pete!!!” Vegas is making his way towards them as fast as he can swim. Porsche is struggling wildly, trying to dislodge Pete’s hand that is holding him under water. He’s a slippery little devil, and manages to free himself before Vegas has the chance to interfere. Gasping for air and coughing, Porsche quickly puts some distance between him and Pete, swimming a bit to the side.   Secondary drowning is a thing, right? Pete hopes Porsche inhaled his fair share of water. How dare he try to prejudice Vegas against him! 

Speaking of which… Vegas is very obviously pissed off. He arrives at Porsche’s side, assisting him to reach the edge of the pool. Every touch, every concerned gesture between the friends makes Pete feel even more resentful. He stands up, crosses his arms before his chest and watches them with a frown on his face. Screw the boyfriend mask. 

Once Porsche is safely out of the water and sitting at the edge of thee pool, Vegas turns to glare at his boyfriend. “What the actual fuck, Pete?!”

“He started it,” Pete defends himself heatedly. 

“Listening in on other people’s conversations is impolite,” Porsche counters as he shrugs out of the soggy suit jacket and tosses it aside before he gives Vegas a pointed look. “Now do you get what I was talking about?” 

“Bloody hell, is it too much to ask for that I want my best friend and my boyfriend to get along?” Vegas complaints, thoroughly exasperated by their behaviour. 

“Yes,” Pete and Porsche answer him at the same time, and then turn to glare at each other. 

Vegas groans. “Fine, have it your way. You can both fuck off, I don’t want to see either of you right now.” Then he turns away from both of them with an angry huff and resumes swimming, his arms slashing through the water as if he’s trying to punch someone. 

“Running away again!” Porsche yells after him, gets to his feet and sighs. He seems to consider arguing with Pete once more, but then wisely decides against it and heads for the locker room in search of towels, his wet feet making splashing sounds on the tiles. 

Good riddance. The less he sees of Porsche, the better, Pete figures. Now he only has to placate his angry boyfriend somehow. From experience he knows that it is best to allow Vegas to blow off some steam first, so he settles down to wait. Vegas is stubborn, but so is he. 

It takes about half an hour before Vegas gradually slows down, has a look around and then swims towards the side of the pool where Pete is standing, waiting for him. “I told you to fuck off,” he mutters grumpily. 

“Yes, you did, but you should have known better.” Damn, but Vegas looks good with the water pearling off his nice toned upper body. Mine. Pete sits down, dangling his legs into the water, trousers be damned. 

“Pete… is this really necessary? That’s not exactly hygienic, you know?” There it is, the exasperated eye roll Pete was hoping for. “What the hell has gotten into you today? I know I fucked up forgetting our lunch date, but did you have to take it out on Porsche?” Vegas glares at him, unaware that Pete is very fond of Vegas glaring at him like this because he looks hot when he’s angry. 

With a bratty smirk, Pete splashes some water at Vegas’ face. “He deserved what he got,” he argues, totally unapologetic. 

Vegas swipes the excess water from his face and sighs deeply at Pete’s antics. “I haven’t met him for months, he hasn’t barely been talking to me since the coup. The fact that he showed up here today was a huge step in the right direction when it comes to keeping the peace between our two families.  How do you think Kinn will react when he finds out that you tried to drown his boyfriend?” 

“I hope he’ll tell Porsche to stay the hell away from you, which suits me just fine,” Pete shrugs, because he doesn’t give a damn about Vegas’ cousin’s feelings. The only one he truly cares about is standing before him in the pool, looking sexy as hell. “I told you I don’t share,” he points out and then hops off the edge, gliding into the pool. 

“Bloody hell, Pete…” Yes, the fact that Pete’s fully clothed clearly irks Vegas. “What are you even talking about? Who said anything about sharing?” And when Pete starts wading towards him, he sighs. “Just what do you think you are doing?”  

“I am trying to distract you, is it working?” Pete admits teasingly. The water is up to his chest now, plastering his shirt to his skin. He’s not stupidly handsome as Porsche, but perhaps he doesn’t need to be? He can make Vegas forget about anyone else, it worked with Tem. “Damn, Vegas, stop glaring at me like that, you are driving me crazy, and then me being fully clothed in the pool will be the least of your worries when it comes to pool hygiene.” 

Pete has the pleasure to see Vegas turn a delectable shade of pink at that. “You wouldn’t…”

“Is that a dare?” Pete wonders, reaching out to snatch the edge of Vegas’ swimming trunks, pulling them together. “Now kiss me already,” he demands. 

Which Vegas proceeds to do. Very enthusiastically even. Pete congratulates himself for dodging the bullet of Vegas’ wrath, at least for the time being, before all rational thought disappears under the onslaught of Vegas’ tongue dipping into his mouth. 

Glitch. Pete shivers, his whole body is tingling as he sinks into the kiss. Damn Vegas for being his weakness and his obsession. It’s irritating and wonderful at the same time how he completely loses his mind every time Vegas touches him. 

Why is he still wearing clothes when Vegas is already half-naked, grinding his hardening cock against Pete’s hip while nibbling on Pete’s lower lip? Unfair. But peeling oneself out of a wet shirt while clinging to someone is easier said than done. Pete fumbles with the buttons and whines in frustration, which cause Vegas to chuckle breathlessly as he pulls away. No! Don’t stop. With a growl, Pete tries to drag him back in for another kiss. 

“Pete... Not here, all right? Let’s go somewhere more private,” Vegas groans against his mouth, and he has a point, they could get interrupted at any moment, after all the guards are allowed to use the pool as well. 

“Damn…” Well, it’s his own fault for starting this, Pete reckons. He wanted to distract Vegas and got distracted as well. “Fine, let’s go upstairs then.” Impatiently, he starts pulling Vegas towards the edge of the pool. The sooner they get to their own apartment, the sooner they can continue where they left off. Pete wants Vegas naked, he needs Vegas to fuck him, to whisper—no, shout— his name when he climaxes. His name, not Porsche’s name. Pete needs to know he’s the only one on Vegas’ mind. 

His boyfriend seems more than willing to continue this in their bedroom. Both of them crawl out of the pool and then almost slip and tumble back in when they stop for a short kiss that escalates in no time at all. 

And again it is Vegas who is more level-headed and keeps this from going any further. “Pete… are you trying to make me come already?” He stifles a moan and grabs Pete’s wrist, removing his hand from Vegas’ swimming trunks. “I swear sometimes you are like a human octopus, you really cannot keep your hands to yourself, can you?” 

“We could do it in the locker room,” Pete suggests single-mindedly. The bedroom seems a bit too far away. ”Or the toilet, we can lock the stall.”

Vegas laughs at that and leans in, but only to kiss the tip of Pete’s nose. “You are so insatiable…,” he mumbles softly. “How about we try something new, sunshine?”

Pete has finally succeeded in opening all the damn buttons of his shirt, he’s in the process of taking it off but now he pauses, intrigued. The way Vegas’ smiles at him makes him even more curious. No pool, no locker room, no toilet stall… “The shower?” he guesses, totally up for that as well. 

But Vegas shakes his head. “How about we switch?” Of all the things Pete expected Vegas to suggest, this wasn’t it. He must be looking so flabbergast that Vegas laughs and rewards him with another nose tip kiss. “You should see your face, sunshine. Priceless. Does this suggestion really come totally out of the blue for you? Admit it, the thought must have crossed your mind as well now and then.” 

God yes… yes, of course… but Pete keeps that part of himself very tightly locked down at all times. And now Vegas has thrown the doors wide open all of a sudden and Pete isn’t sure if he should be thrilled or alarmed. “The topic never came up before so I just assumed you weren’t really into that,“ he admits after a moment of hesitation. 

Vegas slings his arms around Pete’s waist and his smile is doing strange things to Pete’s heart, it skips and flutters and races and surely it isn’t healthy to feel like this in the long run. “Well, you thought wrong,” Vegas states. “I happen to like it, it’s a different kind of arousal, a different kind of orgasm. I don’t switch very often, but I think with you I will enjoy it a lot. But if you’d rather not…?”

“Oh trust me, I want to,” Pete reassures him hastily. Then he swallows, his mouth is suddenly dry. Topping Vegas… holy shit. It’s going to be tricky, it’s going to require a lot of self-control, but yeah, he’s totally up for that. “Are you really sure about it?” He asks, just to be on the safe side. “You are not going to freak out on me, are you? You know, bad memories resurfacing and such…” No need to spell it out, Vegas knows he’s referring to Beam. 

“That was then, and now is now. I trust you. It’ll be all right, sunshine.” Vegas shrugs and then he winks at Pete. “You better give your best, I’ll rate you afterwards.” 

It’s difficult to keep worrying when Vegas is making outrageous claims like that, so Pete wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Darling, you better prepare to be blown away. I plan to ruin you for everyone else. Just wait and see.” The next moment he yelps when Vegas slaps his ass. 

“I’ll hold you to that promise, sunshine. Now let me take a quick shower, you can wait for me upstairs.” Grinning, Vegas gives Pete another quick peck on the cheek before ending the hug. “Love ya,” he whispers and heads for the locker room and the showers. 

Pete watches him go and closes his eyes for a few seconds while taking a steadying breath. All right, he’s going to top Vegas. There’s nothing to worry about, he loves Vegas. This has nothing whatsoever to do with what he did to Beam. He just prays that Vegas will not have some stupid flashback and freak out in the middle off it, ruining it all. 

He probably better hurry upstairs and kick the cat out of the bedroom, they don’t need an audience for this. Imagine Venice ruining it all by suddenly attacking their feet while they are doing it, yikes. 

Grimacing, Pete hastens to get upstairs to their apartment. Of course everyone’s staring at him when he strides past them, barefoot, his clothes soaking wet, the shirt undone. But since he’s in a good mood, he simply flips them off. 

The day is turning out to be pretty good after all. 

Pete takes a quick shower as well, to get the smell of chlorine off his skin. Then he goes to feed Venice a generous amount of cat food that will surely put the cat in an instant food coma, so that it will sleep on the couch for several hours instead of frantically scratching at their bedroom door. 

While he’s busy with that, he can hear how Vegas returns and once again, he cannot help but feel a shiver of excitement running through him. It doesn’t matter anymore that Vegas once kissed Porsche, Pete has all but forgotten about that already, that’s water under the bridge, yeah. Now Vegas loves Pete, and their already excellent sex life is about to get even better. 

With a spring to his step, Pete heads for their bedroom, and makes sure to close the door. No interruptions wanted. Besides, kind of defeats the purpose of soundproofing the room if they were to leave the door open. 

Vegas is already waiting for him, standing beside their bed, a towel strung low around his waist. His hair is still wet and unruly, and everything about him simply takes Pete’s breath away. He’ll never get used to this sight, he knows it. Pete’s stupid heart dances with joy, it wants to skip right out of his chest and throw itself at Vegas to become one with him. Fuck, how embarrassing, he’s getting all poetic and sentimental.

Thumbs hooked into the towel, Vegas is watching him with a grin and Pete can feel his face getting hot. “Glad you are enjoying the view,” Vegas drawls lazily. “You know, you’ve been very naughty today, Pete. Don’t think I have forgotten about what you did to Porsche. And Tankhun. We will be having a discussion about that, but not now. Just remember, you are not off the hook.”

Pete grimaces slightly but nods in understanding. Fine, whatever. Right now he only cares about how to get Vegas naked and on the bed. Should he beg him? Shove him? Order him? Throw him? It’s probably better not get too aggressive, Pete needs to keep a tight reign on himself.

“Sunshine?” Vegas lowers his voice and his grin widens. 

Pete’s heartbeat picks up speed. Maybe he should just pounce him and rip that towel off…

“I got a surprise for you, sunshine,” Vegas purrs, and Pete wants to purr as well and rub himself all over him. Reaching behind himself, there is a metallic clank and with a smile, Vegas lifts his hand, holding a pair of handcuffs. 

Pete blinks. Okay, he wasn’t expecting that, but that’s fine, he can roll with it. An additional challenge, fucking Vegas while being handcuffed… kinky, he likes the idea and if that makes Vegas feel safe…

Smirking like a fox in the henhouse, Vegas swirls the handcuffs gleefully, then with a flick of his hand, one of the cuffs snaps around his wrist and closes with a click. “Surprise…”

That click echoes through Pete’s mind like a gunshot, knocking the breath out of him. He can hear the blood roaring in his ears and his vision is going a bit fuzzy around the edges as he stares stupidly at the handcuff encircling Vegas’ wrist. Yes! Something deep inside of him snaps to attention. Yes yes yes!

Oh no. This is bad. This is really bad. Pete’s mouth is suddenly as dry as the desert, he swallows repeatedly and then forcibly drags his gaze away from the tantalising sight of steel against tanned skin. This is so very bad. “…I…,” he croaks, fighting to control the unexpected bout of panic he’s suddenly experiencing, “… I don’t think this is such a good idea, Vegas.” Liar, Liar, pants on fire. 

“I disagree,” Vegas seems to be amused by Pete’s reaction. “And I think your body does, too.” Vegas’ gaze drifts lower, he grins wickedly and pointedly arches an eyebrow. “Oh yes, you very much like this surprise.”

What the..? Dazed, Pete looks down at himself and then groans in despair. Oh fuck, he’s hard already, his boxers are tenting. No no no! “Trust me, Vegas, I really don’t think we should follow through with this.” Does his voice really sound this wobbly or is he just imagining it? Pete catches himself staring at the handcuffs again, and flinches. He doesn’t know where to look, where it’s safe to look. “Let’s just skip the handcuffs,” he suggests faintly, trying to ignore the uproar this proposal causes inside of him. He also notices that he’s started to tremble. For fuck’s sake, he’s trying to do the right thing! Why does his subconscious have to disagree so violently?! 

Instead of trying to reason with Pete, Vegas simply snaps the remaining handcuff around his other wrist. And then he nonchalantly tosses the key over his shoulder towards the bed. “Oops,” he announces teasingly. 

Fuck. 

Yes, let’s make sure those handcuffs sit really tight, string him up and then fuck Vegas… At a loss for words, Pete gapes at his boyfriend, struggling to find a way to convey what an abysmally bad idea it is for Vegas to handcuff himself and then expect Pete to behave himself. 

His eyes glinting with mischief, Vegas lifts his handcuffed arms above his head to stretch. The towel slips a few centimetres lower, and Pete catches himself making an embarrassingly needy sound as he hungrily takes in this display. Vegas handcuffed and stretched out, just like…

“I know you want this, Pete.” Vegas’ voice is like velvet. “Don’t try to deny it, I remember the look on your face when you found me strung up like this at Tawan’s loft. You have the same look on your face now, sunshine.”

God yes, he wants this badly, it’s like a dream come true. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to indulge in this fantasy, why can’t Vegas understand? “You hated being handcuffed, Vegas,” Pete points out desperately, then notices that he’s inching towards him already like a moth heading for the flame. “Yes, this is turning me on, but perhaps it would be wiser not to wake this sleeping lion.” 

“Oh but I want the lion awake and roaring, sunshine,” Vegas admits, resting his handcuffed hands on the top of his head, flexing his muscles. “You really think I’m unaware that you’ve been holding back all this time? Your restraint is admirable, but now I want to see you unleashed. Come on, Pete… “

Unleashing him? Is Vegas insane? “Can we please not do this? I don’t want to be unleashed. I am in fact very comfortable on my leash,” Pete begs, reaching out to flick Vegas’ nipple, but before he comes into contact with it, he jerks his hand back as if burned. Fuck. How did he get this close? They are standing only an arm’s length apart now.

Vegas seems to think that this is all one big game, he watches Pete’s struggle with a fond smile, not backing down. “I know you are worried that I will freak out, sunshine. But I promise you, I won’t. Now could you please get out of your head and stop overthinking the whole thing? Let’s just have fun, all right?”

Yes, let’s have some fun. Let’s see if it is possible to get Vegas to look as terrified as he did at the loft. No!  “Vegas…” Pete tries to reason with him one more time, but Vegas interrupts him.

“Shut up, Pete.” Holding his handcuffed hands tauntingly before Pete’s face, Vegas shakes them a little and the metals joints rustle against another, the sound sending goosebumps down Pete’s spine. “No more talking. How about you slam me against the wall, and then I want you to string me up on the chain and kiss me like you kissed me back then in the loft and …” He doesn’t get any further. 

Vegas wants this? Fine. Pete grabs the damn handcuffs, and jerks on them, so hard that Vegas forgets to finish whatever he was about to say and stumbles forward and into Pete. They stare at each other, both of them breathing hard. Throwing all caution to the wind, Pete grabs Vegas’ chin, tilts it up and then his mouth is on Vegas’ throat. 

Vegas hisses, and then groans as Pete’s teeth nip at the skin there. He’s just giving Vegas a taste of what’s to come, biting down a bit harder than absolutely necessary. It is meant as a last warning, but Vegas reacts with a very encouraging noise and Pete finds himself spiralling straight down into a whirlpool of lust. 

Mine. He sucks a hickey into the skin to mark Vegas. Like a vampire, the thought flashes through Pete’s mind, and he almost laughs. If he looks closely, he can still see the very faint scar of the bite mark he once gave Vegas, it feels like an eternity ago. If that bite mark had still been clearly visible, perhaps Porsche would have kept his distance today. Pete banishes that thought immediately, and proceeds to do what Vegas asked him to do — shoving him a few steps backwards against the wall. 

Vegas winces but takes the opportunity to loop his handcuffed arms around Pete’s neck and then they are kissing each other wildly. Much to Pete’s delight, Vegas seems to be really turned on as well, he’s sucking on Pete’s tongue and licking into his mouth as if his life depends on it. 

Frantically, Pete rolls their hips together, searching for some much needed friction. Fuck, he’s so damn hard already, if he isn’t careful this will be over way too soon. Now where’s that damn chain?!

When they moved into the mansion and did some much needed renovations, the chain was one of the first things they had installed in their bedroom. To the right side of the bed, with an elaborate pulley system at the ceiling that can lift an amazing astonishing of weight with barely the flick of a finger. Physics are great. And it’s that chain Pete is now searching for, it must be somewhere behind Vegas’ back, but he’s loath to disentangle himself to get a proper look. 

Vegas is all over him, Pete is getting dizzy with need. Mine! Maybe he should just forget about the chain, bend Vegas over the bed and fuck him that way. No! Damn, it’s difficult to think with Vegas demandingly pulling on his hair like that, steering them towards the bed. 

Pete blinks. Wait a second, he was supposed to be in charge this time! Panting harshly, he frees himself from Vegas’ arms and takes a step backwards. He’s falling back into the old familiar behaviour patterns between them, nice and safe. But didn’t Vegas want him to step out of his comfort zone? 

Flushed and irritated, Vegas has the nerve to glare at him. “What now? Why did you stop? Damn, Pete, could you please make up your mind or should I just go and jerk off in the bathroom?”

Oh, Vegas is mouthing off, cute. This seems to be just what the lion inside of Pete needs to finally jerk wide awake. Or rather, that part of himself that he has always kept tightly locked away. Narrowing his eyes, Pete makes a grab for Vegas’ throat, closing his fingers around it. “You’re not allowed to touch yourself,” he states resolutely. And fancy that, now Pete can even see the chain on its hook on the wall, a bit to the left side of them. He manoeuvres Vegas in its direction, applying just enough pressure to the windpipe that Vegas wheezes whenever he inhales. Such a lovely sound.

“Behave,” he continues and Vegas blinks and nods hastily in agreement. That’s how it should be, Vegas needs to obey. “And don’t move,” he warns Vegas before he releases his throat.  

Pete pulls one end of the chain towards them, the pulley system high above at the ceiling creaking faintly. The heavy metal feels good in his hands, and he cannot resist drawing it slowly over Vegas’ shoulder, who inhales sharply as the cool steel comes into contact with his heated skin. Yes! Chain him up! Mine!

There is a very sturdy carabiner at this end of the chain, and Pete fastens that to the links between the handcuffs. The sight of Vegas’ cuffed hands connected to the heavy chain is mesmerising, Pete cannot stop staring. Shit. There is this roaring in his ears again, or is that a faint buzzing?

Taking a deep breath, Pete double-checks that the handcuffs are correctly fastened. He glances at Vegas, who watches him closely, and their eyes meet. Pete’s heart does the all familiar tango, he swallows hard and then tightens the cuffs even further, just on the short side of being painful. Now it’s Vegas turn to gulp. “Last chance to change your mind,” Pete offers him, his voice sounding rather hoarse. But Vegas simply shakes his head. Good. Pete’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have released Vegas even if he had asked for it to at this point. 

He doesn’t know if he should treasure this moment or feel terrified; to be honest Pete is quite a mess right now. The fact that he wants Vegas chained up and at his mercy so very badly is worrisome, he thought he put those fantasies to rest a long time ago.

Reverently, Pete wraps one hand around the other end of the chain and pulls downwards ever so slightly. The pulley system rattles, and up go Vegas’ arms, slowly rising to the height of his neck, then his head and above. Vegas seems totally fine with it judging from the pleased expression on his face.

Shit shit shit. 

Pete feels out of breath and then notices that he’s hyperventilating. He badly wants to yank really hard on that chain, but that would leave Vegas hanging in the air, the strain on the wrists and arms would be excruciatingly painful.

Yes!
No! Absolutely not!

Pete forces himself to let go of the chain, he needs to redirect his thoughts in a safer direction. “I think you are overdressed,” he mumbles as his eyes come to rest on the towel wrapped around Vegas’ waist. 

“What are you planning to do about it?” Vegas purrs and stretches a bit, his stomach muscles rippling nicely. Such a show off. 

Cut it off. Pete clears his throat. “I’m pretty sure I know what you want me to do, and it involves me using my teeth. But this is me indulging in my fantasy now, remember? So no teeth.”

“Spoil sport.” Vegas sounds entirely too cheerful, which is in equal parts charming and irritating. 

“Damn Vegas, could you just shut up for a moment,” Pete begs him and sighs, because the buzzing or humming or whatever that noise in his head is, is driving him crazy. He wants to…No! Dammit, this should be fun, but he’s getting stressed out instead. He simply must not fuck this up. Vegas trusts him, Pete needs to make sure to tone it down. 

Wordlessly, he rips the towel off and casts it to the side. There, done. And then Pete hugs Vegas tightly, his head resting against the chest to listen to Vegas’ heartbeat. The steady thumping is very reassuring, it helps to calm him down. 

Vegas holds still, and eventually he sighs. “It’s just sex, Pete,” he reminds both of them softly. “We’ve had sex so many times, and I know this isn’t your first time switching. Just try and relax, all right? Don’t overthink it. Do what makes you feel good, and for the love of God, please don’t hold back. I’m not going to break, and I swear I will tell you if there’s anything I don’t like.”

Thump thump. Thump thump. Pete’s cheek is touching the scar tissue of Vegas’ gunshot wound, another reminder of how quickly things can go wrong. “Why do you have to make me feel so damn much, Vegas? It’s all a complete mess inside of me, sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in all these emotions,” he confesses quietly.

“Stop fretting, I love you, Pete. Now could you please not have an existential crisis while I’m hanging from a chain, sweetheart? Either free me so we can have some hot cocoa and a chat, or fuck me.” Vegas is nothing but practical. 

Against his will, Pete has to roll his eyes and instead of using some choice words to answer, he nips at Vegas’ nipple since it is conveniently close. “Insensitive oaf,” he mutters and because Vegas groans so sweetly,  Pete decides to lavish some more attention on that nipple. Which Vegas appreciates, a lot. His uneven breathing and soft moans drown out the buzzing in Pete’s mind and it gets easier to think again. 

Vegas is right, Pete is overthinking this whole thing. The canary is in the living room, either dozing from a food coma or destroying yet another couch, so Vegas is completely safe. And this is not the same situation as with Beam, whom Pete fucked knowing he’d kill him in the act. No, it’s an entirely different situation. Vegas loves him, and he loves Vegas. It’s all right for Pete to like the handcuffs and the chain on him, there is nothing to worry about. And it’s going to be okay if Pete gets a wee bit aggressive, both of them are used to rough sex after all. 

With this great weight removed from Pete’s shoulders, it gets easier to breathe again. 

Pete adjusts the tension of the chain until Vegas’ feet barely touch the floor. Damn, he looks hot like that. Mine! Another wave of fierce possessiveness threatens to take root, and to distract himself Pete traces the outline of Vegas’ mouth with the tip of his tongue before kissing him. 

Vegas pants into his mouth, teasingly trying to evade the kiss, and Pete has a flashback to their kiss in Tawan’s loft, when Vegas tried to do the same. No! Mine! With a warning growl, Pete digs his fingers into Vegas’ hair, holding him in place and Vegas hums happily. 

If only he’d not like it so much to see Vegas this helpless… Pete shoves his hand between Vegas’ legs, going for a feel of his cock. Not quite hard yet, but he can rectify that. Vegas inhales sharply at the contact and then instinctively tries to curl in on himself, but since he’s stuck on the chain, that isn’t possible and he has to fight to keep his balance. 

“Guess what, Vegas? Today’s your lucky day.” Another quick bruising kiss, then Pete breaks away to lick and nibble his way along Vegas’ throat. He even dares to playfully nip at the Adam’s apple before trailing more kisses down to the collar bone. Vegas shivers and shudders, a quick glance at his face confirms that he’s biting his lower lip to keep himself quiet. 

Pete loves touching Vegas, he gets a kick out of tracing the contours of the shoulder mucles, skim his fingers over the collarbones before his palm comes to rest over the scar tissue to feel Vegas’ rapid heartbeat. Deliberately slow, Pete’s hand then travels down the middle of the chest and over Vegas’ flat stomach. The way Vegas’ stomach muscles contract as soon as he touches them is such a rush.

Vegas’ breath hitches, but instead of going for the groin, Pete indulges himself and runs his hands along the sides of Vegas’ hips and down his thighs.

“How long do you think you’ll manage to stay quiet?” Pete wonders and then lifts his head to wink playfully at his boyfriend. “I think this time you’ll be the one to shout.” 

Vegas huffs, he looks determined to prove Pete wrong.”We’ll see about that, kitten.” But his breath hitches again as he watches Pete getting down to his knees in front of him. Impatiently, he shifts from one leg to the other, the chain rattling above him as he waits for Pete to continue.

Exactly, we’ll see about that. Pete is planning to take Vegas down a notch and so he ignores Vegas’ eagerly bopping cock and instead slowly draws his tongue along the crease between the thigh and the groin, tasting the salty skin and breathing in Vegas’ musky scent. 

A long-drawn hiss confirms that Vegas’ resolve is already weakening, he’s breathing heavily as he watches Pete with hooded eyes. The second Pete wets his lips and then flicks his tongue against the head of Vegas’ cock, a strangled curse escapes him with—yes—a shout. 

“I win,” Pete laughs, braces his hands on the thighs, twirls his tongue and licks along the whole length of Vegas’ cock. Vegas curses some more but spreads his legs as much as possible to give him easier access. Pete knows exactly how Vegas likes it, and within minutes Vegas is not only shouting, but begging as well. He arches into Pete, eyes half-closed, desperately needing more. The chain links clanks as he writhers and groans, muttering Pete’s name, but Pete doesn’t want him to come yet. With a sigh of regret, he pulls away.

Dismayed at the loss of contact, Vegas protests immediately. “No, don’t stop…just a bit more, please…” Since he cannot use his hands, Vegas then tries to somehow use his legs to keep Pete from moving away, and fails miserably. “Damn it, Pete!”

“All in good time.” Pete catches his breath, taking the time to slowly wipe the excess saliva from his face with the back of his hand. Flushed, slightly dishevelled and more than a little aroused, he gets back to his feet, shrugs out of his boxers and then crosses the short distance to their bed to root through the drawers of the nightstand. 

“Remind me never to let anyone come in here to clean,” he mutters as he tosses a handgun, a spare magazine, tissues, a knife, condoms, and an assortment of other things onto the bed in his search for some lube. 

“Look under the pillows,” Vegas suggests hoarsely while shifting restlessly back and forth, clinging to the chain. He’s so aroused and hard and sexy as hell, it is a very distracting sight. Mine. All mine. 

The bottle with the lubricant is indeed under the pillow and Pete scrambles off the bed again with it, to return to Vegas’ side. Without further ado, he spins Vegas around but then remembers to re-adjust the length of the chain so that Vegas can lower his arms and steady himself against the wall if he wants to. 

Skin finally meets skin as Pete melts the whole length of his body against Vegas, murmuring in a low voice “Tell me what you want, Vegas.” And then he teasingly rubs his cock against Vegas’ ass which causes Vegas to shudder.

“Oh, a new car would be nice. Or a private airplane…,” he jokes, but Pete grabs his hair and sinks his teeth into Vegas’ earlobe with a sharp nip. This time, the shudder running through Vegas is very pronounced. “Bloody hell… I want you to touch me. Feel you inside me. Happy now?” he admits and Pete rewards him with deep kiss that leaves both of them breathless.

For a while, the only audible sound in the room is their heavy breathing and some stifled moans as Pete slowly strokes Vegas’ cock while nuzzling his neck. But when one of Pete’s hands eventually drifts to Vegas’ ass, kneading it and giving it a light experimental slap, he can feel how Vegas’ muscles grow tense with anticipation. “Are you still okay with it?” Pete double-checks, just to be on the safe side.

“Yeah. Just take it slow, okay? It’s been a while.” Vegas mumbles and tries to relax as Pete uses a generous amount of lube and then starts fingering him. 

Normally, Pete couldn’t care less about his sex partner’s readiness when it comes to fucking them, but with Vegas it’s different. He wants Vegas to enjoy himself, and so Pete’s moving slowly, taking his time to prepare him properly. 

Patience, Pete tells himself as he feels a trickle of sweat rolling down his back. Damn, but he wants do … no!  He grits his teeth because Vegas is so tight and it is taking such a long time to get him to relax. Patience. And it pays off in the end, when he finds that spot and Vegas suddenly goes stiff, holding perfectly still before releasing a long shuddering groan. 

“Good Lord… I had forgotten how good that feels,” Vegas blurts out and takes a ragged breath. “Keep going, Pete.”

So Pete continues until Vegas’ legs start to quiver, and he leans heavily against the wall to keep his balance as he mutters quiet curses. Almost there. When the orgasm finally rolls over Vegas, an incoherent shout escapes him and he jerks so hard that the pulley above them creaks from the sudden strain on the chain as his legs give in. 

Pete turns him around, steadies him and then holds him tightly as Vegas continues to shudder and tremble against him. “Good?” he asks him softly and Vegas just nods while trying to catch his breath, clinging to Pete best he can with his hands still handcuffed. 

Seeing Vegas loose himself to pleasure like this, is one of the most erotic moments Pete ever witnessed. So damn sexy and all mine. He should probably give Vegas more time to recuperate, but Pete’s patience has run out. “My turn,” he growls softly. “I’m so hard right now, I need to be inside you.” 

“Just give me five minutes,” Vegas protests tiredly. They are still hugging, with Vegas’ head resting against Pete’s shoulder. The chain clanks now and then as he lazily caresses Pete’s back.

Every time the metal comes into contact with his skin, Pete shivers and his heart skips a beat. His cock is pressed against Vegas’ stomach and is aching. Wait? Wait even longer? Not going to happen. “Tough luck.” And despite Vegas mumbling more words of half-hearted protest, Pete uses some more lube on himself and Vegas.

He also adjusts the length of the chain again, so that Vegas cannot lower his arms beneath shoulder height. “Hold on tightly,” he warns him and then hooks Vegas’ legs around his waist. They need to adjust their position, this isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. But eventually, Pete is all lined up and ready to go. 

His heart is beating so fast he wouldn’t be surprised if it were to jump right out of his chest. He’s going to do this nice and slow. He’ll pace himself, hold back and make sure that Vegas will enjoy it. He will -not- loose control. As far as Pete’s concerned, he has locked away that part of him and thrown away the key. Nice and slow, he repeats like a mantra but makes the mistake to glance down where their bodies are meeting. 

Vegas’ cock is still swollen and stiff, precum dripping from the tip. Pete swallows hard, and he digs his fingernails into Vegas’ ass cheeks. Nice and slow. But Vegas makes a such a needy impatient sound that Pete’s cock bops involuntarily and he flexes his hips, grinding himself against Vegas. Shit, he can feel his control slipping, not good. 

Perhaps Vegas senses Pete’s internal struggle because he grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls them together for another heated kiss. “You love the way we look together, don’t you? And I like it when you grab my ass,” Vegas whispers breathlessly when they break apart to catch their breath. “Stop holding back, sunshine. I’m more than ready.”

Nice and slow. Nice and… Bloody hell. 

Vegas is indeed ready but he still tenses and has to take a couple of deep breaths when Pete pushes inside of him. And neither of them dares to move when Pete is finally fully lodged in place. Desperately holding on to the very last string of his control, Pete tries to think about something else—book keeping, cat food, gardening—anything to distract himself from the feeling of his throbbing cock, surrounded by Vegas’ heat. This is better than he ever could have imagined. Shit, how is he going to last with it feeling this good? 

Then Vegas, the damn idiot, experimentally rolls his hip, and they both moan at the same time. “Control is overrated, sunshine,” Vegas purrs, sinks his teeth into Pete’s shoulder and something in Pete’s brain short-circuits. 

With a hiss, he withdraws and then slams himself into Vegas, burying himself up to the hilt. Vegas yelps and jolts so hard that he nearly forgets to keep himself anchored with his legs. But his curses fade away in the white noise momentarily flooding Pete’s mind. This is heaven. 

It becomes difficult to think straight, Pete’s inhibitions are floating away and all that is left is sheer bliss. He remembers that he likes topping for a reason, this just feels incredible. And after the initial shock, Vegas is edging him on relentlessly. 

“Just like that,” he growls, bucking against Pete, who moves his hips faster. “Bite me!” he demands heatedly and then throws hit head back and shouts when Pete does as he asks. “Pull my hair,” he begs and when Pete complies, Vegas moans and kisses Pete so thoroughly that they are both start feeling faint, stumble a few feet to the side and bump into the night stand, which topples over. 

Good grief, this is complete madness and Pete loves every second of it. He’s thrusting savagely, the slapping sounds of flesh against flesh echoing through the bedroom. 

At some point he has Vegas dangling entirely from the chain, fucking into him so roughly that Vegas will surely be bruised tomorrow morning, and the knowledge of that fills Pete with grim satisfaction. Damn, he’s so close to coming, he needs a moment to keep himself from toppling over the edge because this is way too soon. 

Out of breath, Pete stops thrusting. Vegas is so out of it, he is all loose-limbed, sweaty and dazed, and Pete can easily lift him unto a nearby sideboard to give them a much needed rest. Mine, it echoes faintly through his mind. Eyes closed, Vegas rests his head back against the wall, breathing heavily while stroking himself, chasing his next orgasm. Pete has lost count how often Vegas has come already, he’s remarkably sensitive when it comes to his prostate. 

Taking a moment to simply watch Vegas, Pete is surprised to discover that he doesn’t like it that Vegas is not looking at him, shutting him out like this. What is Vegas thinking about? Who is he thinking about?  To make sure that Vegas is paying attention to him, Pete pinches his nipple hard and then closes his hand around Vegas’ throat, but not applying too much pressure, “Look at me,” Pete demands hoarsely. And when Vegas stubbornly continues to grind against Pete with his eyes closed and his eyelashes fluttering, Pete shakes him sharply. “I said, look at me!” 

Reluctantly, Vegas stops moving and opens his eyes. Pete could drown in these eyes, he loves everything about them, loves everything about Vegas. In fact, he loves Vegas so much that the mere thought of sharing or loosing him is inconceivable. Mine. “Say my name,” Pete insists quietly. 

“Philip,” Vegas teases him, with the most brilliant exhausted smile, and then wiggles his eyebrows. “Or was it Paul?”

It’s meant to be cute, but something deep inside of Pete flinches und unsheathes its claws. Mine! “…or perhaps Porsche?” he inquires icily. 

Vegas freezes, every trace of laughter gone from his face in an instant. “Don’t ever say that again.” Gently, he cups Pete’s face, caressing the cheekbones with his thumbs. “You are the one that I love. The nameless puzzle piece that I had been searching for all my life. And now you are my Pete, and I know this sounds incredibly cheesy but you are the love of my life, the only one I ever think about. There’s no room in my life for anyone else but you, and no matter what you think you heard earlier, Porsche and I are just friends.” 

The chain linking the handcuffs brushes against Pete’s throat, reminding him of a choke collar, and indeed, it feels as if he’s being strangled slowly. It’s those fucking emotions again, running amok inside of him. He wants to believe Vegas with every fibre of his being but... “Say my name?” he asks one more time, and his voice almost breaks. 

“Pete.” Smiling tenderly, Vegas rolls his hips, sending a fresh wave of pleasure through Pete’s groin. Then he leans in, lightly brushing their lips against each other. “Pete,” he murmurs softly, and then Vegas kisses him more determinedly. “My Pete…”

“You are mine,” Pete manages to whisper between increasingly heated kisses. “Mine.” I don’t share. I won’t share. 

There is an underlying desperation in the way he fucks Vegas now. Mine. He’ll make sure Vegas knows who is fucking him. Who Vegas belongs to. Mine mine mine. 

So Pete makes sure Vegas whispers his name. Yells it. Shouts it. And all of it is music to Pete’s ears. Mine mine mine, that is all he can think about, all he hears. The chain constricts their movement somewhat but Pete likes it. He’s in total control and that knowledge is headier than the most potent drug. In fact, he’s feeling increasingly intoxicated. Sound, sight, smell—everything blends into white noise in his head. 

Pete closes his eyes and just concentrates on his cock. Close, so close; he can feel the sensation building, the tingle moving up his thighs to his balls and he groans breathlessly, then grits his teeth. Vegas is clinging to him, clenching tightly around Pete’s cock and that is enough to push him over the top as well. Pete is aware he’s shouting something, and then a beautifully intense orgasm washes over him.

Pete is soaring. So high. Up there, somewhere, just drifting lazily through a mind-numbing haze of pleasure. It’s an amazing sensation, leaving no room for conscious thought. He just feels—experiences—exists.

So good.

He’s riding the high until bit by bit it starts to ebb away, and he slowly becomes aware of his own body again. The sweat dripping down his back. His racing heartbeat. He’s panting, and it seems as if every cell in his body is vibrating in the afterglow of the intense pleasure he’s just experienced.

So damn good. 

He doesn’t want it to end, it’s just so fucking amazing. Addictive. He wants this feeling to go on forever, he wants to curl up and purr like a cat. That thought causes him to chuckle softly. Venice must be rubbing off on him after all. Amused, Pete rests his face against the curve of Vegas’ neck, relishing the feeling of heated skin against skin.

The echo of his chuckle bounces through the silence of the room, mingling with the sound of their rapid breathing, and the sharp metallic clanking of the chain. Oh yes, the chain. He should probably unchain Vegas.

Vegas, who’s clinging to him like a monkey, his arms wrapped tightly around Pete’s neck, legs still encircling his hips.  

Vegas, whom he’s still buried inside of, although his cock has gone soft again by now.

Vegas, who is being awfully quiet.

His boyfriend usually has a lot to say, sometimes Pete has trouble shutting him up after sex. “Cat got your tongue?” he mumbles lazily, nuzzling the soft skin of Vegas’ neck. Inhaling the scent of their mingled sweat. Sensing the rapid pulse of the artery fluttering underneath Vegas’ jawline. The way Vegas is trembling silently against him.

But Vegas stays silent.

A sliver of unease chases away the remaining tendrils of pleasure. Something feels off. 

On the other side of the room an antique clock is loudly ticking away, the surrounding silence amplifying the noise until it becomes a thundering staccato in Pete’s ears, and his unease increases. “…Vegas…?”

The arms around Pete’s neck tighten, he can feel Vegas trembling convulsively against him, it is coming in waves, comes and goes. And now Pete becomes aware of Vegas’ laboured breathing as well. He thought it was simply the usual breathlessness after sex, but this… this feels different. Uneven. Barely controlled, as if Vegas has to consciously make an effort to enforce a regular breathing rhythm. Now and then that control slips, and the breath hitches, gets caught, and when Vegas’ finally inhales shakily, it is coupled with a whole-bodied shudder.

Yes, something’s definitely off. 

“...Vegas?” Hesitantly, Pete repeats the question. It unexpectedly feels as if he’s once again up on that roof, standing at the edge of the building, about to step off. Vegas’ continued silence is grating on his nerves. A sudden feeling of insecurity is hitting him like a fist to the stomach, and Pete swallows hard, clearing his throat. Doubt raises its ugly head. Maybe he was the only one having a good time? “You didn’t like it?” he asks softly, his voice carefully neutral. Because if Vegas didn’t like it… he doesn’t want to even contemplate that.

In reaction to that, Vegas’ breath hitches more notably, and Pete’s unease turns into full-blown alarm. That was a sob, wasn’t it? That definitely sounded like one… and there it is again… that strangled intake of breath… fuck… yes, that definitely sounds like a stifled sob.

This cannot be happening. And amidst this feeling of alarm, there is the tiniest spark of anger welling up within Pete as well. Fuck, this was as close to perfect sex as it gets, and Vegas is ruining it—again. And he shouldn’t be this irritated, he knows he shouldn’t be angry. But this is an entirely new situation for Pete, he’s flying blind. Vegas didn’t like the sex, he’s upset. Pete cannot even pin-point exactly what he’s feeling at this very moment, it is all very confusing, he cannot make sense of the myriad of emotions bubbling up inside of him. Reflexively, he pulls Vegas closer against him, tightening his arms around Vegas’ waist.

In response, Vegas makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a weak chuckle, but it comes across as something awful, something broken. And Pete’s back on that roof again, stepping backwards, off the balustrade. That horrible moment suspended in time, before gravity kicks in, dragging him downwards. “… I… I’m sorry…,” he stammers, stumbling over the words, trying to decipher Vegas’ reaction. There are good sobs, and bad sobs, and this doesn’t sound or feel like the good kind of sobs. “… Was I too … rough?…” 

Vegas is shaking pretty badly against him now, trembling all over. This won’t do; Pete tries to pull back to get a better look at him, but Vegas’ only clings to him even more tightly. His arms around Pete’s neck are like bands of steel, he’s hanging on to Pete for dear life, trying to stifle his sobs, and failing miserably. 

Pete is dropping hard. Free fall. No ledge to hold on to this time. The violent trembling in Vegas’ leg muscles gets so pronounced that it comes to no surprise when finally Vegas cannot hold on any more, unhooks his ankles from behind Pete’s back, and slides loose. For a second, Pete experiences a profound sense of loss as their connection is broken and his cock slips out of Vegas. It feels wrong. He doesn’t like it. And he still cannot look Vegas in the eyes because the damn idiot is hiding his face against Pete’s shoulder, sobbing quietly and messily all over him. 

“What the fuck..?!” Pete doesn’t like feeling helpless and lost like this. “Vegas, let go… What the hell is going on? Was it really that bad? Stop clinging, and lets talk about it, all right?” What a joke, isn’t this usually Vegas’ line? …Let’s talk about it, Pete… But now Vegas is upset for reasons unknown, and Pete is at a loss about how to solve this. Since Vegas is now standing on his own, Pete unwinds his arms from around Vegas’ waist and reaches up to grab hold of Vegas’ forearms, trying to disentangle himself. 

“… Pete…” Vegas’ voice is but a hoarse whisper against his skin. 

This must be how it feels to be stuck in a failing elevator. Plunging downward only to come to a jarring stop as the emergency brakes kick in. Is this shock? Is he in shock? But hey, Vegas is finally speaking, that is progress, right? Pete stops moving, and listens anxiously. 

“…Pete… I need…” And then whatever Vegas is trying to say is interrupted by another heart-wrenching sob breaking free. Clearing his throat, Vegas tries again. “ … I need you to remember…”

The imaginary emergency brakes in Pete’s mind make an ominous creaking sound. Whatever his boyfriend is going to say next, this cannot be good. 

“… need you to remember… I didn’t stop you…I could have… but I didn’t…” Vegas whispers unevenly. 

And it’s free fall again. The elevator plunges. No, it simply dissolves, and Pete’s falling again. Falling really hard this time. Terminal velocity, with the ground approaching fast. He apparently has messed up again … told you so… messed it all up again… as you always do… he should have known good things don’t last… told you so over and over again… Somehow, something has gone horrifically wrong… and it’s really Vegas’ fault, isn’t it? 

“I told you this was a bad idea!” Pete hisses, all of a sudden feeling defensive, and therefore lashing out. “But you had to fucking insist, didn’t you?! Remember, I didn’t want to use the damn handcuffs and the chain in the first place, so don’t blame me! Now let the fuck go!” He digs his fingers deeply into the muscles of Vegas’ arms, deep enough to feel his nails burrowing into the skin there, deep enough for it to hurt. Just like he’s hurting right now. Because he’s feeling hurt, and it’s a nasty feeling, and he really resents that Vegas makes him feel like this.

The move is meant to be painful, and it is. Between the harsh sobs, an anguished moan escapes Vegas, and his arms loosen their hold around Pete’s neck. Fuelled by the rush of anger, this is the opportunity Pete needs to tear himself free of Vegas’ hold. He ducks, slipping out of the cage of Vegas’ arms. The sudden movement causes Vegas to stumble backwards. Not that there is anywhere to go, Pete has him basically against the wall already. But at least Pete is able to see Vegas’ face now. Vegas’ anguished, tear-stained face. 

If the drop wasn’t brutal enough already, the impact is even more jarring. Vegas looks… Pete cannot even find the words for it… it feels as if Pete has landed in a pile of broken glass, the look on Vegas’ face knocks the breath out of him, slicing him into pieces. The anger fizzles away, to be replaced with despair. He put that look on Vegas’ face, he’s a fucking monster, Vegas’ didn’t like the sex, apparently really didn’t like the sex … this is about the sex, isn’t it? He should have never agreed to this. He should have said no. He knew this was a bad idea!

Vegas is still handcuffed, holding on to the damn chain that restricts him from lowering his arms any further than shoulder-height. And what makes the whole situation worse, even now he doesn’t even try to flinch away from Pete and hide, no, instead Vegas looks him straight in the eyes and manages to give him a teary, half-hearted smile. “I love you.” 

The words might as well be a knife piercing Pete’s heart. He has a heart, hasn’t he? Sometimes he’s unsure, but then Vegas manages to remind him of it, like this very instance, and damn, his black and withered heart is aching rather terribly right now.

“I am sorry…,” he mumbles helplessly, because what else is there to say? He’s made his boyfriend cry. And while Vegas might be trying hard to stifle the sobs threatening to break free, he’s unable to put a stop to the flow of tears staining his cheeks. “I’m really sorry…,” Pete repeats earnestly. He tries to gently wipe away the tear trailing down Vegas’s right cheekbone, leaving a glistening red smear across the skin. Liquid blends with liquid, turning the tear red… so red…and leaving a watery red trail across Vegas’ face as it makes its way further downward.

Pete blinks. 

“… I love you…,” Vegas whispers once more, but those words gets stuck in the static flooding Pete’s brain.

There really shouldn’t be a red stain on Vegas’ face, that’s wrong, it shouldn’t be there, and so Pete automatically tries to clean it away with his fingers. But he’s just making it worse. He’s making it worse because his fingers… they are caked in red too.

Pete blinks again. 

Why is there blood on his fingers? Bewildered, he takes a good hard look at his hand. His very bloody hand. Correction—hands. His very bloody hands. When did that happen? And more importantly, how did that happen? He has absolutely no recollection of injuring himself. No recollection whatsoever. 

“…Pete…,” Vegas weak voice drifts through the static. “Don’t. Don’t go there… remember… I didn’t …”

There are no visible injuries. No cuts. Why is there so much blood on his hands? Pete simply cannot wrap his mind around this mystery. He hears Vegas talking to him, but the words don’t sink in, he just stares at his hands, turning them left and right, the gleaming blood reflecting in the soft light of the ceiling lamps. It just doesn’t add up.

“I don’t understand…,” he mumbles in confusion, looking up, and searching Vegas’ ashen face for answers to this puzzle. ”I don’t understand…” There are no wounds, there shouldn’t be any blood.  Vegas… his Vegas… seems to have run out of words too. Their gaze meets, and fresh tears well up in Vegas’ haunted eyes.

There are no injuries on Pete’s hands, so the blood couldn’t possibly come from him. Which means… damn, why is his brain not functioning properly… which means… slow, so damn slow, what is wrong with him, he usually connects the pieces way quicker… which means… if the blood didn’t come from him…  then…  then… it has to come from…  

Horrified, Pete jerks backwards, stumbling further away from Vegas to be able to fully look at him. 

… Fuck!… 

Now it’s him who is struck speechless at the sight before him, because he’s found the source of the blood. It’s really impossible to overlook. No wonder that Vegas is crying, his chest is a carved up mess of blood and shredded tissue. Remarkably really that Vegas is just crying, and not screaming. Maybe he did though, and Pete simply cannot remember it. Just as he cannot remember doing this…

Oh God, he can’t breathe.  

All at once, it’s as if there is something constricting his lungs. Pete simply cannot inhale, he’s choking. There’s a buzzing in his mind, an increase of pressure, and he’s all of a sudden feeling hot and then cold, so cold. At the back of his mind, he recognises the signs of an impending panic attack. Ridiculous. Pete doesn’t have panic attacks, it is Vegas who is prone to anxiety. 

Vegas, who is leaning defeatedly against the wall behind him, handcuffed, chained, naked and bloody. Staring at Pete. Accusingly? 

Pete is starting to feel lightheaded, he probably should inhale but he feels frozen. Oh God, he really can’t breathe. All he can see is Vegas, whose whole upper body is liberally smeared with the blood that is still oozing from the gaping cuts across his chest. Cuts that aren’t just mere cuts, but forming ragged crimson letters.  

M I N E

Oh God…The pressure in his head pops like a soap bubble, disappears, and Pete gasps sharply because breathing in feels like inhaling shards of glass. He hurts, but who gives a damn, because Vegas … Oh God… Vegas must be in a considerable amount of pain, so much worse than what Pete is feeling right now.  Why isn’t he screaming? This must be so painful, Vegas should be screaming… maybe he did… but all Vegas does is stare at him, looking straight into Pete’s pitch black soul…

“…It’s okay…” Vegas whispers tiredly.

Pete flinches violently, but cannot tear his eyes away from the bloody letters he apparently carved into Vegas’ chest. It’s not okay! What the fuck is Vegas even talking about?! The lacerations are bleeding profusely, the edges of the wounds gaping apart—straight through the epidermis, the dermis, and it seems partially into the subcutaneous fat tissue below …perfectly executed, so precise— typical knife wounds really, but this shouldn’t have happened. Pete has messed up big time. He got sloppy, he should have made sure that there wasn’t any knife nearby before agreeing to handcuff Vegas. Fuck fuck fuck! 

Vegas interrupts Pete’s erratic line of thought again. “…Pete… don’t…”

Oh God, he hurt Vegas! Pete gasps again, a quick glance up at Vegas’ pale face … there’s blood on his cheek!… he cringes, and then like a magnet his eyes snap back to focus on the wounds once more. How could he allow this to happen? “I don’t understand…,” he moans softly. “I don’t even remember…” Pete notices that he has started wringing his hands in distress. No. Wrong. Liar. Distress has nothing to do with it. He’s wringing his hands because if he doesn’t, he’s going to reach out, run his fingers over those wounds, trace those letters with fingernails digging into the edges…

Pete stumbles further away from the temptation, wringing his hands even harder. No! How did this happen, there was no warning, no buzzing… He listens inwardly, just to double-check, but there in the darkness is no buzzing, just a purr of deep satisfaction. Oh God. Doubling over, Pete closes his eyes in despair and moans breathlessly. He hurt Vegas, and he likes what he did. Deep down he really likes it. 

Monster.

And then he screams. He digs his fingers into his hair, grabbing, tearing, welcoming the pain, and he screams. Thankfully the bedroom is soundproof, or else the guards would be upon them within seconds. He screams until his lungs burn, until his throat hurts and feels as raw as Pete’s dark soul. He screams and screams because despite everything, despite all his precautions, he’s lost control and hurt Vegas—again—and even though he’s horrified about that, he liked it! 

He’s not sorry, not really. Wrong, he is.  

He screams because he feels like he’s being torn apart, and all the bottled up frustration of the last few months is breaking free, and pouring out of him all at once. He screams and screams until there’s nothing left. Nothing but the realisation that he is, and will always be, a fucking freak. 

Pulling himself back together, the first thing Pete notices is that Vegas is crying again, his stifled  sobs echoing through the bedroom. This is… bothersome. He probably managed to freak out Vegas with his little meltdown just now; whatever he does, it turns out to be the wrong thing to do, Pete realises with resignation. Taking a deep breath … throat hurts… he straightens up again, unwinding his stiff fingers from his hair. A few strands come loose, oh well. He’s feeling oddly disconnected, really empty. It is not an unpleasant feeling at all. But Vegas is crying, and that does bother Pete. 

“Sorry about that…,” he croaks, his voice sounding hoarse after all the shouting. Mustn’t look at those wounds. Vegas’ face is probably safe to look at, even with the smeared blood marring it. Pete forces himself to smile apologetically, just going through the motions. This is what is expected of him right now after all, isn’t it? To reassure Vegas. It seems to be the right thing to do because Vegas is starting to calm down again. Pete’s heart aches somewhat terribly seeing him in such distress, but he shoves the pain far away. Pain leads to confusion. And Pete is tired of being confused.

“I am so sorry about everything,” Pete continues and takes a tentative step towards Vegas. The relief when Vegas doesn’t shy away from him is profound. He can fix this, yes, he can fix this. “So very sorry…,” Pete lies. And doesn’t lie. It’s complicated, he doesn’t understand himself either. Better not to dwell on it right now. There are other things that are more important, like those wounds… he risks a glance at them, and swallows hard. He should probably do something about them, yes.

Vegas hiccups quietly, the knuckles of his hands white from the strain of clenching the chain he is tied to. The urge to hug him, to comfort him bubbles up within Pete. Clean the wounds, wash away the blood and sweat, wrap Vegas into a warm, fluffy blanket perhaps. But he knows he’s not good at taking care of people, somehow he would probably fuck up this gesture as well. Better not to touch Vegas right now. 

“Can you just… help…?” Vegas sounds so defeated and pitiful, and Pete doesn’t know how to fix this, just that he needs to fix it somehow. 

“I’ll go and get the first aid kit.” That’s the first thing that comes to his otherwise blank mind. Patch Vegas up, unchain him, apologise profusely. Sounds like a plan. And without further ado, he turns around and more of less flees the bedroom. 

“Pete! The chain..!” Vegas weakly calls after him, and yes, Pete is aware of that, but he will deal with it later. He cannot go back into that room right now, he needs a break to be able to breathe without seeing an injured and crying Vegas. 

On autopilot, he stumbles into the bathroom, where they keep the first aid kit, and there he succumbs to the hot ball of nausea that has been gathering in the depth of his stomach. He barely makes it to the toilet bowl before he starts heaving. Oh God. If only the purring would stop, but he can feel the vibration deep within, that enormous satisfaction of putting his mark on Vegas, and he cannot turn it off. Doesn’t want to turn it off. He wants to bask in that feeling, and it’s making him even more nauseous, because he didn’t do this to some nameless unimportant victim of his, this is Vegas!

With a trembling hand, Pete wipes away the traces of vomit from his face, then shuffles over to the sink to rinse his mouth. He’s such a fucking monster and yet his reflection in the bathroom mirror seems entirely normal. Innocent. Harmless. Well, apart from the smeared blood around his mouth, courtesy of his bloody hands. And the blood splattered on his face and naked body. He smiles reflexively at himself, and there are the dimples Vegas loves so much. 

… Vegas… 

Pete’s bloody fist connects with the mirror, cracking it into a myriad of shards, all of them warping Pete’s reflection until it is unrecognisable. There, better. He doesn’t recognise himself either, and the damn mirror should reflect this. When he flexes his hand, the knuckles hurt a bit, but the skin didn’t break. Figures, he’s indestructible. It’s just the other people he is damaging.

Speaking of damage… better get that first aid kit, those lacerations on Vegas’ chest need to be taken care of, he needs to stop the bleeding. Isn’t that why he came to the bathroom in the first place? In a growing daze, Pete collects the plastic box from the bathroom cabinet and opens it to check if it holds everything he will need to tend to the wounds. 

Sterile dressings. He will need a lot of those… did he cut into the muscle tissue beneath? Probably not…  Antiseptic wipes. Wouldn’t want those wounds to become infected … but infected wounds leave lovely scars… Wound closure strips, but from the looks of it, Vegas will most likely need sutures… and then perhaps there won’t be scars, what a pity…

Pete blinks. He’s feeling increasingly overwhelmed as he stares at the contents of the first aid kit. He should really go and patch up Vegas now. Fix this. Clean those cuts as much as possible. Would be a bloody shame though. Bandage Vegas’ wounds. All that work for nothing. Pete blinks again, takes a shuddering breath, and then leaves the bathroom.

His head hurts. His throat too, from all that screaming. His heart hurts as well. No, he doesn’t have a heart. Or does he? Those fucking glitches, they are driving him insane. If only he could make sense of it all… bloody shame… all for nothing… bloody shame… 

Disoriented, he places the first aid kit on the kitchen counter. And blinks. Why is he in their little  kitchen? Maybe he wanted to get a quick drink of water, yes, that must be it. His subconscious is going haywire, malfunctioning, glitching badly. 

Absently, Pete reaches out to open the cupboard that holds the glasses, but instead he watches himself opening one of the drawers. Well, that is interesting. It feels as if at this point he’s just a bystander, watching himself search through the drawer until his fingers close around the familiar shape of the small butane torch. Just what he was apparently looking for. And immediately a great sense of calm spreads inside of him. 

Before he knows it, he’s back in the bedroom, firmly closing the door behind himself, and turning the key. Click. They need privacy right now, he really doesn’t want to get interrupted.

Behind him, the chain clanks, and he can hear Vegas clearing his throat. “About time. Could you just… open the handcuffs now, please?” Ah yes, the handcuffs. Pete turns around to face Vegas, and once again the sight before him is like a punch to his solar plexus, and he can feel his composure starting to crumble. While one part of him is reeling at the sight of the damage he caused, another part of him is crooning and already lovingly examining the depth of the wounds. Definitely in need of sutures. Knowing Vegas’ access to excellent health care, those lacerations will undoubtedly heal perfectly, leaving barely a scar behind. Unacceptable. 

“… Pete… Where’s the first aid kit you were supposed to bring?” Vegas sounds as confused and exhausted as he looks, and something inside of Pete hurts rather badly, but not badly enough for him to snap out of the spell he’s under. 

“Later…” he mumbles under his breath. Best to get this over with quickly, he thinks, and slowly walks across the bedroom towards his boyfriend. They are both still naked, which is really practical in this situation, Pete muses, still feeling oddly detached. No wound contamination with fibres that could lead to nasty infections. No clothes to cut away to gain better access either. And much easier to do a clean-up afterwards too. 

“Pete?” Wincing, Vegas pulls himself up straight, still steadying himself by holding on to the chain he is attached to, and eyes Pete with increasing wariness. His gaze flickers down towards Pete’s hands, and then his eyes widen in obvious alarm and terror, his already pale face losing all the colour it had left. “Pete?!”

Vegas must have seen the small butane torch. Oh well. Pete didn’t exactly try to hide it. But something in Vegas’ voice makes Pete’s stomach twist; he falters and takes an unsteady breath. What the hell is he doing? His sweaty fingers clench reflexively around the metal tube of the torch. He really shouldn’t be doing this. He should get the first aid kit, as promised. And yet…

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he says softly to convince Vegas, and himself. Everything is going to be fine, he just needs to… Breathing shallowly, he takes another hesitant step towards Vegas. 

“Pete!” Vegas calls out firmly, with an edge of panic bleeding into his voice, and the chain he is holding on to rattles against its pulley system high up at the ceiling. “Snap the fuck out of it!”

Pete flinches hard, his eyes flying back to Vegas’ face. Oh God, what the hell is he doing? This is Vegas! “… I…” And the words promptly desert him. What is he supposed to say? How is he going to explain this? Vegas won’t be able to understand, no matter what he says. 

“Pete…” Vegas clears his throat and corrects himself, somehow managing to sound calm despite the panic reflecting in his eyes. “Sunshine… Listen to me… I don’t know what triggered you, but I need you to remember that you love me, and that you do not want to do this, all right?”

The problem is, this isn’t about what Pete wants, it’s about what he needs. He’s been trying to explain this to Vegas several times already, but Vegas never truly listens. Pete doesn’t want to inch towards Vegas, but he does it anyways because the all-encompassing need within him cannot be denied. “I know. I just…” he shrugs helplessly and swallows hard. Facing Vegas becomes too difficult, so Pete averts his eyes. “You don’t understand… But I promise, it’ll be all right.“ His gaze flickers down to the wounds that are calling out to him. “I just need to fix this,” he mumbles and takes another small step closer. “Don’t worry, I have a lot of experience, this will be over quickly.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Pete!” Vegas exclaims so sharply that Pete once again ceases to move forward. “You really don’t want to do this! Remember the greenhouse? How you felt the moment you pulled the trigger? You really want to feel like that again, sunshine? Remember how you regretted it immediately? And how it nearly destroyed our relationship? You honestly want to chance it and mess it all up again, just to satisfy a stupid impulse?!”

Every time Vegas calls him ‘Sunshine’, something inside of Pete withers and dies. He remembers that moment in the greenhouse very well, and he really does not care to experience the chaotic feelings from that day anew. Not to mention their enforced separation. But again, this isn’t about what Pete wants. Vegas is wrong, Pete isn’t a ray of sunshine. Pete is Death, he is absolute darkness, and it is well known that no living being can thrive and survive in absolute darkness. He is darkness, and thus by his very nature he harms and kills anyone coming into prolonged contact with him.

Looking down at the butane burner in his clenched fist, Pete experimentally tries to will himself to open those fingers, to drop the torch, but nothing happens. Oh God. In a way, Vegas is right: deep down Pete doesn’t want to do this. He really doesn’t want to do this. Or perhaps he is lying to himself again?  But the need is too strong, it is overriding everything, he needs to see this through. Pete’s been waiting to play this little game for the longest time already, and now Vegas wants him to stop? Not going to happen. Helplessly, Pete makes eye-contact with Vegas again, and whatever the expression on his face shows, it once again brings tears to Vegas’ eyes.

In his growing frustration, Vegas yanks on the chain that is restricting his movement—to no avail. He doesn’t even try to open the handcuffs, he probably knows that brand, and that it would not work without the key. There is really not much he can do; he is naked, injured and stuck, and the growing realisation of the enormous predicament he’s in flickers across his pale face. First there is mainly irritation and anger, which turns into ever increasing anxiety, but after a while all that is left is sheer fear.  Vegas’ voice nearly breaks when he turns his attention back towards Pete, who’s been watching all this silently. “Don’t do this, Pete. I’m begging you, please, don’t. Using a knife is one thing, but this… please don’t. I don’t want this, you hear me? I do not consent. Drop the torch and open the damn handcuffs.” Vegas is just as distressed as Pete at this point, neither of them expected their afternoon dalliance to careen so totally out of control. 

The closer Pete gets to Vegas, the stronger the scent of blood gets. How did he not notice this before? Every cell of Pete’s body is vibrating with NEED. He needs to finish what he started, fuck consent, fuck walking away, he needs to give those cuts some attention with the torch to ensure they will scar nicely … and it will cauterise the wounds as well, a win-win situation. 

M I N E

Vegas belongs to Pete and he needs everyone to be aware of this. And the next time Vegas goes for a swim with Porsche, those prominent scars will be a reminder for that busybody to stay the fuck away from Pete’s boyfriend. 

Oh damn, if only Vegas’ face wasn’t so expressive. The emotions flickering over it as he fearfully watches Pete’s approach are truly heart-breaking. Pete heart surely would break, if he had one. Does he? No, it was just a glitch all along. Poor Vegas is probably bitterly regretting sound-proofing the bedroom right now. Pete is pretty sure that in his desperation he is considering calling for help, but as long as that door is closed, no one will hear him, no matter how loud he screams. 

The mere thought of Vegas screaming makes Pete’s stomach drop again, and the despair surfaces once more. He already hurt Vegas, and now he’s about to make it worse—much worse. “I’m sorry,” he apologises with a decidedly shaky voice, and closes the remaining distance between them. “V-Vegas… I don’t want to do this… I really don’t but… I can’t… I can’t stop… I’m so sorry, I can’t stop…”

“You damn asshole…” Vegas is so upset that his voice breaks and he cannot continue. Instead, he throws his head back and howls in anger and anguish. There is really no other way to describe the noise he’s making, he sounds like a trapped animal, and Pete’s vision gets blurry with tears.

Angrily, he wipes at his eyes and inhales a shuddering breath, waiting for Vegas to finish. When his boyfriend finally falls silent, and defeatedly slumps forward, Pete reaches out to steady him, and Vegas flinches at the touch. Another dagger to Pete’s heart. “Yes, I’m an asshole. And a liar. Because when I say that I am sorry, that isn’t entirely true,“ he admits hoarsely, then captures Vegas’ face between his bloody hands, the cold metal of the torch pressed against Vegas’ cheek,   and kisses him desperately. Just one more time. Vegas resists and tries to turn his head away to break the kiss, but Pete won’t have it, and soon enough Vegas stops struggling. When Pete draws back, both of them are panting again. 

“Don’t do this to me,” Vegas once again pleads shakily. “More importantly, don’t do this to us. I don’t want this, I want you to stop. You are about to go too far, Pete; I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive this.” 

“I know.” If Pete could stop himself, he would—perhaps—but he’s been holding back too long and now it’s out of his hands. Once more, he gently caresses Vegas’ pale face, and then he reluctantly withdraws his hands. “Truth is, you never should have trusted me, Vegas. I tried to warn you so many times but you just wouldn’t listen. Hell, even your therapist is well aware of the danger I pose to you… You goddamn idiot…”

That was the wrong thing to say, now Vegas is crying silently again. Well fuck. “I wish I had never met you,” Pete rattles on, the words are just pouring out of him, as if he’s no longer in control. “Then you could still be a mediocre police officer and be safe, and I could kill whenever I want, and whoever I want, and I wouldn’t be glitching all the time either. There would be peace and quiet in my mind, and not such a fucking mess of emotions!”

“… I love you…” Vegas responds unsteadily and with a growl of frustration, Pete slams his fist against the wall behind Vegas. 

“And look what good it does you to love someone like me! You fucking idiot! I hurt people! Will you get that into your stubborn head already?!” Fuck, Vegas is so dense and headstrong and lovable and just… 

“… and you love me too…” Vegas shoulders on; despite the tears running down his face, he manages to give Pete a defiant smile. Daring him to deny it. Hoping this fact will change something. Newsflash: it won’t. As if love conquers all…

Vegas doesn’t understand. No one does. And Pete is so tired of it. Tired of the constant masking. Tired of being careful. Tired of holding back. Tired of being emotional. Tired of arguing about all this with Vegas when he has those wounds to deal with. Pete swallows drily because it’s time to put an end to it. “You are right, I do love you, Vegas. But not enough to stop myself…” And the next moment his free hand closes around the chain Vegas is attached to, giving it a hard yank, and thereby activating the pulley system it’s connected to. Immediately, Vegas is jerked upright as the chain rattles upward, pulling his handcuffed arms way up above his head. 

“Pete!” Now Vegas really panics and starts to struggle in earnest. There’s not that much he can do though, his feet are barely touching the floor. He’s all stretched out deliciously, and no matter how much he pulls on the chain, it doesn’t give way. They designed it like this, Vegas really should know better. 

The sight before him makes Pete light-headed. This is how it’s supposed to be. Vegas is back on the chain, just like in Tawan’s loft. He looks thoroughly fucked, is delectably naked, bloody and marked; just the finishing touches are missing for this work of art to be complete. Pete’s mind goes blissfully blank, all the despair and doubt disappearing into the darkness of the Abyss. 

As soon as Vegas realises that he can do nothing about the chain, he turns on Pete. Like a feral animal caught in a deadly trap, he lashes out in the only way possible, kicking at his enemy. Because that’s what Pete has turned into, Vegas’ enemy. Someone who’s about to hurt him badly,  and so Vegas isn’t holding back.

He is so vicious that Pete barely manages to avoid the kick to his stomach; it grazes his hip instead, sending a sharp spike of pain vibrating through Pete’s side. It’s as if someone inside of him flips a switch, Pete snarls and lurches at Vegas, his free hand closing around Vegas’ throat, slamming him violently backwards against the wall. Vegas yelps, but continues to struggle hard, squirming and kicking wildly, and the buzzing in Pete’s mind is getting louder and louder. 

Holding Vegas in place against the wall with his whole body, Pete clenches his hand, constricting Vegas’ airflow. The struggle continues, but now Vegas is making small desperate gasps for air at the back of his throat, and those sounds feed the buzzing, nourishing it. Oh no. He’s going to snap and do something really bad…  A small part of Pete rebels against this looming escalation, and he manages to lean closer and whispers harshly into Vegas ear. “Don’t fucking move. I mean it: if you want to live, stay the fuck still.” He’s trembling all over, the effort it takes to hold back from using the torch right here and then, and not only on the wounds, is astonishing. But holding back he does—barely. “I’m dead serious, Vegas. I’m holding on by a thread, stop fucking triggering me!”

Immediately, the fight drains out of Vegas. Such a good boy. Pete breathes a sigh of relief as the buzzing looses some of its strength. He should probably knock Vegas out, that would be the most merciful thing to do at this point. But then he will miss out on the delightful sounds Vegas makes when distressed. Best to just get this over with, before he really looses control. “Don’t move.” Pete warns Vegas again, and briefly tightens his grip around Vegas’ throat. “Just suck it up and endure. I’ll try to be quick about it. Remember, I have a lot of experience with this, I know what I’m doing, and how to cause the least amount of damage. Just don’t make any sudden movements that cause me to accidentally damage the surrounding tissue.”

Pete can feel Vegas’ frantic pulse vibrating against his hand. How his sweaty body trembles uncontrollably against Pete. The panicked panting. The terrified whimper Vegas is trying to swallow down. And it is so damn exciting. The Abyss purrs happily and tightens the fingers around Vegas’ throat once more. Just briefly, playfully. This is all a big game, isn’t it? Just like it was supposed to be from the very beginning. Before the Abyss regrettably glitched. But hey, now they can finally play properly. 

Smiling, Pete indulges himself and licks along the side of Vegas’ neck. It tastes of sweat and blood and Vegas. Perfect. Vegas jerks against him, and the Abyss growls in warning. Now, where were they? Ah yes. The wounds. Pete’s not trying to brag, but he really considers himself being quite an expert with the butane torch now after spending weeks on research and then practising even longer to get it just right for his lily art installation. The weight of the metal tube feels so natural in his hand. The handle fits perfectly. Just the press of a button, and a click, and then the hiss of the flame echoes through the room. 

Despite trying to keep his composure, Vegas groans fearfully and regardless of the earlier warning he starts to struggle again, and the Abyss tsks. With its body weight, it fixates Vegas against the wall, keeping him forcefully in place with the hand around his throat. Vegas is now stuck, unable to break free. Completely at the Abyss’ mercy. Moving ever so slightly to get better access to Vegas’ bleeding chest, the Abyss lifts the torch and sets to work. And despite everything, Vegas flinches violently and screams…

Back then in the warehouse, the bodyguard screamed as well, that is to be expected when one uses a butane torch on a human being. But screaming doesn’t bother Pete at all. His victims always end up screaming at some point; some sooner, some later, but they all scream eventually. Pete usually doesn’t even pay attention to that sound anymore, his brain simply filters it away while he is working. 

It’s different this time though. This time the filter doesn’t get activated. This time the terrified screaming pours unfiltered into his mind, echoing, multiplying, intensifying exponentially. And it hurts. It hurts so badly, it makes the hand holding the torch tremble as he slowly follows the contour of the letter “M”. The heat is so intense, the blood is fizzing briefly before the liquid evaporates. This is incredibly tricky work, Pete needs to be so careful keeping the torch at the right distance in order not to evaporate the tissue as well. And the horrible screaming hurts; his ears and his heart.

The edges of the wound blister instantly wherever the heat touches it. Skin turning a deep red, almost a dark brown. Careful, he needs to be so careful not to get too close with the hissing flame. Pete is going for second degree burns, he doesn’t want to send Vegas to hospital after all. 

… Vegas… Oh God… If only Vegas would stop struggling and screaming…

The frantic sounds are cutting him into pieces, slicing into him relentlessly. Pete can feel himself starting to hyperventilate. The scent of burned flesh is hitting the back of his throat, causing his stomach to constrict into a roiling mess. If only Vegas would stop screaming already… the sound feels like fingernails drawn over Pete’s exposed and raw nerve endings. Just as raw as the wound he is cauterising meticulously.  

… Why can’t Vegas pass out already? …

And it doesn’t feel good either. The Abyss has fallen awfully quiet, no buzzing, no purring. There is no joy, no satisfaction at all, instead it rather feels as if a huge weight has settled onto Pete’s shoulders. And with every centimetre of burned flesh, the burden becomes heavier and heavier. He’s been hungering to do this, something like this, ever since he first met Vegas and yet… This feels all wrong. So very wrong, but he has started, and now he needs to finish it. Because the need, that horrible hunger inside of him is still there, even if Pete’s not enjoying what he is doing. And all along Vegas screams. An endless loud, high-pitched wail of sheer agony that sends goosebumps all over Pete’s body. Vegas screams and frantically bucks against Pete, trying to get away from the torch and the torture it is inflicting. 

… Oh God, please pass out already…

Gritting his teeth, Pete tries to keep Vegas as still as possible, which really is a challenge. If Vegas wasn’t practically suspended from the chain, it would be impossible. His grasp on Vegas’ throat is long gone, he needs that hand to pin Vegas to the wall. Not much longer, then the first letter is done. By now the tone of Vegas’ screams has changed pitch, all hoarse and frantic; he shouts incoherently, sounding totally feral, and the butane torch in Pete’s hand starts feeling increasingly heavy …Oh God Oh God Oh God…  almost done with this letter.

When Vegas falls suddenly silent and slumps forward, hanging motionlessly in the handcuffs, Pete is so relieved that he nearly drops the torch. Holding on to it is a chore anyways, his hand is so slippery with sweat. This never happened before either. Pete is covered in cold sweat; the room temperature is rather warm but he feels frozen to the very bones. Fuck. This has gone sideways big time, and Pete is completely befuddled by his own reactions to something that should come easy as a breeze to him. With Vegas now unconscious, Pete somehow manages to finish the last few centimetres of the letter “M”. There, done. Just three more letters to go. 

But when he raises the torch to start on the next letter, everything grinds to a screeching halt. Three more letters. And he simply cannot do it. The regret Vegas was warning him about slams into him; Pete gasps and stumbles backwards, the damn butane torch dropping from his suddenly numb fingers. It bounces across the wooden floor, a harsh metallic clang in the otherwise quiet room, while Pete wraps his arms around himself, doubling over. There is this enormous lump in his throat, he has the urge to scream but instead he just hugs himself tightly, silently rocking back and forth. 

What a gigantic clusterfuck. He has gone and irreversibly ruined it all. And it wasn’t even worth it! All this time he told himself he was missing out on something, that he was cheated out of playing his little game with Vegas because of the damn glitching. All this time he had the feeling he was missing out on something truly spectacular by holding back and not laying a finger on Vegas. So of course he went for it the second he got the chance to indulge himself. He’s such a fucking idiot. Should have known better. He really is a master in sabotaging his own happiness. Fuck! 

His vision gets blurry, and yet the sobs bubbling up inside of him get stuck in his throat. He just gasps for air, his breath hitching repeatedly, rocking faster and faster. 

Oh God, what has he done?!  

Vegas forgave him for the shooting, but only because Pete hadn’t realised his own feelings back then and was thoroughly confused. Which makes this incident worse, so much worse. This time there are no excuses; despite of loving Vegas he went ahead and hurt him badly. Wrong. He’s lying to himself again, he didn’t just injure Vegas, he tortured him. Just to indulge the darkness within him. Bad to the bone. What he did is inexcusable, Vegas is never going to forgive him. Never. That’s it, it’s all over now, and the agony this realisation causes Pete takes him totally by surprise. 

His legs give in, and he sinks to the floor, curling in on himself. So many tears, he cannot stop them. Pete feels as if he’s falling apart; no matter how hard he hugs himself, it’s no use, he’s dissolving into a sea of misery and regret. Glitching. Vegas is his trojan horse, and now Pete’s hard drive is irreparably damaged.

The one good thing in his life, and he ruined it. 

Pete never thought he would find someone who might understand him, and even love him. He’s a monster but Vegas loved him anyways. He had it all, and fucked it up. Why does it have to be so damn hard for him to put someone else first? He’s so fucking broken, what normal person finds someone they genuinely care about, only to give in to impulse and destroy that person? That’s why no one loves Pete, he’s not worthy of love. Everything he touches ends up getting ruined. Hurt. Or dead.

That thought sends a fresh spike of anxiety through Pete, he blinks rapidly and looks up, wiping his eyes to get a clear look at Vegas. He’s still breathing, right? He just passed out, right?  But Vegas hangs totally motionlessly from the chain, head slumped forward, his sweat-soaked hair concealing parts of his face. Is he breathing, or not? With a fresh sense of urgency, Pete struggles to his feet and hastily stumbles towards Vegas. Please don’t be dead!

In his panic, it takes him longer than normal to detect Vegas’ ruined chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. The longest seconds of his life, Pete wouldn’t be surprised if he looks into a mirror now to see that his hair has turned all white. To lose Vegas… to permanently lose Vegas… he has never felt such terror in his life before. Wrong. This feels awfully familiar to the moments after he pulled that trigger in the greenhouse, when he also thought he might have killed Vegas.

This close to Vegas, the stench of burned flesh and blood is heavy in the air. A glance at his bloody chest confirms that Pete did exceptional work on that first letter, but at what cost? He’s feeling sick just looking at his work, another first. Sick and entirely lost. What is he supposed to do now? He has no experience in treating burn wounds, that was never anything he bothered to learn. He burns and kills, he’s not the nurturing kind of person. The urge to lean against Vegas and cry his heart out becomes difficult to resist. 

What a joke, Vegas is the one who is seriously injured, and here is Pete, craving the comfort that only Vegas can supply. Because Vegas was the only one who ever cared, truly cared, about how Pete feels. Tentatively, Pete reaches out and brushes the sweaty strands of hair away from Vegas’ eyes. He’s bleeding from the mouth, probably bit his tongue or lip while screaming. The sight of Vegas’s ashen unconscious face hurts so badly. “I’m so sorry…” Pete whispers brokenly.  “I really fucked up this time, didn’t I?” 

But maybe Pete can fix it? Obviously Vegas is in dire need of medical attention. Who says that Pete needs to provide that help himself? They live in a damn mansion after all, Vegas is a Mob boss, they do have in-house medical services here. Nurses and a doctor who’s on call 24/7. They are going to help him fix Vegas, patch him up. 

Help, he needs to get help right away!

Pete whirls around and stumbles towards the bedroom door. At the last moment he remembers that he’s still stark naked. Shit. Clothes, where are his clothes? A T-shirt will do and some boxers. He’s so distraught that he only realises that he put on some of Vegas’ clothes when he’s half-way through the door. 

Vegas…

Oh God, he needs to get the doctor up here, and maybe they need to take Vegas to the hospital too. He didn’t lose enough blood to warrant a transfusion, right? It was only a few cuts after all. But maybe he needs an infusion? Pete needs to makes sure Vegas is safe, he needs to get help, he needs to…

…stop. 

Something within him, perhaps that rational dark side of him, pulls the brake and Pete never makes it to the apartment door. He stops in the middle of their living room, breathing heavily, but suddenly alarmingly clear-headed as his survival instinct kicks in with a vengeance.

What the fuck does he think he’s doing? 

What the hell does he think will happen to him if he runs downstairs to get the doctor, barefoot and with bloodstains on the T-shirt? He must have transferred Vegas’ blood from his hands onto the shirt when he was putting it on in a hurry. What will the doctor think when he sees Vegas in his current state? 

What will get guards think? Jai will be informed of a possible medical emergency within seconds, their head bodyguard will make a beeline up here and Pete’s pretty damn sure that he will get very upset, finding his boss hanging from a chain, all carved up and with burn injuries. 

Kinky sex is not going to be a good enough explanation for this, Jai is going to go ballistic and lock Pete up straight away, he’s too loyal to Vegas not to do so. 

Not to mention the rest of the Theerapanyakuls…

That whole family is completely nuts to begin with. Pete isn’t sure about the emergency protocol, but he imagines that Jai will inform either Tankhun or Porsche if anything ever happens to Vegas.  And that bloodthirsty family will go totally feral. They will shoot first and ask questions later. And with him conveniently locked up, and with Vegas out of comission, executing Pete will be a walk in the park for them. 

He needs to get Vegas some help, yes. But he needs to protect himself as well. 

And just like that, all of Pete’s panic is gone, replaced by icy determination. Vegas needs help, yes, but he’s not in immediate danger of dying. Pete makes time for a quick shower, to wash away all the blood, the last traces of sex and the stench of the burned flesh. Every thought about Vegas that pops up in his mind is banished immediately; he cleans himself meticulously, then dries himself off and even blow-dries his hair a little bit. As he heads back into the bedroom, Pete pointedly doesn’t look at Vegas. He cannot allow himself to fall apart now, or he will die. Survival first, save Vegas later. Quickly, Pete picks some nice clothes from the cupboards, then flees the room and gets dressed in the living room. 

Keys. Wallet. Phone. 

Vegas…

Oh God, if the Theerapanyakul siblings won’t kill Pete, Vegas will do so for sure. He will never ever forgive Pete for this. Never. In fact, Vegas will probably put a bullet in Pete as soon as he can get his hands on a gun. The old Vegas might have been able to forgive Pete, but not this new ruthless butterfly Pete created. 

Shit, shit shit. Cannot fall apart now. Need to survive. 

Pete shoves all his runaway emotions deep down, he’s calm, so calm as he exits their apartment and strolls downstairs. He treats the staff the same way he always treats them: He mostly ignores them, only giving an absent nod to the bodyguards stationed at the main door. Everything’s fine, nothing to see here. There is no one running to stop him as he gets into his car and calmly drives off. 

Vegas…

No, survival first. Normally, it would take him 40 minutes to get from the mansion to the airport. But instead of taking the direct route, Pete drives north until he arrives at the outskirts of the city where he ditches the car in an alley, with the keys in the ignition. Sometime soon someone’s going to steal that car and when Jai checks the GSP signal it will lead them on a merry chase. Pete walks a few blocks, buys a cheap straw hat and a colourful shirt, and then hails a taxi. 

Vegas… his subconscious whispers, more insistent now. Fine. 

He has Jai on speed-dial, the guard picks up after the second ring. “I need you to come upstairs to our apartment right now,” Pete informs him, surprising himself with how emotionless he sounds. “Oh, and bring the doctor as well.” And then he hangs up before Jai can ask him any further questions. 

Pete plucks the SIM card from his phone, breaks it and throws it out of the car window. Then he settles back into the seat as the taxi races through the chaotic traffic towards the international airport. There is no time for self-reflection or self-pity, just this buzzing in his mind, and an all-encompassing need for self-preservation. 

The Theerapanyakuls and Vegas are going to hunt him down like a dog. He needs to get the hell out of this city—no—out of this country! Thankfully Pete’s good at running, he doesn’t even know how often he has had to run in his life. Until he met Vegas... oh no, not that line of thought again. Later, he tells himself. He can fall apart later. 

Still feeling strangely disconnected, Pete pays the taxi with cash as soon as they arrive at the airport. He heads through the halls, to the area with the self-service lockers. You can rent them for 30 days, and he’s been diligently keeping a locker here, just for emergencies like this one. After entering a code to access his locker, he collects the backpack he has stored inside. Pete keeps the cash but places his wallet the locker, and his powered-off phone as well, he won’t need them again. 

The backpack really holds all he needs: a new phone, a wallet, ID cards, credit cards and even a passport. Pete Saengtham turns into John Doe—again. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that it hurts. He likes being Pete, but he messed up in a truly spectacular way and sadly there is no way for him to fix this mistake. And Pete knows that he will never forgive himself for what he did either.

Monster. Yes, he’s a monster. 

And so the monster heads to the airport ticket counter and buys a ticket for the next available international flight. Osaka, okay. Pete has never been to Japan. John Doe has just hand luggage, a british passport and a limitless credit card, which makes everything so much easier.  He jokes light-heartedly with the staff at the ticket counter, who adore his british accent and his dimples. Thank you, Dorian. May you rest in peace. 

Pete has ninety minutes to kill, no pun intended, so he heads to the shops on Level 4. John Doe doesn’t do no-name cargo pants and a T-shirt. He’s been taught to live in style, that’s part of this mask. Only the best and most exclusive luxury brands will do. And thankfully this airport has a variety of beautifully designed boutique shops. He buys himself a Gucci carry-on bag. Then two or three outfits and some basic necessities at Dior, Burberry, Prada and Hugo Boss. Oh, and for good old times sake a Rolex skeleton watch as well. Some of the new clothes he wears directly, the old clothes Pete later dumps in one of the many trashcans.

Then it’s already time to head through security. No one’s even blinking an eye at his passport, he is waved through with no problems whatsoever. Pete walks swiftly to his gate, where boarding has already started. 

It is only when he’s comfortably seated in his first class seat, with the airplane taxiing towards the runway that it all catches up with him. He can hear Vegas’ screams echoing in his head and the smell of burned flesh is haunting him. Pete swallows hard, again and again, he wants to turn off all these feelings running rampant inside of him. He doesn’t want to remember, he wants to be John Doe again, hide behind that mask, forget that Vegas Theerapanyakul ever existed, that they ever crossed paths. It’s better this way, for him and for Vegas. 

He consoles himself that Pete Saengtham was never truly real. He was an illusion. There is no Pete anymore, just the Abyss wearing yet another mask, heading towards a new beginning. The Abyss doesn’t have stupid feelings. The Abyss doesn’t fall in love, ever. The Abyss doesn’t care about anyone or anything, period. 

The engines roar, and as the airplane picks up speed, racing over the runway, the Abyss curls up in the seat, rests its head against the window and closes its eyes.

And cries silently. 

Chapter Text

Fool me once, fool me twice
Are you death or paradise?

Looming somewhere in the distance, the only source of light in this utter darkness, there is a door. At least it looks like a door. Or a doorway. Kind of difficult to tell since he’s so far away from it but that’s okay, Vegas is perfectly fine with remaining in this vast darkness. It’s comforting, it wraps around him like a soft warm blanket. 

What is he doing here again? And wasn't that doorway much further away just a moment ago? Vegas didn’t move, or did he? He’s pretty sure he didn’t move but that damn door has gotten larger. Flickering light is spilling out from the cracks between it and the frame. And it’s noisy behind behind that door as well. 

All of this is vaguely alarming. Scratch that, there’s nothing vague about it. The mere sight of that door is giving Vegas acute anxiety. He does not want to get any closer, in fact he wants to stay as far away from that door opening as possible. 

Deep down he knows that nothing good awaits him behind that door. And what is he doing here anyway? But as soon as he starts to ponder this question, his mind gets all fuzzy and his train of thought derails. 

That damn door. Vegas finds himself moving closer to it against his will. One step at a time. Or rather, three step forward and two steps back. He has a bad feeling about all of this, a very bad feeling. 

What the hell is he even doing here? And where is here? What is going on? Whatever, he really should stay away from that door; it seems to be opening slowly and now he can see—or rather sense—the source of all that flickering light. Fire. There's a raging, roaring inferno behind that door, thick smoke wafting towards him.  

Naturally, Vegas feels rather reluctant to head into those flames. Why is he doing this again? How about turning around? But no matter where he turns to, that ominous doorway always appears right in his line of vision. 

Damn but that fire is roaring loudly… and what’s with all these banging sounds? 

… Knock Knock Knock…
… “Khun Vegas?”…
… “Hello?”...
…“Khun Vegas?”…
… Knock Knock Knock…

So much noise. Are those voices? Difficult to make out amidst the roar of flames. Once again Vegas finds himself moving, towards the raging inferno and the commotion. Damn, it’s getting warm here. He is feeling distinctly hot. Maybe he should turn around, not step through that door, not cross over into… ? Sounds very tempting. 

… Knock Knock Knock…
… “Khun Vegas? Hello?”…
… Bang Bang Bang…

Oh dear. Seems he missed his opportunity, now turning around is no longer an option for Vegas; something’s got a hook on him, pulling him forcefully towards the fiery doorway and the raging inferno beyond. Hot, so hot. So damn hot. The smoke is choking him, making it difficult to breathe, his throat feels as if it’s already on fire. As for the rest of him… the skin on his chest feels impossibly tight, as if ready to crack under the onslaught of heat. 

Alarmed, Vegas starts to struggle. If there is one thing he knows beyond a doubt, even in this confused state, it’s that he really cannot do this one more time. Huh? Has this happened before? Whatever. Not again. No more fire. No more heat. No more pain. No more. No more! NO MORE!

… “Khun Vegas, we’re coming in now, my apologies.” …
… “What the..?! Khun Vegas!”…
… “Holy shit!”…
… “Close the door! Close it! Don’t let anyone come inside!”…
… “Khun Vegas?! Shit! Is he breathing?”…

It’s as if someone flipped a switch, with a startled gasp Vegas snaps awake and right away the panic hits him full force, rolling over him and sweeping him away with it before he can even assess the situation. Everything’s a blur; something—someone—is moving right in front of him and Vegas instinctively jerks away but something is restricting his movements. All he can hear is metallic clanking and rattling; somehow he’s swaying, with his arms raised high above his head. Then he makes the connection. 

Chain… Oh no! Stuck, he’s still trapped! So hot, so unbearably hot… fire, he’s on fire… no more, please, no more… stop, please stop!

The ache radiating through his shoulder muscles and wrists is sheer torment, but even that pales under the onslaught of agony centred around his chest. That pain is out of this world. He can still  feel the pale blue flames digging into his chest, eating away at his flesh one tiny bite at the time. Gnawing at the tissue as they slowly incinerate it one millimetre after the other. It hurts, God, it hurts so much! Sadly enough, Vegas has a vast reference frame for different pain levels but what he’s experiencing right now is in a league of its own. Oh, how it hurts! 

He wants it to stop, needs this to stop! He has to break free, to get away from this hell. No more, he cannot take it, he simply can’t, and so once again he screams at the top of his lungs at Pete, but his throat is on fire as well, a raw and open wound, more pain to add to what is already an unendurable mountain of agony. “… NO!!!…”

“Khun Vegas! Can you hear me?!”

Everything’s on fire, Vegas’ eyes are burning too—from the smoke, the smoke of his own charred flesh!—he blinks frantically, unable hold back another high pitched wail escaping his mouth. When everything snaps into focus, he unexpectedly finds himself face to face with his head bodyguard. 

No Pete, just Jai. 

Jai, whose face is ashen as he attempts to keep his boss from blindly struggling against the chain he’s still suspended from. Their eyes meet, then there is a sound to the side, out of Vegas’ direct line of vision and he flinches violently, another rush of panic flooding his system once more. Pete! Pete is back to finish the job! No! 

“Try keeping him from pulling on the chain, he’s hurting his wrists and shoulders even more.” 

Wrong voice. Okay, so this isn’t Pete after all. With a groan of relief, Vegas allows himself to go momentarily limp, the handcuffs cutting deeply into his already battered wrists. The next moment the person who just spoke steps into view, reaching out to carefully support him so that Vegas is able to keep some of his weight off the chain. Even in his confused and frightened state of mind, Vegas recognises him. It’s their in-house doctor, a kind, elderly man with glasses. Always calm and polite, even in the worst kind of situations. 

“Khun Vegas, I need you to listen to me right now, can you do that? You need to stand still, you are hurting yourself.”

There are hands on his shoulders and waist, firm hands, holding him in place and Vegas moans panicky, feeling trapped, so trapped. They all want to burn him alive! He’s on fire, he needs to get away. Water, he needs to put those flames out, he’s on fire! The chain, the fucking chain won’t give way, he’s all stretched out and stuck, hanging from the ceiling. Yes, his wrists hurt, but that is nothing compared to the flames digging deeper and deeper into his chest! Blinking rapidly, he ignores the two people before him and fearfully scans the room because Pete must be here somewhere too. Pete and that damn butane torch!  

Vegas’ frantic panting is echoing through the bedroom, accompanied by the occasional rattling of the chain links. “We need to get him off the chain,” Jai points out grimly. “He’s not going to calm down otherwise; just look at him, he’s so out of his mind, he’s not hearing a word we say.”

Not entirely true, Vegas does hear them, it’s just that he’s got other priorities right now than making polite conversation. His chest’s on fire! But every time he tries to lower his head to get a better look at himself, the muscles in his neck cramp up, preventing him from doing so. The heat burning into his chest is so intense that it is becoming more and more of an effort to stay reasonably coherent. He cannot take it any more, he really can’t. 

“… please… no more...” he begs hoarsely. Vegas doesn’t even recognise his own voice, it sounds all rough and wrong from all the earlier screaming. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, unchain him. That falls under your job description, doesn’t it?” the doctor instructs Jai while taking hold of Vegas’ face with firm hands, stopping his frantic visual inspection of the bedroom. “Khun Vegas, you mustn’t move. We are trying to get you free, the more you struggle, the longer this will take.”

Yes, he can hear the doc loud and clearly, it’s just that Vegas is running on pure survival instinct right now. And standing still does not sound like a very good idea while being on fire. He is on fire, right? What the fuck are they even talking about? Who gives a fuck about the chain when he’s burning? Can’t they see?! It burns! It hurts! Vegas howls his agony straight into the doctor’s face, but the man stays annoyingly calm. 

Jai, who is hurriedly inspecting the handcuffs and the chain, flinches at the desperate sounds Vegas is making and grimaces. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m working as fast as I can, Khun Vegas!” Then he curses quietly. “Shit. With the right tools I can get him loose but it might take some time. We need the key.” 

The cool hands holding Vegas’ face tighten ever so slightly to make him pay attention. “I know you are in pain, Khun Vegas, but I need you to listen now: Where’s the key for the handcuffs?” the doctor asks him gently and Vegas whimpers. What is the doc even talking about? Key? How about they deal with the fire first, his nostrils are itching with the smoke of his burning flesh! Shit, it hurts so badly! Make it stop!

“The key,” the doctor insists.

Vegas has no idea what the man is talking about! He yanks frantically on the chain, struggling against the hands trying to keep him still. He needs to get away from here before Pete returns! Moving was a bad idea though, his traitorous body retaliates with such excruciating pain that Vegas’ vision goes all white and his breath hitches.

“Shit,” the doctor curses softly as Vegas goes limp from one second to the next. “Don’t forget to breathe, Khun Vegas. I know this must hurt like hell but I cannot give you anything against the pain before you are off that chain and I have had a chance to examine you more thoroughly. Don’t move, let me hold you up, like this, all right? Breathe through the pain and try to remember where you put the key for the handcuffs.”

“Maybe he took it along,” Jai mumbles under his breath but Vegas can still hear it. Does that mean…? But once again this train of thought derails immediately as he remembers something the doctor just mentioned. Pain medication. Oh God, yes please! The sooner, the better! He just needs to get out of these handcuffs and— “Key…” he gasps breathlessly, barely suppressing an anguished moan. “… bed…”

As the white bleeds out of his vision and the fiery pain centred around his chest ebbs away to a more manageable level, Vegas decides to focus on the doc while his bodyguard hurries over to the bed in search for the key. “…Bad..?” he rasps questioningly, nodding awkwardly towards his chest. “… hurts…so hot…” 

“You’re not going to die, Khun Vegas,” the man comforts him with a professional smile that Vegas doesn’t find particularly reassuring. That’s what the paramedics said when he got shot as well, and he almost died anyway. But Vegas is in no condition to argue, the incessant pain is eating away at his thoughts, making it difficult to think clearly. Panic comes and goes in waves, the feeling of being trapped is so strong at times that he’s grateful he doesn’t have access to his hands because he doesn’t trust himself not to start gnawing at his wrists in a desperate bid to free himself. 

He needs to be off that chain before Pete returns and—

“Got it!” Once again Jai’s shout interrupts Vegas’ mental ramblings. Got what? Vegas blinks in confusion, but the doc is smiling a bit more broadly now so whatever ‘It’ is, it must be good news. Then there is movement to the side, his bodyguard is back, triumphantly brandishing a key. And a bedsheet. 

“What the hell are you planning to do?!” Alarmed, the doctor intervenes before Jai can come closer. “Keep that sheet away from the wounds!”

“I just want to… Shouldn’t we cover him up, he’s stark naked. What if our people see him like this?” 

“There’s no one here except you and me, and we’ll keep it this way until I deem it safe to cover him up. How about you leave the treatment of the wounds to me and you concentrate instead on those handcuffs?” The doc is taking charge and Jai drops the sheet with a shrug, getting to work. Vegas hisses sharply as a waft of air against his injuries triggers another avalanche of agony. 

Did he pass out? Or did he just have a pain-induced blackout? Suddenly he finds himself lying on the bed. Getting off his feet is rather nice, he notes, dimly aware of the doctor and his bodyguard having a heated discussion nearby. Finally, he’s off the chain. Safe! Well almost, he just needs to get his hands on a gun. There should be one nearby, either beside him on the mattress somewhere, or in the drawer of the bedside table. But his attempt to find the gun is cut short by another wave of pain so intense that he ends up screaming. 

“Khun Vegas, you need to keep still,” the doctor admonishes him sternly, immediately appearing by his side again. “If you need something, let us know and we will get it for you.”

“Gun…” Vegas hisses between clenched teeth to keep more screams from breaking free. And right away his Glock is handed to him. Shuddering with relief, Vegas clutches it close and then does his best to relax again while staring at the ceiling. Now he’s off the chain and can defend himself against…

Meanwhile the doctor is checking Vegas’ pulse while continuing his conversation with the bodyguard. “Jai, I need you to go downstairs to the infirmary and get my large EMT bag. I didn’t expect having to deal with something like this when I got called up here, I need more advanced equipment for these wounds. And drop by the kitchen and get a roll of plastic wrap. Burn wounds aren’t my specialty so I need to improvise for now. While you’re at it, I’m sure you got some sort of emergency protocol to follow in situations like these?”

“I can make a call and get these things delivered,” the bodyguard points out. “I don’t think I should be leaving his side right now.”

“Get the fuck out of here and let me examine my patient in private. If you’re concerned about his safety, you can guard the door. From outside,” the doc insists. 

Vegas groans tiredly. He wants painkillers already and if they keep making small talk, those painkillers will never materialise. “Go,” he orders Jai. “And while you are at it—” Vegas coughs because his throat feels so raw, which only leads to more pain exploding across his chest. “—find him,” he wheezes breathlessly. “Find him and drag him back here and toss him into one of the cells in the cellar until I’m ready to deal with him.” 

Him. Pete. 

Thankfully the pain is too intense to explore how he feels about Pete and what he’s done. Later, he tells himself. Later. Painkillers first. 

Very reluctantly, the bodyguard leaves and as soon as the door to the bedroom closes behind him, the doc springs into action. He checks that Vegas is lying comfortably, elevates his feet and dons some disposable gloves. Then he examines Vegas thoroughly, starting with his head, arms and legs. Vegas endures, concentrating on his breathing, stubbornly trying to ignore the crippling pain of his chest injuries. 

“Khun Vegas…” At some point, the doctor pauses his examination and hesitates slightly before shouldering on. “Were you sexually assaulted?” 

Startled, Vegas’ eyes snap open and he tries to sit up, only to be reminded that he’s in no shape to sit or even move around. It’s not just his chest, his whole body hurts. Panting, he forces himself to relax again before slowly shaking his head. “Why on earth would you think that? Pete would never hurt—” 

And then he falls silent because the words get stuck in his throat. A week ago, his answer would have been a resolute “Pete would never hurt me!”. But now? After what Pete did to him? Does he even know him, does he truly know what Pete is capable of? Vegas’ fingers tighten around his handgun. All these thoughts are making his head hurt. And his heart. 

“There is some moderate rectal bleeding,” the doctor points out gently. “And you are covered in bruises. With these kind of injuries I have to make sure you weren’t assaulted.”

Bloody hell. Until now the constant pain has made it difficult for Vegas to focus on anything else but suddenly he becomes aware that the doc and his head bodyguard found their boss dangling from a chain, stark naked. Vegas’ embarrassment is immediate and acute. Bloody fucking hell, can the earth please open up and swallow him? Pretty please? 

Awkwardly, he clears his throat. “I know you’re just doing your job but I can assure you that the sex preceding this whole fucking disaster was enthusiastically consensual.” And since the doc casts him a doubtful glance, Vegas adds “It’s been a while for me, so I more or less expected some bleeding since we’re… um… well, we just like it rough sometimes.” No, he really doesn’t like talking about his various kinks, not even with a medical professional. “Don’t fret about it, we’re both clean and on PrEP. Just give me an analgesic cream and some anti-inflammatories. And speaking of which… how about those painkillers you promised?”

“As soon as Jai returns with my EMT bag, I’ll give you something to temporarily take the edge off your pain,” the doc reassures him. “Give me a moment, I’ll wipe away the blood and clean you up before he returns.”

Defeated, Vegas just nods and closes his eyes again because all of this is simply getting a bit too much. He’d love to take a shower to clean himself up on his own. A long, very cold shower because his chest is still on fire, the burn injuries feeling incredibly hot. Or a bath in a bathtub filled with ice cubes. And now that he’s been made aware of his other intimate injuries, those hurt as well. It’s humiliating to let someone else takes care of him in this way, it reminds Vegas of his time in the ICU where privacy was non-existent. The only way to get through this with a shred of his dignity remaining is to pretend that all this isn’t happening to him. Thankfully the doctor is working fast. 

He has just finished wrapping Vegas’ lower body in a blanket when Jai returns with the EMT bag. Strange how Vegas is feeling cold even though his upper body is radiating scorching heat. That’s due to shock, the doc explained. And an adrenaline crash. Whatever. Vegas thinks he deserves a break from the horrible pain constantly wrecking his body, this is really all he can think about right now. God, please make this pain go away. 

And just as promised, the doc makes pain management his highest priority. Vegas is handed a green inhaler with a small clear plexiglas tube on top of it, a wrist loop goes over one of his swollen and discoloured wrists and and then he is told to take a few gentle breaths. Whatever the stuff is, it smells fruity which is an improvement since the stench of burned flesh is still lingering in the bedroom. Miraculously, nearly all the pain melts away after a handful of breaths. This is such an enormous relief that it brings tears to Vegas’ eyes. “Whatever this stuff is, I want a truckload of it,” he whispers hoarsely. 

“No more than a handful of breaths at a time. The effect should last a short while, and when you feel the pain returning and you cannot stand it anymore, you can take a few more puffs. But try to use it moderately, this is only a short term solution for about an hour. I can give you one more green whistle but after that we need to find another solution to deal with the pain,” the doc lectures him. 

Vegas shrugs, and this time it doesn’t hurt. Marvellous. With the pain gone, the rest of his brain is slowly coming back online as well. As the doc unpacks the EMT bag, Vegas turns towards Jai who is anxiously pacing a few feet away, clutching his cell phone. “Did you put a trace on him?” 

Jai nods. “Tracing the car and phone as we speak. He seems to have turned off the phone but we are checking to see which cell phone towers it pinged last to triangulate his position.” 

“Well, good luck with that.” Vegas sighs, he’s realistic about their chances of success. “When you find him, don’t kill him. Just bring him back and lock him up. I’ll deal with the rest.” 

From the looks of it, Jai has to bite his tongue to keep himself from commenting any further, he just nods tersely and then goes back to texting people on his phone. If anyone can find Pete, it’s Jai; he takes his job pretty serious and it must annoy him to no end that Vegas got hurt on his watch. 

As for Vegas, now that the immediate pain is gone, he’s trying to come to terms with everything. Easier said that done. Recalling details about what exactly happened feels as if he’s trying to watch a movie at an outdoor cinema, with rain pouring so heavily that he can barely see the screen. Even the thought of Pete elicits… nothing? “What the fuck is wrong with my brain?” he complains eventually. “I am feeling so numb, totally disconnected. Is that a side effect of the pain medication?”

The doc, who has been placing an assortment of sterile compresses and other medical supplies on the bedside table, pauses to address Vegas’ concerns. “Unlikely. It has been a very traumatic event for you, this is probably your mind’s way of protecting itself. Once the initial shock wears off, it’ll all come back to you with a vengeance.”

Vegas is definitely not looking forward to that moment. Right now ignorance is bliss. Warily, he eyes the pile of medical supplies by his side that is getting higher and higher. The doc snaps an oximeter on one of his fingers, studies the readout and nods to himself. Seems everything is fine. Well, right now Vegas is feeling pretty good, truth to be told. But he has a feeling this is about to change soon.

“I’m going to take a closer look at your chest injuries now, Khun Vegas,” the doctor informs him. “We better do this as long as the Penthrox is keeping the pain in check, but I fear you will still be in considerable pain during the procedure. To be perfectly honest, burn injuries aren’t my specialty. I’m going to do an initial examination and a first clean up but I still strongly suggest you head to the nearest hospital burn unit so they can assess the tissue damage and do a proper cleanup.”

“No.” Jai and Vegas object at the same time. 

Stressed, the bodyguard temporarily pockets his phone and vehemently shakes his head once more. “Khun Vegas cannot go to the hospital. Any hospital really. It isn’t safe, Khun Korn has his spies everywhere. I cannot guarantee his safety in a hospital, especially during medical procedures that I do not understand. It would be way too easy to ‘accidentally’ give him the wrong medication with potentially fatal results.”

Vegas nods tiredly, the first tendrils of returning pain making themselves known, so he takes a moment to take a couple of huffs from the inhaler once more. “Jai’s right. My uncle’s been trying to kill me for the longest time now, let’s not make it too easy for him to succeed. Besides, I cannot afford to show any signs of weakness right now. If it gets out that I got injured, the other gangs and families will try to take advantage of the situation and everything will turn into one huge mess. Sorry, doc. If you’re unsure about the treatment, just google it or watch a few Youtube videos, I’m sure stuff like that exists on the net. In the worst case scenario, Jai can send someone to ‘persuade’ one of these burn specialists to pay a house call.” 

“For the record, I think this is a very bad idea, Khun Vegas.” The doctor frowns. “I will respect your wishes for now but I want you to know that I will personally cart you off to the nearest hospital should your condition deteriorate due to Sepsis or some other infection.”

Fair enough, Vegas nods in agreement. The pain is gone again. Well, not entirely gone, it’s still there but it doesn’t bother him as much. Damn, Vegas loves this green whistle. Would have been great having one of these while growing up, oh well. Then something else occurs to him. “Get me a mirror, I want to see my chest.” He has a few disjointed flashbacks of Pete wielding the knife to carve something into his chest, but he has absolutely no clue what exactly it was that was done to him. Damn, if only his mind would stop being so fuzzy about the details! 

“Uhhh… “ The doctor shares a look with the bodyguard, he’s clearly debating how to deal with that unexpected request. “Jai can get you a mirror once I have cleaned away most of the blood. Right now your chest is a bit of a mess which might upset you, and you need to stay calm while I deal with those injuries.”

“Nonsense, I’ve seen a fair share of blood, my father used to beat the shit out of me regularly,” Vegas points out. He once again tries to lower his head to peek down at himself, but his neck muscles still won’t cooperate. 

“You are going to be a difficult patient, aren’t you?” The doctor sighs. “This might get me fired, but oh well… Khun Vegas, do shut up and allow me to do my work. You might be my employer but right now, in this room, I am the boss and you will do as I say. Now try to relax, I am going to wipe away all the dried blood so I can get a better look at those cuts. And once that is done I’ll tackle the burns.”

This bold little rant makes both Jai and Vegas smile, and the doc gets his way. The pile of discarded bloody compresses next to Vegas is soon getting higher and higher. That is quite a bit of blood the doc is wiping away, Pete really must have done a number on him. Pete. Vegas is still feeling so disconnected; it’s as if he’s aware that he should be reacting in some rather extreme way to the whole mess but instead there is a curious void of emotions inside of him. He just feels empty. Without being aware of it, Vegas’ hand tightens around the handgun he’s still holding on to. 

His bodyguard of course notices the subtle motion. “There are guards in front of the door and I doubled the guards in the rest of the house as well. He won’t be sneaking in here unnoticed, Khun Vegas. We’ll get plenty of warning if he should try. Rest assured that you are completely safe right now.”

That does sound reassuring, so Vegas is doing his best to relax once more. He’s not letting go of the gun though. No way. It would be best for Pete not to show up here right now because in his current state of mind, Vegas cannot guarantee he wouldn’t put a bullet in him first and ask questions later.  

Damn, why is this taking an eternity, can the doc hurry up already? “Can I have a look now?” Vegas is getting impatient. The doc just shakes his head and continues with whatever he’s doing. So far this procedure hasn’t been especially painful but when the doc happens to touch an area that is a bit more sensitive, the sudden spike of pain is so unexpected that Vegas is unable to hold back a startled scream. Before he can even catch his breath and apologise for being such a wuss, the door to the bedroom flies open with a resounding crash that startles everyone. 

“Vegas!” 

Panicky and thoroughly disheveled, Porsche bursts into the bedroom. Vegas blinks and then groans because he isn’t the only one this sudden entry has spooked. The doc jerks in surprise, applying a bit too much pressure to one of the wounds and it hurts like hell. With a pained expression, Vegas takes a deep breath from the inhaler, the hand holding it trembling slightly. 

Meanwhile Porsche finds himself face to face with Jai, who’s pointing a gun at him. “What the fuck?!” he pants heatedly while trying to catch his breath. “You called, I came—why the hell are you now threatening to shoot me?!”  Impatiently, he shoulders past the guard, gun be damned, and heads straight for the bed. “Vegas, what the fuck happened?” Then he does a double-take at the sight before him and Vegas has the rare pleasure of seeing his friend go white as a sheet. “Bloody hell…”

“Yeah yeah yeah…,” Vegas remarks tiredly while narrowing his eyes at Jai, ignoring his best friend for now. “Why on earth did you call him? It’s not as if I’m dying, right? Seriously…” Then it’s time for another breath from the inhaler. 

With a shrug, Jai holsters the gun again and goes to close the door to the bedroom that Porsche left open. “Just following the emergency protocol set up by you, boss.” 

Vegas rolls his eyes. “That was meant for emergencies. Real emergencies. This right here isn’t a real emergency, I’m mostly okay.”

“I bed to differ,” Jai corrects him dryly. “You are most certainly not okay, Khun Vegas. If you were fine, you wouldn’t be clutching that pain medicine inhaler as if it were the holy grail.” 

“You certainly do not look okay, Vegas,” Porsche sounds rather shaken. He must have been in a hurry to get here, he’s even wearing shoes that do not match. Part of Vegas is touched that Porsche cares so much about his well-being, but the rest of him is rather irked about this unexpected visit. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know how I look like because even though I pay everyones wages around here, no one is actually listening to me or following my orders when I mention that I want a fucking mirror so that I can look at myself!” Vegas probably shouldn’t have shouted that, because now everyone is staring accusingly at him and his throat is also hurting again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he croaks hoarsely. “Just have mercy with me and get me a mirror?”

Finally it’s the doctor’s turn to loose his temper. “How am I supposed to take care of my patient in this commotion? Khun Vegas, stop throwing a hissy fit, you are not three years old anymore, this will get you nowhere. I am warning you: Do. Not. Move.” He is giving Vegas such a fearsome stare that all opposition drains out of him. “As for the rest of you, be quiet and do not get in my way. And do not agitate my patient! You—” he points at Jai. “—go and get him a mirror already.”

While Jai leaves the room in search for a mirror, Porsche edges closer to the bed, ogling Vegas’ chest wounds with morbid fascination. 

“I swear, if you throw up all over me it’ll be the end of our friendship,” Vegas warns him in a whisper. “Does it really look that bad?”

Porsche nods, then tears his gaze away from the wounds. “What the hell, Vegas…” he once again asks quietly. “How did this happen? Who did this to you?” 

The doctor huffs, but refrains from commenting as he continues to dap damp compresses around the wounds. Even Vegas stays quiet because really, how is he supposed to answer this? 

“Vegas…” Porsche is unwilling to let it slide. “This is some sick shit… Are you really going to pretend it’s nothing and that everything is fine? Really? I have an inkling about what’s going on here but it would be nice to hear it directly from you…”

A glance at the oximeter that is showing the rise in Vegas’ heart rate, and the doctor issues another warning. “Drop the topic, he’s getting all worked up and that’s not good for him in his condition.”

“I am fine,” Vegas protests weakly and then takes a couple of huffs from the whistle. “Really, I’m not upset at all, just exhausted. Porsche, you shouldn’t have come here, Kinn will be upset. How about you head home again before my uncle finds out? In a couple of days, when I am feeling better, we can meet for a cup of coffee and I will tell you everything.”

Porsche merely huffs and raises an eyebrow. “Nice try, but you can forget about it. I am not leaving before you answer me. Who the hell did this to you?”

Once again, the door opens; it’s Jai who appears to have found a small hand-held mirror. He must have heard Porsche’s question because before Vegas can stop him, the guard takes it upon himself to answer. “That would have been Khun Pete, of course, who else.” 

Porsche inhales sharply and clenches his jaw. With a groan of defeat, Vegas closes his eyes, preparing himself mentally for his friend’s outraged outburst that is surely just seconds away. 

“Vegas!!!” 

This time when his name is being called, Vegas jerks right up into a sitting position, sending the pile of bloody compresses surrounding him flying off the bed. He even drops his hold on the handgun he’s kept hidden underneath the blanket until this moment. Thankfully it hasn’t been too long since he took the latest dose of the Penthrox because the pain slamming into him as punishment for the sudden movement is only a shadow of the agony it was before. Nevertheless, Vegas cannot suppress a whimper as he stares in total disbelief at his little brother who is storming into the room. “Macau…?”

The young man roughly pushes the bodyguard out of the way; with another sigh Jai goes to close the door once more while the youngest Theerapanyakul makes a beeline for the bed, only to promptly burst into tears at the sight of his big brother. If Porsche didn’t have the presence of mind to stop him, he would have flung himself into Vegas’ arms. 

“I thought Uncle Korn finally succeeded!” Macau sobs angrily, he is probably embarrassed at himself for getting so emotional in front of everyone. “I got the emergency code and I thought you are dead or dying… I thought you left me and I was the only one left of our family now!”

Overwhelmed by this outburst, and the emotions welling up within himself, Vegas swallows hard. “If I had known that getting injured is what it takes for you to show up here, I would have asked Jai to beat me up earlier…” he jokes weakly, muttering the first thing that comes to his mind. He hasn’t seen his brother in over a year, not since that fateful day when he took control of the family. Being separated from him has been a constant heartache, it’s nothing short of a miracle that his brother is now standing here, only a short distance away from him. 

“Vegas…” Macau wails again, struggles to break free and then stomps on Porsche’s foot. With a hiss of pain, Porsche loosens his hold and Macau is finally able to approach the bed. The tears fall harder when he takes in all of Vegas’ injuries and Vegas’ heart breaks a bit more. 

“I’m fine, Macau. I’m right here and I am fine. Don’t just stand there, come here already…“ Vegas needs a hug just as much as Macau needs one. “Just be careful,” he reminds him as he carefully lifts an arm to pull his little brother down onto the bed. For a moment it gets awkward when the doc intervenes, making sure that Macau doesn’t get anywhere close to the chest wounds while Vegas give him a sideways hug.

They have a few precious moments to themselves, just holding each other. And yes, Macau isn’t the only one sobbing. Vegas’ emotions are all over the place, still oddly disjointed and disproportional. Trying to make sense of this turmoil is giving him a headache. He really doesn’t want to, but eventually he has to let go of Macau when the pain in his chest becomes somewhat terrible again. A few huffs from the inhaler fix that problem, but it also reminds everyone of Vegas’ injuries. 

“I am going to kill him,” Porsche announces all of a sudden. He’s been holding it in while Vegas had his little family reunion but apparently he’s run out of patience now. Well, it was to be expected, Porsche is still a hothead. “Don’t look at me like that, Vegas, I swear I am serious. He’s a dead man walking.”

Vegas rolls his eyes tiredly. His headache won’t go away, in fact it is getting worse. And the doc still has to give the final judgement on his chest injuries. Speaking of which… “Hand me that damn mirror already,” he orders Jai, ignoring Porsche. 

“Who are we killing? The guy who hurt Vegas? Count me in.” Bloodthirsty as always, Macau wants his pound of flesh of whoever dared to injure his brother. 

Since Macau is still perched on the edge of the bed, Vegas elbows him to remind him who’s in charge of this family. Damn, he shouldn’t have moved that way, it hurts. “No, you’re not. You are staying out of this. And so are you,” Vegas warns his best friend a stern look, hiding his pained wince but the doc has Argus eyes and frowns, then checks the blood pressure reading of the oximeter still clamped onto Vegas’ finger, and frowns some more. 

“He has gone too far, he has mutilated you!” Angrily Porsche starts pacing through the room. “I always had a bad feeling about him after the stunt he pulled with Tankhun, but I never expected him to go so completely off the rails. He carved you up like a piece of meat, why the fuck are you not upset about it?!”

His loyalty towards Vegas is heartwarming, but dealing with Pete would likely see Porsche get killed. “Stay the fuck of out my business,” he warns his friend again. “I’ll deal with this in my own way.” 

Jai is hovering nearby, trying to stay discretely out of the way of the argument but Vegas waves him closer. ‘Mutilated’ and ‘carved up’ are such strong words, how bad can a few cuts and a few burns be? Actually, Vegas is feeling pretty cosy as long as the painkillers are doing their job. Now that the doc has wiped all the blood away, his injuries probably look a lot less dramatic than everyone wants to make him believe. “The mirror,” Vegas demands. “Stop stalling.” And yes, he does notice that his bodyguard is waiting for a nod from the doctor before he finally approaches the bed and reluctantly hands Vegas what he is asking for. 

Vegas really wants to get this over with. Just a quick visual check, then the doc can start stitching him up and maybe give him something to sleep because the exhaustion is hitting him pretty hard by now. A glance at the mirror changes all that. His mind is making a last valiant effort to protect him by keeping everything blurry for a few seconds, but Vegas blinks repeatedly until his vision eventually clears up. To say he’s stunned would be a colossal understatement. 

Turns out his friend was not exaggerating after all. Vegas gapes at the sight on himself, struck speechless. Letters. The asshole carved letters into his chest. Letters. A whole fucking word.  In english!

Despite the cleanup, the cuts are still sluggishly oozing blood. Fucking someone while simultaneously carving him up must have been slightly more difficult than Pete expected since his knife work this time is rather subpar, Vegas notes dimly; he should know, he has seen Pete carve up other people and he always admired the way Pete handles his knives. 

There’s nothing clean and straight about these letters though, this is a sloppy job, and after his initial shock Vegas cannot help feeling offended. Oh look, seems his emotions are coming back online. Is this what the doctor meant, everything coming back with a vengeance? Because Vegas finds he’s all of a sudden feeling rather vengeful. “Son of a bitch…” he whisper hoarsely. And since this doesn’t even come close to expressing the outrage growing within him, he repeats himself, this time with more of a roar: “Son of a bitch!”

Everyone in the room winces but Vegas is so focused on himself, he barely takes notice. His mind is a jumbled mess as he tries to deal with all the feelings suddenly bubbling up within him. ‘Mine’, seriously, ‘MINE’? This is what triggered Pete? Vegas starts trembling with anger, so much so that the mirror almost slips from his hand. The doctor makes an alarmed sound somewhere to the side. 

Unbelievable, really; Pete has put him through all of this because of some petty jealousy? And how difficult can it be to make one straight cut? Is this too much to ask for? What the fuck, why several slashes instead of one straight line to form a letter?! The edges of the cuts gape, exposing the glistening bloody tissue beneath and the skin around the cuts is already starting to look inflamed. Oh my God, it looks hideous! This is his chest and yes, he has definitely been mutilated!

And the worst part of it all is the look of that first letter ‘M’. It’s a swollen, angry red mess, covered in large bulging yellowish blisters. Some of them are even leaking liquid, and there are tiny darker patches of charred tissue thrown into the mix now and there. 

It takes a few moments until Vegas finally realises something else, and this time his howl of outrage knows no boundaries. “THE FUCK?! … HE DIDN’T EVEN FINISH?!…”

The indescribable agony. The seemingly endless anguish of feeling the flames feeding on his flesh.  And Pete only got one fucking letter done?! Vegas is seeing red. A moment later the mirror hits the wall, shattering into pieces. 

“Khun Vegas, you need to stay st—”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Vegas shouts into the doctor’s worried face; he’s seething. “Where is he?!” He turns towards Jai. “Where the fuck is he?! Have you found him yet? No? What is taking you so long? What am I paying you for? Get your ass moving, I want this jerk back here, in one of the cells, by the end of the day!”  Vegas’ voice is getting more hoarse with every word, his throat protesting with a vengeance, and so he’s eventually forced to shut up, just panting furiously as he tries to catch his breath. With a trembling hand, he points at Jai and then to the door, and makes a shooing motion. The bodyguard is all too happy to flee the room. 

“Don’t touch me,” Vegas whispers angrily and swats the doctor’s hands away that try to make him lie back down. “Stay the fuck away from me, all of you! Gimme a moment…” The oximeter stuck to his finger is driving him insane, he pulls it off and tosses it to the side, then curls his hands into fists. He’s so fucking angry, he’s going to make Pete wish he weren’t born. 

“Could you please try not to hurt yourself even more?” Macau asks in a small trembling voice. Vegas shoots him a quick glance and then winces because he recognises that expression of fear on his brother’s face all too well. He’s scared, scared of Vegas. Somehow, that knowledge makes Vegas even more angry. Where does all that anger even come from? Damn, his head hurts! With a pained groan, he runs his fingers through his hair, the green whistle dangling from his wrist smacking him in the face. Why is this stuff not helping with his headache? Useless piece of shit. 

Porsche steps into view. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then pauses. After a moment of hesitation he turns towards Macau, gently pulling the young man up and leading him a safe distance away from the bed. Why the fuck is he acting as if Vegas is a live grenade, ready to explode? As if he’d ever hurt his own brother; not even in a fit of rage would he touch Macau!

The doc must have stronger nerves than the rest of them, because he’s not to be intimidated by his boss. “You do not have to be conscious for me to treat these wounds, Khun Vegas,” he reminds him stiffly. “You either get a hold on yourself again and calm down or I just need to wait for you to pass out, which you will, reasonably soon even, if you continue throwing a fit like this.” 

A mix between a disgusted snort and a weak laugh escapes Vegas. “We’ll see about that, shall we?” The pain of the burn injuries is hitting him once more with full force, taking his breath away. It stings. It’s a persistent fiery throb, and it is all consuming. “Just one damn letter…” he whispers in total disbelief, rocking back and forth. “Just one letter…” How can a relatively small wound like that hurt so much that his mind is getting all fuzzy around the edges? Vegas sucks on the damn inhaler like crazy, but the searing pain isn’t lessening. Oh no, he has run out of painkillers! “More,” he demands with a desperate moan. 

“Shouldn’t he be at a hospital?” Macau whispers, worry written all over his pale face. He clutches Porsche’s hand like a lifeline.

“I was outvoted.” The doc shrugs and pulls another green inhaler from the EMT bag, loads it with the medicine and then switches it out against the old one. “This is the last one, Khun Vegas. Are you going to let me continue treating you now?”

The last one. Vegas hastily takes a couple of deep breathes until the worst pain fades away and only his splitting headache remains. That means he has about 30 minutes left… Vegas doesn’t know if he should sob or laugh. Craning his neck, he searches the room until he spies the hated metallic outline of the little butane torch a few meters away, half hidden beneath a sideboard. 

Oh God, he hates Pete. Right this very moment, he hates him even more than he has ever hated his father, and that really doesn’t bode well for Pete’s future. “Not just yet,” Vegas informs the doc briskly, then snaps his fingers at Porsche and points towards the damn torch. “Get me that thing.” 

Porsche turns around to check what Vegas is looking for and then inhales sharply. “Is… is this what he used on you?” Horrified, he cannot suppress a shudder. Unfortunately Macau has seen the torch as well and for a moment he sways as if he’s about to faint. 

What the fuck are they upset about, they weren’t the ones getting tortured? Impatiently, Vegas nods. “Yeah. Bring it to me. Come on, hurry up, I don’t have all the time in the world.”

It is very clear that neither Porsche nor Macau feel comfortable with following that order; Porsche very reluctantly goes to pick up the butane torch but then has a change of heart before he reaches the bed. “Just what do you want this thing for?” he asks cautiously, stopping at a distance. 

“What I want with it?” Vegas laughs bitterly. “I want nothing more than to toss that evil thing out of the nearest window and never ever see anything like it again.” The mere sight of the torch is giving him acute anxiety, he is aware that he’s starting to hyperventilate. “That’s what I want to do with it.” When he continues, there is steel in his voice. “But what I am going to do with it, is to finish this goddamn job.” 

He might as well have dropped a bomb. Everyone is staring at him, completely aghast. It is actually rather funny seeing how shocked they are; Vegas snickers, he simply cannot help himself. No wait, actually he’s sobbing. Whatever. He takes a deep shuddering breath and waves Porsche closer. “Give it to me. I need to get this over with before the painkillers wear off.” 

“You’re out of your fucking mind.” Right away, Porsche starts backing away, dragging Macau, who is too stunned to speak, along with him. “You probably got a hit on the head as well, one that completely messed with your brain. Or perhaps this is the medicine talking. Whatever it is, you’re only getting this torch over my cold dead body!” 

“You think I’m too injured to give you a good ass whooping?!” Irked, Vegas angrily wipes the tears from his face and starts trying to free himself from the blanket wrapped around his legs. “What did I tell you, stay the fuck out of my personal business! Just look at my chest, no fucking symmetry, it’s giving me a headache! I refuse to live like that, I refuse, you fucking hear me?!” 

“Oh shit…” Macau’s eyes widen with worry at this outburst and he tugs anxiously at Porsche’s arm, pulling him even further away from his brother. “What is happening to him? Is he about to have a stroke?” He turns towards the doctor still kneeling on the bed besides Vegas, giving him a beseeching look. “Do something! Something’s wrong with my brother, help him!”

The doc seems to be developing a headache of his own. “Honestly, I don’t get paid enough to handle this shit,” he mutters under his breath, keeping a close eye of his patient while raking his fingers through his grey hair. “Don’t worry, Khun Macau, he isn’t going anywhere.”

“Just one bloody letter!” Vegas hasn’t stopped ranting. He finally succeeds in tearing the blanket off and throws it carelessly to the side. “You all really think this is the end of it? Are you that dumb?” Ack, he’s surrounded by idiots! Determined, Vegas swings his legs over the side of the bed. So what if he’s not wearing anything, he does not have time to get dressed, damn it! “Give me the butane torch, Porsche!”  And when Porsche only grimly shakes his head, Vegas growls. Clutching the inhaler so tightly that his knuckles turn white, he takes a few frantic huffs from it. And then some more before struggling to his feet. 

“This isn’t going to be the end of it,” he repeats, his hoarse voice rising to a shout again. He’s so agitated that his headache is pounding in perfect synchrony with his heartbeat. “If I don’t fix this right now, he’ll be back… “ Vegas takes a few uncoordinated steps towards Porsche, starting to sway. “He’ll … he’ll be back… to finish—” And that’s how far he gets before the rooms starts spinning wildly and everything is going dark.

The last thing he hears before passing out is the doctor’s stoic sigh. “Told you so.” 

When Vegas regains consciousness, he finds himself back on the bed again. He’s feeling rather groggy, but at least the splitting headache is gone. If only he could say the same about the pain centred around his chest. That one’s still there, however it is somewhat muted. It’s a manageable pain, Vegas decides; it is still rather gruesome in its strength but at least he doesn’t feel like crawling up the walls, screaming his head off. If it doesn’t get worse, he won’t even need the nifty green whistle again. Not that the doc would hand him another anytime soon. 

Speaking of the doctor, the man’s right next to him, currently checking his pulse. “I did warn you not to get too worked up,” he points out with a faint smile. “In the end, you passing out was for the best, that way I could take care of your wounds without traumatising you even further. Are you feeling comfortable, Khun Vegas? How’s the pain level?”

After clearing his throat a couple of times, Vegas is able to reply but his voice is rather raspy. Simply too much screaming these past few hours. It has been only a few hours, right? “It’s okay, I can deal with how it feels right now, as long as it doesn’t get worse.”

“Oh, it will, but I have already organised a variety of painkillers for you to try out when that happens. I also cleaned and sutured all the cuts. Then I had a Facetime conference with a Burn specialist and cleaned up those injuries too. You have deep second degree burns there, with some very small patches of third degree burns. Knowing what caused the injuries, it’s a miracle they aren’t all third degree, so you should count yourself lucky. We decided not to do any skin grafts, the burns aren’t big or severe enough to warrant that procedure. I am sorry to say that there will be some degree of scarring. And you might still have to go to hospital if those burns get infected in any way.”

“All right.” Vegas sighs, he has temporarily run out of energy to argue. Maybe he should just go back to sleep and everything will be better tomorrow. Unfortunately there is a bit too much background noise to fall asleep though. What’s with all that subdued murmuring in the room? Blearily, he turns his head to check out who’s making all that noise. Oh. Well, this is a bit unexpected. 

While he was knocked out, his bedroom seems to have turned into a lounge, now containing an assortment of family and friends. Someone, probably Jai, has arranged for a multitude of chairs that are scattered around the room. The bodyguard seems to be on edge, leaning against the wall closest to the door, scanning the room and its occupants constantly. When he notices that Vegas is awake, he gives his employer a frazzled smile and a nod. Poor Jai, no wonder he’s stressed, given the people hanging out here.

There is Macau, of course. His brother has kicked off his shoes and made himself comfortable on the floor. There is a plate with what appears to be meat slices in front of him, but instead of eating them himself, he has speared a bite on a fork and is cautiously holding it in the direction of the sideboard. Weird. Then a black paw comes into view, sharp claws find their target and the meat plus the fork are dragged underneath the sideboard. Oh, okay. Macau seems determined to befriend Venice. Vegas is already feeling sorry for his brother. 

He isn’t the only one watching this spectacle. Porsche lounges on a nearby chair, his feet propped up on another, a bemused smile on his face. He seems to be murmuring advice to Macau, who rolls his eyes before he leans down to look underneath the sideboard and then cautiously makes an attempt to retrieve the fork. The attempt doesn’t go well and for a moment Porsche’s delighted laugh echoes through the room before he remembers where he is and snaps his mouth shut. 

Some strange guy Vegas has never seen before is pacing behind Porsche’s chair. He has horrid blonde hair, wears sunglasses even though they are inside and has an atrocious taste in clothes; a real eyesore. Perhaps a new bodyguard? 

The by far loudest group of people in the room happens to be centred around his eldest cousin. How on earth did they get Tankhun to come here? Vegas is baffled. Good grief, and what is he wearing? Some kind of coat with embroidered lapels and cuffs, even a waistcoat and underneath it all a lace-edged shirt! Not the mention the matching breeches ending just below the knees. But here’s where the likeness to an 18th century European nobleman ends: Tankhun is wearing flip flops.  

Thankfully the two bodyguards accompanying him wear the usual Main family suits. And a tricorne. Vegas blinks. No, he isn’t imagining things, he isn’t dreaming. This absurd little group of people are terribly busy. Tankhun is waving his hands enthusiastically, pointing at something on the iPad one of the guards is holding while the other guards is taking notes and frantically shaking his head at his colleague whenever his employer isn’t looking in his direction. 

And to top it all off, Vegas spies his therapist in one of the corners. She is sitting comfortably on a chair, knitting quietly, taking it all in. 

Good Grief. 

“I have died and gone to hell,” Vegas moans softly and closes his eyes again in despair. No family whatsoever in over a year, and now they all suddenly decide to converge on him when he’s at his weakest, and cannot escape their shenanigans. 

He can hear the doctor chuckling with amusement. 

“Send them away,” Vegas whispers under his breath, pretending to be still unconscious. “I’ll give you a huge bonus, just make them go away.” 

“Nice try. But your cousin already offered me a shitload of money to allow him to stay here,” the doc counters dryly. “Suck it up, Khun Vegas. There is no escaping from this.”

And he is right. A moment later Tankhun squeals, and from the sounds of it he’s rapidly approaching the bed. Vegas swallows hard, then very carefully opens his eyes a tiny slit only to look squarely into his cousin’s delighted face that is only an inch away. This startles him so badly that he jerks, which Tankhun takes as a confirmation that Vegas truly has rejoined the land of the living. “He’s awake,” he hollers so loudly that Vegas’ ears are ringing. 

Oh fuck. Vegas loves Tankhun dearly but he’s not quite sure if he has the patience to deal with him today when the pain is gnawing incessantly at his already frail control over his temper. “Please…” he exhales through clenched teeth. “Please… tone it down a bit, okay? And back off. Please?” 

Thankfully, Tankhun has the presence of mind to take a step away from the bed. In his enthusiasm, he bounces slightly, eagerness written all over his expressive face, but he stays quiet. Thank God. Soon he is joined by everyone else except for Jai, who keeps his position by the door, watching the unfolding scene through narrowed eyes. 

Vegas sighs deeply, the doc was right, there is no escaping from this. “Please help me up,” he asks and then clears his throat because his voice sounds as if he’s swallowed a ton of gravel. With another sigh, he makes a mental note to try and avoid shouting in the near future. Good luck with that, he knows himself too well. Once the doctor has assisted him in finding a comfortable position to sit, Vegas finally faces the people gather before him with a fake smile. “The news of my impending death have been gravely exaggerated,” he jokes weakly. “Thank you for taking the time to come here but you can all leave again, I’ll be fine.” 

Apparently Macau isn’t convinced; gone is his smile, the anxious expression is back on his face. “We’re not leaving,” he declares, speaking for all of them. “You just sit there, be quiet and listen for once, because we have things to say to you.” 

Well well well… 

So they have decided to gang up on him, huh? Vegas isn’t sure how to feel about that, amusement wars with irritation. One little melt-down, and this is what it has come to. Never mind that he is a fully grown adult in charge of a vast criminal empire. 

“Well, get on with it then.” And yeah, he sounds rather grumpy because that’s how he is feeling. “Come on, let me hear it. The sooner you get it off your chest, the sooner I can take a nap.” And do other things that need to be taken care off, but he doesn’t mention that. 

They all look at each other—Macau, Porsche, the strange guy with the blonde hair who looks vaguely familiar, Tankhun and his bodyguards—and none of them is willing to take the first step. 

“I believe, this is what is called an intervention.” The voice of reason, aka his therapist, inserts herself into the conversation at this point. She is standing a bit to the side, still holding her knitting gear in one hand, the all familiar glasses perching precariously on her nose. 

“Yes, exactly! An intervention!” Macau pipes up, lifts his chin and faces his big brother bravely. “We’ve had enough, this needs to stop.” 

Porsche and the blonde guy nod emphatically in agreement. 

Vegas doesn’t quite know what to say, this is the last thing he expected to happen. 

“Off with his head!” Tankhun exclaims dramatically. His guards wince, but he elbows them in the ribs, threatening them with a dark frown, and so they quickly fall in line again. “Off with his head,” they repeat dutifully. 

This is getting more and more bizarre. “Whose head?” Confused, Vegas faces his eldest cousin. “You want me dead? I am sorry, but I cannot quite follow your line of thought here. What kind of intervention is this? I thought this kind of stuff is usually done with drug or alcohol addicts? Well, I can assure you, I am in no way addicted to anything.”

“Yes, you are,” Macau insists. “You are addicted; it’s just that your drug of choice happens to be another person.” 

“And he’s bad to the bone!” Tankhun hisses, curling his hands into fists. “Plain evil! Wicked! Off with his head!”

Porsche winces slightly. “How about we try to avoid using such strong words, you are just making Vegas more stubborn; look at his face, he’s getting pissed off already.” 

What the actual fuck? Vegas takes a deep breath to calm himself and immediately winces because the wounds on his chest do not like this kind of movement. No shouting, he remembers at the last moment. His throat still aches rather terribly. Calm, he needs to stay calm, but damn, it’s difficult. Yes, he’s getting pissed off.

“I see.” Calm, calm. Think calming thoughts. “If I assume correctly, this is about my relationship with—” To his surprise, Vegas discovers how difficult it is for him to say the name out loud. “—with Pete.” Strangely enough his mind is still kind of fuzzy when it comes to Pete. He has even trouble envisioning how he normally looks like because Vegas’ mind is on an endless loop of supplying him with snapshots of the Abyss wielding the butane torch. Try as he might, there is only the Abyss. 

“I am so worried about you,” his brother interrupts those dark memories. Macau is wringing his hands and Vegas gets momentarily distracted by the sight of the fresh claw marks on them. “I know this is your private business, but I see what this relationship is doing to you, and I’m scared I am going to lose you, too. You are the only one who’s left of my family, could you please stop being so self-destructive?” His voice wobbles with suppressed emotion. “I know I have been out of touch lately but I’m still your brother. Why can’t you live for me instead of being hell-bend on destroying yourself, all in the name of love for some crazy psycho?” 

Whatever Vegas wanted to say, the words get stuck in his throat. What is he even supposed to reply to something like this, there are no adequate words. He’s feeling called out, would love nothing more than to lash out with his words and his fists, he’s feeling all defensive but what if Macau has a point? 

There is this maelstrom of warring emotions within Vegas when it comes to Pete. Especially now that everything between them went so terribly and unexpectedly wrong all of a sudden. Vegas feels… he feels… 

“He is not good for you,” Porsche points out gently. “If you try to look at your whole relationship objectively, and I know that isn’t easy for you, it really should be glaringly obvious even to you that your life has taken a rather radical turn since you hooked up with him. It’s far from me to judge you for your kinks, Vegas, but the amount of psychological and physical violence between the two of you really goes beyond of what is acceptable. This isn’t a healthy relationship, Vegas, and as your friend it is my duty to point this out, even if you do not want to hear it.”

They just keep piling on top of it, one after the other. Vegas swallows dryly, completely overwhelmed. 

“He’s a bad person.” Apparently it’s Tankhun’s turn now. “He seems to be nice at first but then he starts talking to you, and those evil words worm their way into your mind where they start to take root and grow and grow.” Nervously, his eldest cousin reaches out to seek comfort by holding the hands of his guards. “And at some point you don’t even know anymore if those thoughts are your own thoughts, or thoughts he has planted in your mind, and you get all confused and make the wrong choices.” Teary eyed, Tankhun gives Vegas a beseeching look. “I promised your mom I’d take care of you, I cannot just stand on the sidelines and watch how that evil person is corrupting you. We need to cut off his head to stop him from poisoning you even more.” 

Tankhun promised his mom? Vegas’s eyes immediately get misty. Wait. Damn, he’s getting distracted. 

“I’m sure deep down you know yourself that you are in an abusive relationship, and that you need to end this,” the blonde guy reluctantly speaks up at last. Vegas does a double-take, he recognises that voice. Squinting his eyes—for once looking past the sunglasses, the blonde hair that turns out to be a wig, and the atrocious clothes—he gasps in surprise when the pieces finally fall into place. “What on earth are you doing here? And what’s with this horrid disguise?”

With a sigh, Kinn takes off the sunglasses, rolling his eyes. “This is a family intervention. You are my family. Of course I am here. Besides, you think I’d allow Porsche to come here on his own again after your boyfriend tried to drown him during his last visit?” He turns with a wounded look towards Porsche, who just elbowed him hard. “What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Then his attention shifts back to Vegas. “Listen, you know very well how my father will react if he finds out I set foot into this mansion, hence the disguise. Please note that despite the risk, here I am, and not just because I want to protect Porsche. You and me, we are family. You are my cousin, and I care about you, sort of. You badly need a reality check, and that’s what I have come to deliver.” 

Kinn’s presence really is the final straw, Vegas’ invisible defences start to crumble and fall. Helplessly, his gaze finds his therapist, he’s begging silently for help because all of this is getting too much, but for now she is staying silent, just watching him with a faint smile. Very well. Seems he’s on his own for now. Fine. But before he can formulate a suitable reply, Tankhun speak up again. 

“Pete is a bad egg, and he has hurt a Theerapanyakul. I vote for chopping off his head.” He lifts his hand, as if to vote, then stomps his foot and his guards quickly lift their hands as well. “See. That’s three votes already. Who else is with me?” 

Vegas is aghast at this turn of events, they cannot be serious about this, right? Since when do interventions turn into lynch mobs? 

“It would set a bad precedence if we would allow him to get away with hurting a Theerapanyakul,” Kinn points out and calmly raises his hand as well. “Besides, if we do not deal with him properly this time, you will most likely go all soft and forgive him, which is totally unacceptable. I vote to dispose of him permanently although I find chopping off his head a bit too extreme.” He narrows his eyes at his older brother. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you checking the internet for a guillotine, Tankhun. I am telling you right away, you better forget about that.” And after a short pause he turns to the guards and adds, “He’s probably placed an order already, see that you cancel it.” 

The guards salute while Tankhun stomps his foot in annoyance. “Spoilsport,” he mutters. 

Vegas expected it already, but it still hurts when Porsche raises his hand as well. “Pete’s got to go, I am truly sorry, Vegas. It is very obvious that you are unable to think clearly as far as he’s concerned. No, don’t try to argue with me. Just remember that you were willing to mutilate yourself for his sake just a short time ago. Let’s place a hit on him, the sooner the better, so that you can move on.” 

“I’ll kill him myself,” Macau snarls softly, lifting his hand up high. “He’s hurt my brother, I won’t let him get away with it.”

“Khun Macau, I don’t think it is a good idea for you to get involved.” Apparently Jai has an opinion  as well that he would like to voice. “Professionally speaking, I believe that Khun Pete poses too high a risk to allow him any sort of close access to Khun Vegas again. I also need to point out that anything related to Khun Pete’s elimination should be handled by professional hitmen to reduce the risk of excessive casualties. If you recall the incident at the veterinary clinic, you will remember that Khun Pete is more than capable of holding his own against regular bodyguards and hired thugs. It would be too high of a risk for you to go after him yourself, Khun Macau.” 

Bloody hell… When is he going to get a break? Vegas’ swollen and discoloured wrists ache. His shoulders ache. Sitting hurts as well, they really should have used more lube. And the cuts and burns nearly drive him crazy with pain. When is enough enough? Why does everyone insist on making his day even worse by forming a lynch mob to go after Pete? Is there no voice of reason in this madhouse? 

Vegas once again searches the sea of faces before him until his eyes land on his therapist. With a sigh of relief, he silently urges her with his eyes to speak up and put a stop to the insanity. Which she does. Sort of.

“Khun Vegas, please allow me to speak ‘off the record’ for once. Just imagine me taking off my therapist hat for a moment, to express my opinion unhindered by professional guidelines.” The elderly woman steps closer to the bed. “Personally, I think a bullet to the head would be the best solution. Make it a double tap, to be on the safe side.”

Everyone gasps, Vegas included. Who would have thought that this mild-mannered woman is hiding such a vicious streak? 

Amused, and not the least bit bothered by their collective shock, the therapist smiles at all of them, inhales deeply and then slowly exhales again. “Oh, speaking your mind feels good, doesn’t  it? It’s incredibly freeing. Now that everyone has had an opportunity to vent, let’s get down to business, shall we? Please grab a chair and sit down.”

Vegas exhales shakily and closes his eyes for a second to regain his equilibrium. When everyone is seated in a half-circle in front of his bed, he opens his eyes again. “Do we really need to do this?” he asks them wearily. “Haven’t I been through enough already? Do I really need to get into an argument with all of you right now? I’d rather like some rest, you know?” 

“It’s best to get this over with now instead of drawing the whole issue out and allow the frustration and anger to fester. For both sides.” The therapist shoots a warning glance at Tankhun who immediately starts to pout but stays silent. “Khun Vegas, do you acknowledge that your friends and family have the right to worry about you?”

Vegas nods tiredly. 

“Do you understand that they are upset about what happened to you, and that their first instinct is to try and protect you best they can?” 

Again, Vegas nods. Oh, he understands them all too well. 

“And do you also understand that given their circumstance, both private and professional, they naturally assume that killing Khun Pete will solve all of their worries?”

Yeah, of course they do. Vegas sighs and wearily massages his aching wrists, focusing on his therapist so that that he doesn't have to look at anyone else. “Yeah, I get it.”

Now the therapist turns to the rest of the group, taking the time to look each of them in the eye before she continues. “Is everyone in agreement that Khun Vegas has been through a traumatising event? 

Naturally, everyone agrees. 

“Do you also understand that even though you are a family, no matter what happened or will happen to him in the future, it does not give you the right to make any final decisions in regards to Khun Vegas’ relationship?” 

There is a bit of grumbling after that statement, it is to be expected, but soon everyone falls silent again. 

“Can we also all agree that even though your first instinct is to kill Khun Pete, you will actually refrain from doing so and instead allow Khun Vegas to make any final decision on this matter? And that you will all respect his decision and none of you will go behind his back and try to eliminate Khun Pete anyway?” 

No, they do not agree with that. Vegas allows himself to space out during the ensuing argument. The doc bandaged his chest and the skin is itching like hell. Every time Vegas inhales and exhales, the dressing of the wounds moves minutely and those burns are protesting violently. Is the pain getting worse? Are the painkillers wearing off already? 

“Khun Vegas?” The therapist interrupts his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. “How about you tell everyone how you would like to deal with Khun Pete?”

Vegas draws a blank. His mind is literally empty whenever he is trying to bring himself to think about his boyfriend. Are they still in a relationship? “I don’t know. I honestly don’t have a clue,” he admits eventually. “My mind’s a mess.” 

With a grimace, and a slight shake of head he continues. “I don’t know how I feel right now. I am flying completely blind. Maybe I look relatively fine but I’m in so much pain that it is difficult to focus on what I want to say to all of you here. I get your anger and worry, okay? I am reasonably sure I am supposed to be really angry as well, but I am feeling so disconnected from what has been done to me, I really don’t understand what is happening to me. You want answers, but I don’t even understand myself.”

Pushing the hair out of his face, he sighs. “Do I want him dead? I don’t know. Maybe? I am so numb inside, I am trying to feel something but there are only small sparks of emotions now and then, and they disappear so quickly that I cannot analyse them. All I know is that in order to make an informed decision about Pete, I need to be able to concentrate, to feel something—anything really—other than physical pain. And even if I eventually decide that I want him dead, then I’m the one who needs to do it. It’s really flattering that you all are so bloodthirsty on my behalf but would you please back off and give me some time to breathe and to figure out what I want?” 

When he falls silent, no one speaks for the longest time. His words seemed to have made them  uncomfortable, everyone avoids looking at him. Everyone but his therapist, who continues to watch him closely. What now? Hasn’t he explained it enough already? But it appears as if she’s waiting for something else from him. Bloody mind games, Vegas is too exhausted to try and figure out what she wants. “Have mercy and just tell me what else I need to talk about, please? 

All-knowing eyes peek at Vegas from behind her silver-rimmed glasses. “I believe you still need to explain to your family what you are going to do once they have left,” the woman reminds him patiently.

Aww shit. She really does know him all too well. Vegas cringes ever so slightly before glaring at her for opening that can of worms. 

While most of his family are confused about what is being hinted at, Porsche is the first one to figure it out. “Son of a bitch,” he snarls softly, shooting Vegas an angry look. “You bastard, you are still going to go through with it, aren’t you?” 

Instantly catching on, Macau’s eyes widen as he makes a small shocked sound, then his eyes rapidly fill with tears. “Vegas, no… you can’t…”

“All right…” Vegas adjusts his position on the bed, hoping he doesn’t look as frail and pain-wrecked as he feels. “I wanted to spare you this trauma but fine, let’s talk about it. Macau, don’t cry. Porsche, calm down. It’s going to be okay, I am reasonably sure I can do this without causing excessive injuries.” Hopefully the confidence he’s injecting into his voice will fool them.

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Kinn inquires cautiously, sensing that this is a sensitive topic. 

“He’s going to burn himself,” Porsche hisses, his outrage growing exponentially with every second that goes by. “You almost tricked us, you asshole. You had me thinking it was only a momentary loss of reason, induced by your pain medicine. But no, this had nothing to do with temporary insanity, doesn’t it? Your brain isn’t muddled, you are completely clear-headed and you are still going ahead with this stupid plan of yours!”

Unable to wrap his mind around the fact that Vegas wants to intentionally harm himself, Kinn slowly shakes his head in confusion. Tankhun reacts more dramatically; he wails loudly and then attempts to throw himself at Vegas to hug him, but his guards stop him just in time so he instead ends up sobbing pitifully in their arms. 

What fucking mess, and it’s all his therapists fault. But no matter how much Vegas glares at her, the woman is completely unmoved. She simply goes back to knitting, allowing the drama to play out. 

“I am not insane,” Vegas tries to defend himself. “Really, I am not.” Oh damn, this is going to be difficult to explain. “What you need to understand when it comes to Pete— or rather this specific side of Pete—is that he always follows through with what he has planned. Always.” Struggling to find the courage to continue, Vegas fists his hands into the blanket he’s wrapped into. How to explain the Abyss without giving away Pete’s true nature? And why does he even care if they all find out? 

“This here… me… these cuts—” Vegas has to clear his throat repeatedly because it feels as if his throat is closing around the words as he forces them out. “—he didn’t finish, okay? I don’t know why, I thankfully passed out pretty early on during this ordeal.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. But he doesn’t have the heart to shock his family even more. 

“The point I am trying to make is that this—these cuts on me—they are an unfinished project. And I know without a doubt…” Vegas has a visual flashback of the Abyss wielding the torch, that look of extreme concentration coupled with fascination and joy playing across its features while he screamed his head off, and he swallows hard. “I know he’s going to come back to finish it,” he whispers, horrified at that thought. 

His head bodyguard frowns at that. “I’ll triple security right away,” he informs everyone and then leaves the room. 

As if that would help. If the Abyss truly wants to finish its little project, there is nothing and no one who will be able to stop it. Vegas knows it deep down in his wounded heart, oh, he knows. 

“I really don’t see how he would be able to get through your security,” Kinn decides to be practical about it. “But this will make it much easier to catch him, no?” Then he adds quickly, “Should you wish to do so, of course. It’s entirely up to you, but from how you described the situation, you are the perfect bait to reel him in. All you need to do is to set a trap, and wait for him to step into it, and then you can lock him up in the cellar until you have decided what to do with him.” 

“Kinn!” Porsche growls, totally exasperated. “A bit of empathy for what Vegas is going through, please? He’s your cousin after all, not an unknown pawn in some grand entrapment plan.”

Tankhun is still too upset to contribute to the discussion but Macau decides to get to the heart of the issue. “So what you are saying is that in order to avoid further torture with the butane torch at Pete’s hands, you want to torture yourself with said butane torch instead. As some sort of pre-emptive measure? You are aware that this sounds pretty crazy, right?” Truly frustrated, Macau turns towards the others. “I am right, correct? This is stupid and makes no sense.”

“I agree with Macau.” There is so much nervous energy surrounding Porsche that Vegas expects him to jump up and start pacing any second now. “And I’ll go even further: Has it even occurred to you that this might be exactly what Pete had in mind in the first place? To get you to finish his ‘work’ to cement his control over you?”

Tankhun immediately stops sobbing and nods vehemently. “He’s gotten into Vegas’ mind, I told you so. He messed him all up, that’s the only explanation for this madness.”

Truth to be told, Vegas feels thrown off balance. It never crossed his mind that this might be one of Pete’s mind games. If that is true…? A shudder runs through him. No, that would be too cruel. Pete would never do that. The Abyss though…

“Maybe Khun Vegas is trying to regain the control he lost during this assault,” the therapist finally joins the discussion. “By planning to complete the burn injuries, he perhaps figures it will be easier to live with this whole disaster in the years to come. Then whenever he sees the scars in the mirror, he will not see himself as a victim, but as a survivor.”

This theory flies straight over Vegas’ head, in his current condition he’s not even able to ponder if it might be true. “Actually, I just don’t want to have to go through all of it again without plenty of anaesthesia,” Vegas corrects her tiredly. The Abyss doesn’t give a damn about painkillers, but as long as Vegas burns those three remaining letters into himself, he will make damn sure to be doped up to the gills. Take that, you asshole. He briefly envisions how this will surely disappoint the Abyss, and smirks softly. 

“That is an awful plan,” Macau points out, sounding utterly defeated. “Could you please not hurt yourself, Vegas? Reason by damned, you are in so much pain already, do you really want to make it worse?” 

“I’m a survivor.” Vegas would shrug but he’s learned that it aggravates the pain from the burn wounds. “Have a little faith in me, Macau. The doc is going to pump me full of painkillers and then the whole procedure will be a walk in the park.” Yeah sure, another lie. Vegas is not looking forward to his planned self-mutilation, not at all. 

“No more green whistle,” the doc reminds him instantly. “And I cannot believe you want to ruin all my beautiful stitches, reason be damned.” He’s really not amused about this turn of events. 

“We are not actually allowing him to do it, are we?” Porsche looks at the assembled people in dismay. “Have you all lost your freaking minds?” 

“How do you plan to stop him? You want to lock him up indefinitely?” Kinn slowly shakes his head. “I know you’re upset, Porsche, but you heard him, he is determined to go through with it.”

“Oh, shut up, Kinn, I don’t want to hear it,” Porsche snarls before focusing his frustration on Vegas. “I am not giving you the damn butane torch, and I am not leaving your side, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe until you have come back to your senses.” 

“Actually I have to partially agree with Khun Porsche,” the doctor inserts himself into the conversation. “I’d strongly advise against using a butane torch for this. From what I have gathered by examining the initial wound, Khun Pete is very skilled in using this type of torch on living tissue. And I cannot believe I am actually saying something like this.” The doc shakes his head in astonishment at himself. “I don’t even want to know how he gained those skills. The fact remains that Khun Vegas has no experience using such a torch other than for cooking.” Addressing Vegas directly, the doctor continues. “Right now you only have isolated small spots of third degree burns but I can guarantee you that if you try to use the torch on yourself, every one of those last three letters will be third degree burns and you will need a prolonged hospital stay.”

Well, that’s a bummer. He must not end up in hospital, Vegas knows that. What is he supposed to do now? 

Thankfully, the doctor already has a solution for this problem. “I really shouldn’t be doing this but… well… we do have an Electro-cauterisation machine in the house. I usually use it to cauterise blood vessels caused by gunshot wounds to avoid excessive bleeding.” The man sighs deeply. “I suppose I could use that to cauterise the cuts. The electric current will heat the tip of a probe which will then effectively burn the tissue it touches. The probe is like a pen, very easy to handle, and much more predictable when it comes to the damage it produces.”

Vegas perks up again. Now this sounds promising. There is just one tiny problem. “You can give me instructions on how to use this machine but the burning I need to do myself.”

“No.” Seems they are all united in their refusal to allow him to mutilate himself. 

“Listen, I’d love nothing more than letting a professional do the job,” Vegas explains patiently. “I do not look forward to burning myself, okay? I’m not into this kind of pain at all, I am no masochist. But I cannot in good conscience allow the doc to do this because it would be like signing his death warrant.”

And since everyone is confused, Vegas sighs and spells it out for them. “You saw what he wrote on my chest. ‘MINE’. Given what you know about Pete, how do you think he will react if he finds out that someone else, another man, has permanently marked the person he personally branded as his property?” Vegas allows for the words to sink in. “You’d be a dead man walking, doc.” 

“I see. Well, consider me not being able to do the procedure then.” The doctor shudders, he is probably pondering why he took on a job like this in the first place. 

“Can we have another vote about killing Pete?” Macau pleads once more with his brother. “Please?”  

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll do it.” Determined, Porsche stands up. “I’m not scared of Pete, Kinn will keep me safe.”

Vegas notes that Kinn isn’t happy with this turn of events. Understandably so. “Sit down again, Porsche. Of all the people here, you are the one person who absolutely isn’t allowed to get anywhere near my body with anything that could potentially mark me. What do you think triggered this whole disaster in the first place, huh? Have you forgotten how fucking jealous Pete gets when it comes to you and me?” 

Startled realisation flashes across Porsche’s handsome face and he plops down on the chair again. “Shit. The pool. He heard..?” 

“He sure as hell did,” Vegas confirms grimly. “The doc he’d kill relatively quickly, but you? I don’t even want to contemplate what you would have to endure. That’s why I have to be the one to cauterise those cuts.” 

“Actually that’s not entirely true.” Macau interjects quietly. He’s very pale but there is a determined gleam in his eyes when he now faces Vegas. “There is one more person who can do it without having to fear Pete’s retribution.” He pauses and swallows hard. “And that’s me. Pete would never touch me. You and me, we belong together, we are related by blood. You are mine and I am yours. He cannot refute that. And he cannot get jealous, there are no romantic feelings involved. Pete also knows very well that I am the one person he cannot harm if he plans to have any sort of relationship with you in the future.”

Altogether horrified by what he’s hearing because it makes perfect sense, Vegas gasps. “Oh no. No way. You want to…” Vehemently, he shakes his head. “You think I’ll allow you to get all traumatised by forcing you to hurt me? Read my lips: Not happening!”

“Oh shut the fuck up, Vegas.” Where his brother has suddenly found this kind of courage Vegas doesn’t know, but he cannot help being slightly impressed by it. “Stop treating me like a child. You think I’ve never hurt anyone before? I am not as innocent as all of you believe, may I remind you that I have spend quite a few years on my own, at the mercy of our father? Just because he didn’t beat me up doesn’t mean life with him was all shits and giggles. My childhood was just as fucked up as yours, Vegas. Now go and get that damn machine so we can started.” That last part is directed at the doctor, who gladly takes this opportunity to flee the room. 

It’s all a bit too much for Vegas who finds it increasingly difficult to hold back the tears gathering in his eyes. “Dammit,” he curses quietly. “You shouldn’t have to do this. It’s not fair.” 

“Well, according to my therapist I have a whole lot of anger bottled up inside of me when it comes to you,” Macau informs him. “Maybe it’ll be therapeutic for me to do this? You know, instead of a fistfight that I would most likely loose anyway?” He is trying so hard to sound unaffected and brave but Vegas notes how his hands are trembling, and it’s breaking his heart. 

What an incredibly fucked up situation. Vegas grimaces and bites his lower lip. “Listen Macau, you are one of the most important people in the world to me, you know that, right? My life was hell while you were ghosting me, I am so damn happy that you are talking to me again. Now I know I really fucked up back then, but I will try to make up for it somehow. I wish I could claim I am sorry for killing dad, but since we are being honest here, I really am not. And you have every right to be furious about it, and I don’t expect you to forgive me anytime soon either. If it helps you, I will join your therapy sessions, I will literally do anything for you, Macau.” 

Vegas curses under his breath, it sucks to be so damn helpless. “I feel like the worst brother ever to even consider taking you up on your offer. You shouldn’t have to do this kind of fucked up shit. You should be a carefree teenager, for fucks sake! This is killing me, all right? I love you so much, Macau; I promise you when all this is over I will start taking better care of myself so that you do not need to worry so much about me, okay?” 

Macau is obviously deeply touched by these words; he sniffles and quickly wipes his face. “I’m not crying, I just got something in my eyes,” he mutters and forces himself to smile. “It’s okay Vegas. Don’t worry, it’s going to get okay.”

“Everyone in this family is completely insane!” At this point, Porsche is so upset that he gets to his feet and starts pacing frantically. “This is not okay, Macau is just a kid. He should not have to get involved. Don’t just sit there and be quiet, do something, Kinn!” 

“Macau is a Theerapanyakul, and as he already pointed out, he doesn’t want us to coddle him. If he wants to help Vegas, then I will not oppose his decision. Besides, his assessment of the situation is spot on, he’s the only one who will be completely safe while doing this.” Kinn isn’t aware that his lecture comes across rather patronising until Porsche snorts in disgust, turns around on his heel and marches towards the exit. 

“You are all fucking insane!” he yells one more time as he yanks the door open, almost colliding with the doctor. “And you better get comfortable sleeping on the couch, Kinn!” Then he shoulders past the surprised man, angrily stalking away. 

“Damn.” Fumbling to put on his sunglasses again and adjusting his blonde wig, Kinn doesn’t hesitate to run after his boyfriend. “See you later, Vegas, and good luck.” His cousin narrowly avoids bumping into the large bag the doctor is manoeuvring through the door, mumbles an apology, and then sprints away. “Porsche, I’m sorry!” 

If only Tankhun would leave as well, but Vegas’ eldest cousin is still firmly in the grip of an overly dramatic melt-down. He’s lounging on his chair as if he’s about to slip off it, his eyes half closed, sobbing noisily into a lace handkerchief while his bodyguards use their tricornes to fan him. Vegas can sympathise with Porsche; the antics of this family would drive even the most sane person crazy in no time. 

He and Macau are still struggling to hold their tears back in, but the arrival of the doctor has an instantly sobering effect on both brothers. 

Undeterred by Tankhun’s dramatic sobs, the doctor clears the bedside table and unpacks a surprisingly small machine with a lot of buttons, knobs and displays. He attaches something that looks like a metal-tipped pencil with a long cable to it, plugs the machine into a socket and then pushes a variety of buttons. Vegas and Macau watch him in morbid fascination. 

Then the doctor places a plastic food container next to the machine and waves Macau closer. “Come here, kiddo.”

Warily, Macau approaches the setup.

“What’s this for?” Vegas asks and points at the container. “A quick snack to bump up his blood sugar so he won’t keel over and faint?” 

“I took the liberty of bringing some raw chicken breast,” the doctor explains patiently. “The kid needs to practise to get a feel for the machine. I’m not going to allow him to accidentally burn holes into your chest cavity, Khun Vegas.” 

There is a weak moan and a thud as Tankhun faints, slides off the chair and hits the floor. Seems this was too much for him. Well, this makes it easier to get rid off him as well. “Take him home,” Vegas orders the dismayed bodyguards wearily. “And maybe give him something to sleep so he won’t have nightmares.” 

The guards are only too happy to take their boss away from this madhouse and a few minutes later, the only people remaining in the room are Vegas, Macau, the doctor and the therapist. Before Vegas can even ask her to leave as well, she is already packing her knitting equipment back into her shoulder bag. 

“Good luck to you, Khun Vegas.” She reaches out and gently squeezes his hand. “You are very brave. Don’t forget it’s all right to cry if you feel like it. I’ll call to make an appointment in a couple of days, but if it’s an emergency and you need to talk earlier, just call me.” 

For one crazy moment, the urge to beg her for a hug becomes almost overwhelming but Vegas wrestles it down. And then she’s gone already. While the doc patiently teaches Macau how to hold and use the cauterisation probe, and the scent of roasted chicken starts to fill the air, Jai pokes his head into the room. Vegas is glad for the distraction. 

“Found his car,” Jai reports, rattling down an unknown address. Vegas doesn’t know that area. “As expected, he has abandoned it, the car had already been stripped of all the valuables when we found it. And the last time his phone was online, it logged into a nearby cellphone tower. But there has been radio silence ever since. He probably dumped the phone as well. I have people canvassing the whole area, checking for CCTV cameras. My guess is that he has left the city to lie low for a while. Just to be sure, we’ll check all the bus terminals, train stations and car rentals. I have increased security throughout the mansion and put it on lockdown. No one’s getting in here, I am checking every person personally. Do you have any more orders for me, boss?”

Vegas congratulates himself once more for hiring Jai. “Well done. I really cannot think of anything else. When this is over, you get a raise.” 

A wry smile flutters across Jai’s stern face. “Hold off with the raise until I’ve caught our fugitive.” Then he excuses himself again and Vegas is left with nothing else to do but warily watch the doctor instructing his brother on how to hold the probe and how much pressure to use. Wide-eyed and gritting his teeth, Macau listens with full concentration and follows the instructions.

A quiet panic takes hold of Vegas. The probe Macau is holding makes a sizzling sound whenever it touches the chicken breast, like meat frying in a pan. Soon it will be his own flesh making that sound, and it turns Vegas’ stomach. As a cherry on top, his mind supplies him with a few disjointed auditory flashbacks of the hiss of the butane torch coupled with his own hair raising screams, and Vegas can feel his hands getting clammy with sweat. Must not have a panic attack, he tells himself. 

But there is no time for panic, because while Macau keeps practicing, the doctor turns his attention to Vegas. Soon Vegas finds himself lying comfortably on his back. Most of the bandages have been removed, a rather painful process in itself. He’s trying to relax but keeps catching himself starting to hyperventilate as he stares at the ceiling high above. The oximeter is back on his finger, his heart rate is probably sky high. 

“I am going to give you a light sedative,” the doctor informs him. “You need to be as relaxed as possible for this procedure but I don’t want to risk full anaesthesia while your body is still metabolising the Penthrox. Then I will inject a local anaesthesia around the cuts and that will hurt briefly but the pain will be manageable.” The doc lowers his voice for a moment. “I am 99% sure that you won’t feel any pain during cauterisation but there might be a strange pressure and the occasional nerve endings misfiring since you have the other burn injury in close vicinity. Please try not to make any hasty movements, and try not to moan or shout. We don’t want to startle and stress your brother, the poor guy is nervous enough already.” 

Tersely, Vegas nods, gritting his teeth. Self-hatred raises its ugly head. He’s a horrible person, the worse brother ever. So fucking weak-willed and scared of a little bit of pain that instead of being a man and taking care of this himself, he’d rather use and traumatise his little brother. 

There’s a prick in his arm as the doc injects the sedative. Then the wait begins until it takes effect. The doc is taking this opportunity to arrange for better lighting. Soon Vegas’ mind is starting to drift and all the ugly thoughts float away. The bed is very comfortable, warm and soft. Perhaps he should just go to sleep for a while? The doc comes and checks his vitals. Good guy, that doctor. Very likeable. Vegas is feeling pretty good, so he smiles sleepily, holding his thumbs up. Good stuff. 

There are a couple of little pricks on his chest, but hey, just like ant bites, it doesn’t even hurt. Then the smell of disinfectant wafts over him, his chest gets momentarily cold and he sneezes. Ouch. Now that hurt. “That was just the old burn injury protesting your sudden movement; you are doing really well, Khun Vegas,” the doc puts his mind to rest. 

Vegas floats, staring at the ceiling and ponders if they should perhaps paint those wooden beams white. Is that even allowed, the mansion is probably a cultural heritage. Suddenly Macau appears in his line of vision which immediately makes Vegas very happy. He loves Macau so much. 

Macau’s face is very pale, he should probably spend more time outside in the sun instead of in front of his computer screen. “He’s doing fine.” The doctor’s voice drifts past him. “He’s basically high, so don’t expect him to be able to have any sort of deep conversation with you.” Who is high? Macau? Macau better not be taking any drugs. Vegas frowns. 

“Do you feel this?” The doctor asks him. Feel what? Confused, Vegas tries to figure out what he’s supposed to be feeling. “Good,” the doctor declares, and attaches a metal plate to Vegas’ bare thigh. “I think we can start now.” 

Macau looks distinctly upset, which makes Vegas uneasy, but thankfully the doc has noticed it as well and gives his brother a tight hug in Vegas’ stead. Good. The doctor is a good person, a really nice chap. Vegas needs to remember to give him a raise. 

“I am going to be really careful,” Macau promises his brother tearfully. He has put on surgical gloves and now the doctor insists that he’s wearing a surgical mask as well. It suits Macau, Vegas decides. Maybe he should become a surgeon, now wouldn’t that be cool? A Theerapanyakul holding a proper legal job. Neat. 

All of a sudden Vegas remembers what is about to happen, the anxiety tries to take hold of him again but the sedative is good at keeping it at bay. “Don’t fret, you’ll do just fine,” Vegas assures Macau. “I don’t feel a thing.” 

Then something else occurs to him. “Listen Macau… you saw that first letter, right? How sloppy that was done? Not to mention those awful uneven cuts? Do me a favour and give me some nice even scars, okay? Not too small. But straight lines, please?”

Macau gapes at Vegas, exchanges a quick glance with the doctor and then nods jerkily. “S-sure. I’ll do my best.” 

And so it begins.

Vegas cannot decide how to feel about hearing his skin and flesh sizzle as it is being burned by the electric probe. He frowns slightly, chasing after emotions that keep eluding him. “Don’t feel a thing,” he remembers to reassure his brother occasionally, reminding himself to smile. He doesn’t feel pain, just something pressing down on him now and then. 

“Steady,” the doctor murmurs at intervals, watching Macau’s work closely. “You are doing great, you are a natural, kid. Nice and slow, and don’t forget to breathe.”

Even though they are very careful not to get near the already bandaged burn wound, a sharp pain occasionally zips through Vegas but he’s too muddled to really care about it. Poor Macau, he is as white as a sheet, with sweat collecting on his forehead that the doc takes care to wipe away. Vegas is feeling sorry for his little brother, so terribly sorry. Sorry for not being a better brother. Sorry for killing their father. Sorry for forcing Macau to do this medical procedure. So very very sorry…

Macau inhales sharply and stops moving. “Does it hurt, Vegas?” he checks anxiously but Vegas shakes his head.

The wounds don’t hurt, just Vegas’ heart. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his vision going blurry. He blinks and can feel his cheeks getting wet. “I’m sorry.”  The sadness overwhelms him; he closes his eyes but he can still feel the tears running down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats over and over again, accompanied by Macau’s suppressed sobs. 

When it is over, and Vegas can hear Macau throwing up in the corner of the room while the doctor is putting bandages on the fresh wounds, his bottomless sadness gives way to numbness. Vegas feels nothing; no pain, no anger, nothing. And surprisingly enough, that makes it very easy to fall into a well-deserved exhausted sleep. 

Vegas once read that burns are the most painful forms of trauma, and that they affect a person both physically and psychologically. Well, he’s unlucky enough to experience this first hand now. The doctor tries to explain the reason why those burns hurt so much, something about exposure of nerve endings and some sort of damage to certain receptors in the skin, coupled with the  inflammation of the surrounding tissue. Vegas really couldn’t care less about the science behind it all, all he cares about is the timely administration of painkillers. 

In the days that follow the initial injury, he’s popping pills like candy; always under the watchful eyes of the doctor to avoid potentially fatal cross-reactions between the different kinds of medicine he’s taking. Painkillers, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics and something to keep the fever in check that he develops. 

He doesn’t leave the bed. He tries to sleep, but finding a comfortable position is challenging. Often he simply stares at the walls and the ceiling for hours on end. At least they took the chain away, and he’s no longer bombarded with bad memories whenever he looks in that direction of the bedroom. Vegas tries to recalls more details about what happened, but to no avail. He just remembers snippets torn out of context that only stress him even more. And every time he forces himself to think about Pete, his mind goes blank and he feels… he feels…

The twice-daily wound dressing changes are the worst. The first time they change the bandages, the pain is so excruciating that Vegas cannot keep himself from screaming his head off. The second time he gets so stressed before they even start, that he promptly succumbs to a pretty severe panic attack. He’s experiencing such intense anxiety that the doctor has another conference with the burn specialist and from then on Vegas is pumped full of special painkillers before each dressing change, making the whole ordeal slightly more manageable. 

His constant companion through it all is Macau, who has moved back into the mansion and rarely leaves Vegas’ side. Jai has increased the security but both brothers carry a handgun at all times because they feel safer that way. Strange enough it is Macau who has the nightmares, Vegas himself doesn’t dream anymore. He feels bad for Macau though, and blames himself for putting his brother through so much trauma. 

Much to everyones surprise Vegas gets back to work after only a few days. No rest for the wicked, he has an empire to run and people on his payroll who expect to be paid on time. Long live the home office. As long as he has his laptop he can work in bed. 

He purposefully keeps himself busy from the moment he wakes up until he falls asleep. It is only when he is lying in bed late at night, when the pain consumes him and he has to keep a lamp lit because he fears the darkness, that his mind often short-circuits and he’s overwhelmed by flashbacks of his time at the hands of the Abyss. Or Pete. Whatever. It’s like watching a horror movie with oneself as the lead character, it’s bizarre. 

Vegas cannot wrap his mind around that this really happened to him. He remembers his physical pain all too well, but whenever he tries to get in touch with his emotions in regards to Pete, he only encounters a vast empty space within himself. Odd. Even stranger that this doesn’t bother him at all. He should probably talk about this curious lack of emotions with his therapist, but he doesn’t have time for that at the moment because the cat falls sick. 

Macau is first in noticing that Venice behaves weirdly and eventually stops eating. The cat is hiding itself away beneath various pieces of furniture, curling up there and refuses to emerge. Vegas panics immediately. This cannot be happening, the little critter has the worst timing ever. Despite the constant pain wrecking him, Vegas decides that they urgently need to visit the vet. Just getting dressed to leave the house is an ordeal, but it cannot be helped. It’s ridiculously easy to stuff the cat into the pet carrier and that is worrisome. Off to the vet they go, accompanied by a lot of bodyguards. A lot. It’s a new vet, their old one has banned them from the premises. After a ton of very expensive tests the vet comes to the conclusion that there is nothing physically wrong with Venice. Perhaps a recent shock, the vet suggests. Or some change of routine that Venice is unhappy about. Simply put, the cat is depressed. 

Vegas despairs, this is probably all his fault. Who would have imagined Venice to be so stress sensitive? All the recent noise and commotion, the nervous tension in the mansion, not to mention the disappearance of the cat’s favourite person—no wonder Venice is going on hunger strike. One more reason to kick Pete’s ass when he comes crawling back. 

Because Vegas is dead certain that he will come back. Pete will return as soon as he can no longer resist the itch to check on those wounds. It’s only a matter of time, he’ll wait for Vegas to calm down and then he’ll be back to take a look and finish what he started and Vegas will…

The sound of Venice retching is a welcome distraction. Screw Pete and the Abyss, Vegas has a sick cat to take care of, a poor abandoned cat who is feeling just as miserable as Vegas. Not that Vegas is feeling miserable, no. Vegas is feeling… he is feeling… Whatever, the cat needs to start eating again. 

So between the excruciatingly painful dressing changes and the home office, Vegas now keeps himself busy by shuffling around in his small personal kitchen, preparing different sorts of food to stimulate the cat’s appetite. And through it all Macau watches him, following him around like his shadow, worry written all over his pale face. 

“Honestly, I am fine,” Vegas reassures him one evening while sitting on the couch. He is using a syringe to drip blended salmon into Venice’s mouth, then massages the cat’s throat so that it will swallow the mixture. Venice slouches limply in his arms, not even a spark of his usual fierceness to be seen. “The wounds are healing well, you did a great job. Stop looking at me as if you expect me to have a nervous breakdown any second now. That was the old me, the new me is far more emotionally stable.” 

“I don’t know, Vegas… The way you handle what happened to you isn’t exactly normal, I’d say.” Macau is rather sceptical about Vegas being so calm. “Shouldn’t you be more angry? You are so unruffled, it’s unnerving.”

“I did react to it. Directly afterwards. I think that was extreme enough, no?” Now that the cat has finished eating, Vegas sets the syringe aside and uses a paper towel to clean Venice up. “For now, I’d rather move on with my life. You know how insanely busy the family business is keeping me, I really do not have the time or the inclination to wallow in self-pity. But if it makes you feel better I can book a time with my therapist as soon as Venice is doing better.” 

“That is a good idea.” Macau has a lot of faith in the therapist, he probably thinks the woman can solve every problem there is. “And what are you planning to do with Pete when he shows up again?” 

Vegas feels himself tensing up ever so slightly. No matter how calm he feels inside, this is a touchy subject. “I don’t know.” He shrugs and cradles the cat in his arms, starting to stroke it gently. If only Venice would try to scratch him or bite him, he’s behaving all wrong and it worries Vegas more than Pete’s inevitable return. “Lock him up and throw away the key? Let him stew for a while and then beat the shit out of him? Or I could do as you all wish and shoot him. I really haven’t decided yet, it depends on my mood the day he shows up.” 

Macau snorts in disbelief. “Yeah right. And then he’ll flash those dimples at you and you’ll fold right away.”

Instead of issuing a fierce denial, Vegas gives it some thought. Well, he tries to but no, the emotional void within him hasn’t disappeared yet. “Actually, I am not sure I will fold. I do recall warning him that I’d not forgive him this time and I guess me feeling so detached when it comes to him probably means I have cut myself loose.”

“You don’t behave like someone who has broken up for good with their self-proclaimed soul mate,” Macau insists. 

“Well, what do you want me to do? Get drunk? I can’t, not with all the medication I am taking. Get high? Again, taking way too much medicine to do that safely. Cry? I think I cried enough during the whole damn ordeal, and during the direct aftermath; I have run out of tears. Throw out all his belongings? Am I a teenager throwing a fit? You know how much his clothing cost? Eventually selling everything probably makes more sense, I can donate the money to a local animal shelter. Actually, that is a great idea, I’ll get to it as soon as Venice is feeling better.” Vegas cuddles the cat, congratulating himself for being such a good problem solver. “Now stop worrying and turn on the tv. I want to watch a movie.”

Thankfully Macau falls silent after giving Vegas one last worried glance. Poor Macau, all this has been quite a shock for him as well. Vegas makes a mental note to talk to Macau about perhaps studying abroad for a year, that would probably be good for him. One less thing to worry about. Not that Vegas is worried about anything, no. In fact, he feels… 

Venice moves to adjust his position in Vegas’ arms, distracting him. If only the cat would start eating again, this is really all he can focus on right now, he is so worried. But watching a random action movie turns out to be a good distraction as well.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” As promised, Vegas has an appointment with his therapist. It took a couple of weeks to arrange for it because he’s been so very busy, but here he is. There is a lot of stuff he needs to discuss, just not this. 

The woman stops knitting to arc an eyebrow at Vegas. “I see.” She allows for some time to pass but Vegas is stubbornly staying silent. “What would you like to talk about then, Khun Vegas?”

“Actually, I want to talk about my wounds.” Vegas has thought long and hard about it, and he’s tired of crawling along the edge of a panic attack twice per day. “It is really exhausting to experience so much anxiety every time the doc comes anywhere near my bandages. Surely there must be some strategy you could teach me to deal with this that does not include tranquillisers?”

After another prolonged pause, the therapist nods in agreement. Thank God. It’s not that Vegas is deliberately avoiding to talk about that, it’s just that he has more important issues he needs help with. Even though no one believes it, Vegas is doing okay, he really is. He’s even feeling… Whatever. He is doing fine. 

And so Vegas spends the next hour learning about different relaxation strategies, meditation and mindfulness. They talk a lot. Just not about that. 

Vegas cannot weep, but his burn wounds do so in his stead as they slowly heal in the days and weeks that follow; they ooze and drip copious amounts of watery liquid that makes the sterile dressings stick to the burns. In order to change the bandages, the doc soaks them with saline solution first before carefully peeling them off. Vegas forces himself to watch it all with the help of a strategically placed mirror. The painkillers are doing their job but no amount of medicine, meditation or classical music is making this ordeal anything less than sheer agony.

MINE.

Once Vegas put his mark on Pete by sinking his teeth into his throat. That was pretty unhinged already but Pete—no, the Abyss—took it one step further. 

MINE. 

Vegas used to belong to Pete. Now he belongs to the Abyss as well. He always thought there was a distinct difference between Pete and his dark side, but apparently he was wrong. He cannot even remember Pete; in his memories Pete’s a person with a blank face, as if his features have been erased. The only face Vegas remembers is the Abyss. Eyes so dark and cold. Zero empathy. A complete lack of humanity. 

MINE, those letters cry. Maybe they are doing it for the Abyss, because Vegas doubts it knows how to shed tears. 

Instead of remembering the Abyss and the unimaginably cruel things it said and did to him, Vegas looks at those letters and thinks of Macau. Brave Macau who really deserves a brother who takes better care of himself. 

MINE means Macau’s. If his brother could burn those letters into Vegas’ chest even though it made him physically ill to do so, then the least Vegas can do is to be the best big brother there is from now on. Yes, the wounds hurt dreadfully as they heal. But they are healing. Time heals every wound, they say. Vegas looks at those letters and vows to make it up to his little brother. He’ll give him the childhood he missed out on. Macau is really the most important person in his world, there is no space for the Abyss in his life. Nor for the man with no face. 

… The temperature is just right. With a content sigh Vegas sinks deeper into the hot water, Pete nestled into his arms, they are a perfect fit. The stress of the day slowly drains away, now it’s just the two of them and the simple pleasure of being together. 

Pete’s back is leaning against his chest, they are skin to skin, with Vegas’ arms enveloping him and their legs entangled beneath the water. This is sheer heaven, Vegas has been waiting for this moment the whole day. 

He can feel the smile on Pete’s face, the low hum of content as he rests his head against Vegas’ shoulder. Bemused, Vegas notes that Pete is kneading his toes like a happy feline. Adorable. 

“I love you,” Vegas murmurs, his lips brushing softly against Pete’s cheek as he pulls him even closer. “I love you so much.” 

Pete chuckles lazily, catching Vegas’ hand in his, and their fingers intertwine. “I lo—“…

Vegas jerks awake, startled by the sudden weight on his chest. Venice huffs slightly before he settles down, curls up and starts to purr quietly. After a few shaky breathes to calm his racing heart, Vegas notes that his cheeks are wet. How did that happen? Did he have a nightmare? Is that why the cat decided to come and comfort him? Swallowing hard, he tries to recall any details from the dream but to no avail. Oh well. The constant low purr is so calming that Vegas quickly falls asleep again, and this time there are no more dreams. 

More time passes. Vegas still carries the handgun with him at all times and is he still working mostly from home. For security reasons. The more time passes, the higher the chances of him showing up again. And this time, Vegas will be prepared. 

Then one day, to everyones surprise, he quits his daytime police job. Just sends in his letter of resignation. The police department is probably thrilled to be rid of him, oh well. This decision was long overdue, Vegas cannot quite understand why he didn’t quit earlier. Him being a cop, that was another life, he feels so disconnected to the person he once was. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” his therapists asks. She asks this questions every time they meet. And every time, Vegas declines. What is there even to talk about? He is fine. The wounds are healing. He doesn’t have any nightmares. He doesn’t have panic attacks or anxiety. No flashbacks either. He is really doing fine. 

And so he talks about Venice, who has turned into a very clingy cat now that he has finally accepted Vegas as his owner. And he talks about Macau, about their past and what he can do to repair and improve their fragile brotherly relationship. And he talks about his cousins, too, because he has realised that he very much wants them in his life as well. Even Kinn. But most definitely not his uncle.  And he talks about work, how difficult it is to run such a vast empire, and how it sometimes stresses him out. 

There is so much to talk about that Vegas has no time to feel… something. Anything. About that. About him. About himself. Sometimes he wonders if his therapist, his brother and his family are even aware that the old Vegas is gone. Probably not. Understandable. Even Vegas himself hasn’t quite figured out who the new Vegas is. Well, apart from the inability to feel anything. About that. 

“When are you going to get rid of his stuff?” Macau wonders one day as he helps Vegas change the band-aids protecting the healing wounds. Clothing chafes, causing the newly grown skin to crack and break, that’s why Vegas still keeps covering the letters. The new skin look swollen, red and raw. Quite ugly really, but that doesn’t bother Vegas at all. Every morning and evening, he has to liberally apply moisturiser to keep the skin flexible; he did the same thing with his gunshot wound and that one turned into a pretty nice scar. With some time, the red will fade, the swelling will go down too. These new scars are a part of him now and they do not bother him at all, even though his family seems to believe they do.

What does bother him is Macau’s question. Vegas shrugs, because he is tired of explaining himself. “Dunno.” And since his brother doesn’t look as if he’s ready to drop that topic, Vegas adds, “You know I hate change. It doesn’t bother me to have Pete’s stuff around the apartment because these things actually belong to me as well. Besides Venice likes it. I’d rather not have him stop eating again if I try and make any changes here.”

“You are aware that this is just an excuse, right?” Rolling his eyes, Macau packs up all the medical supplies and puts them back into the box where they are stored. 

Again, Vegas shrugs. Thankfully shrugging doesn’t hurt anymore. He slips back into his shirt and buttons it up, unwilling to get into a discussion about this topic. “Don’t forget to meet Jai at the shooting range later today,” he reminds Macau instead. “I know you have improved your aim but you still have a long way to go until you get Jai’s stamp of approval.”

“Yeah yeah yeah…” Before leaving the room, Macau pauses to face Vegas again. “There have been zero sightings of him for months. The trail went dead cold. You still think he’s going to show up again?”

It’s been several months already? “Of course he will.” Nothing and no one can convince Vegas of the opposite. He absently checks his handgun, just to make sure he really is prepared for that moment when he has to face Pete again. Must be any day now. “I got a cell with his name on it down in the cellar, it is waiting for him.” The cellar Vegas still hasn’t set a foot into, not since moving into the mansion. “Mark my words, he’ll pop up when you least expect it, so stay vigilant.” 

Looking a bit shaken, Macau nods and excuses himself. Venice strolls up to Vegas and meows insistently until Vegas picks him up. “Let’s get some work done, shall we?” Vegas asks the cat and then heads over to his office. Near Vegas’ desk there is a woven basket with one of Pete’s sweaters as bedding. Venice sniffs the cloth, then curls up on it and starts purring immediately, kneading the fabric. Yeah, getting rid of Pete’s belongings really isn’t going to happen. For the cat’s sake. 

Time passes. So much time. And life goes on. Jai finally manages to convince Vegas to scale down the security measures back to more normal levels. That’s okay, Vegas feels ready, he’s reasonably sure he can take on Pete now that he has recovered. He has even started working out again, cautiously though, because the new skin is so fragile. Besides, Vegas has a gun, there will be no one sneaking up on him any time soon. He has gone back to his old routine, has regular meetings with his business partners and runs his little criminal empire so efficiently that he’s proud of himself. 

Even Macau has finally started to relax. He tries to tag along to Vegas’ meetings but since Vegas is adamant about keeping him out of the family business, he reluctantly starts to study at one of the local universities. At first Vegas cannot quite believe it, but he is thrilled. This is the life that he always wanted for his brother, away from all the violence. The joy doesn’t last long, Macau has his mind set on becoming a forensic pathologist. Good grief, his brother is turning into a male version of Wednesday Addams! Vegas blames Arm; somehow Macau got into contact with the ME and they hit it off right away. Their father would roll over in his grave, if he had one. Does he? Who knows what Uncle Korn has done with the urn, Vegas never felt the need to find out. 

“This is never going to work out,” Vegas reminds Macau frequently. “No government or law enforcement agency is going to hire a Theerapanyakul. You will end up in private praxis, being bored out of your mind. You can still change your subject, you know?” 

But his brother only laughs at that, teasing Vegas that he’ll simply change his name then. The nerve! No way Vegas will ever allow that, there is no shame in being a Theerapanyakul. Fine, if he has his mind set on becoming a forensic pathologist, Vegas will ensure that Macau will get a good job, a job where he won’t be discriminated against because of his last name. So what if their family business is a wee bit shady? That shouldn’t become an obstacle for Macau’s chosen career path. 

Deep down Vegas is extremely proud of Macau. For the first time in his life, his little brother is behaving like anyone else his age, he’s fully embracing student life. Parties, girls, boys—Macau is having the time of his life. 

He’s having a wee bit too much fun, if you ask Vegas, who keeps an eye on his grades. As a responsible big brother he figures it’s his job to make sure Macau doesn’t flunk his courses amidst all the partying. 

Right now Macau should be studying for his upcoming anatomy exam but when Vegas is between meetings and goes to check his room, Macau is nowhere to be found. Damn. Who knows what he is up to now? Vegas doesn’t have time to search for him though, he needs to get going, he has scheduled a talk with some of the local crime syndicates to find a solution to their ongoing turf wars that start to interfere with his business. 

Smartly dressed as always, and with a stylish leather briefcase in hand, Vegas descends the stairs in a hurry because he’s late and the car is most likely already waiting for him. At the door, he runs into Jai. “Where’s my brother?” he mutters while patting his pockets to check that he has not forgotten to take along his cellphone. 

With a faint smirk, the bodyguard gestures past the door towards the waiting car. Vegas takes a look and then does a double-take when he spies Macau in the backseat, waving cheerfully at him.  What the fuck? But then he sees Porsche and it all starts to make sense. Oh no. They have talked about this. Repeatedly. Grimly, Vegas stalks towards the car, reaches inside and grabs his brother’s ear, giving it a tug. “Get the fuck out of the car, Macau. I’m not taking you along to the meeting.” 

Since Macau is rather fond of his ear, he is forced to exit the car. That doesn’t stop him from complaining though. “Vegas, don’t be a spoilsport, at some point I need to get introduced to the other families as well. Come on… just this one meeting, okay? I even prepared some notes, with Porsche’s help.”

“In your dreams.” They have been over this, there is no way Vegas will allow Macau to be part of the family business. “You’re a medical student now, not a thug-in-training.” Leaning down, he sticks his head back into the car and glares at Porsche, who gives him a sheepish smile. “That goes for you as well: Get the fuck out of the car. If you want to learn more about the darker side of business, ask Kinn to teach you. Hell, we’re not even the same family, not when it comes to business affairs, what the hell were you thinking?”

Porsche scrambles from the car, hurrying after Vegas who drags his brother back towards the house. “Kinn won’t teach me,” he complaints. “Oh, come on Vegas, I want to be able to help him so that he’s less stressed. The sooner he has someone who can assist him in running the business, the sooner Korn can retire. That’s a win-win situation even for you.” 

“Oww… Vegas… Let go of my ear…” Macau whines as he’s being dragged along. 

Fine. Vegas releases Macau’s ear and instead grabs his shirt before Macau can make a dash for freedom. “Not my problem,” he tells Porsche while marching Macau through the door back into the foyer, his friend following close on their heels. “Talk to Kinn. Also, you know Korn is never going to retire. Now fuck off, Macau has an exam to study for.” Then he turns around and yells back at the car: “Get ready, I’ll be right back.” 

The driver nods, starting the engine. 

There is a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar as the car dissolves into a rapidly expanding ball of fire, metal and glass. The blast wave slams into nearby trees and humans, its wall of fire disintegrating everything in its path, leaving only scorched broken stumps and charred corpses in its wake. 

The mansion itself trembles violently right down to its foundations. The windows facing the driveway implode, sending a lethal cloud of glass shards into the adjoining rooms. Groaning under the impact of the shockwave, the heavy antique entrance door rips free of its hinges and lands with a splintering crash several meters away in the foyer. Walls crack, raining down plaster as furniture topples and starts to smoulder under the heatwave washing over it. 

In a way, Vegas is lucky since he is already several meters away from the entrance when the explosion happens. Before he has time to react in any way, the shockwave of the blast smashes  into him, taking his breath away. Just like the door, he is flung across the foyer like a puppet whose strings have been cut, amidst a deadly spray of shrapnel. And then it all goes dark. 

“I-I-I am fine,” Macau stammers. He must have said so a hundred times already to reassure himself, and his brother as well, but Vegas is taking no chances. Someone has arranged for a triage area in the backyard; Macau is cowering on a blanket that someone has placed in the shade under one of the trees; he is still covered in soot and blood, just like when Vegas found him underneath the overturned couch in the smouldering remains of the foyer. Macau might say that he is fine, but he most certainly doesn’t look as if he’s fine. 

There is this constant ringing in Vegas’ ears which makes it difficult to understand what people are saying around him. He knows his ears are bleeding because someone told him so. That’s not the only part of him that is bleeding he notes as he plucks yet another small shard of glass from his arm. One of many. He’ll deal with this later, for now he’s entirely focused on his brother. “Check him again,” he orders one of the many paramedics that are all over the property. “Just to be sure, check him again.” 

“It’s only a broken arm, a concussion and some cuts, Vegas. I’m fine,” Macau insists but he is trembling so hard that he spills most of the water from the paper cup he’s holding, while awkwardly cradling his injured arm. Vegas has to reach out and carefully ruffle Macau’s hair to reassure himself that his brother is really alive, that this isn’t a dream.

His beloved little brother. Vegas believes he has aged about a hundred years in the last hour. It wouldn’t surprise him if underneath all the soot, his hair has turned white from shock. Never in this lifetime will he forget the terror he felt, searching through the rubble of their home, desperately looking for his brother in the aftermath of the car bomb. 

The paramedic sighs, raising his voice slightly so that Vegas can hear him. They have been through this several times already. “I already checked him twice, Khun Vegas. He’ll get a CT scan in hospital, just to be on the safe side. The ambulance should be arriving any moment now.”

Vegas’ anxiety ratchets up a notch. But before he can say something, Jai interrupts him. “It’ll be fine, Khun Vegas. I’m not going to leave his side, I swear.” The bodyguard doesn’t look any better than Macau, he is just as battered, if not more so. There is something wrong with his foot, probably broken, they put a pro-visionary cast on it. He also has a multitude of shrapnel wounds, like everyone else. The paramedics wanted to cart him off to hospital as well, but Jai has stoically refused any of their attempts so far. He’s practically glued to Vegas’ side, keeping his hand on his gun as he coordinates emergency safety procedures. Both he and Vegas are on high alert because the compound is swarming with people that have not been vetted. It’s a security nightmare. 

“Fine,” Vegas decides against his better judgement. “You better stick to him like superglue. Don’t let them take away your gun and take a couple of guards with you. Get the names of everyone who comes anywhere near Macau, and tell them if anything happens to him, I will make them watch while I execute their families before I will very slowly kill them. Oh, and make sure that you get patched up as well while you are already there.”

The paramedic taking care of Macau gasps fearfully, but Vegas doesn’t give a damn. He’s dead serious, and Jai knows it. “I’ll also call Arm,” Vegas adds grimly, wiping away the blood that keeps dripping into his eyes from a cut somewhere on his forehead. “I’ll make him meet you at the hospital. Let him check all the medication and procedures first before they get anywhere near Macau. He’s the only one I trust in this aspect, you hear me?”

Again, Jai nods grimly. Macau starts crying at the thought of being separated from his brother, and Vegas gives him a careful hug, trying to calm him down again. “Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to be fine as well. You can trust Jai, with him and Arm around you’ll be safe at the hospital. And as soon as they have patched you up, you come back home again, all right?”

Home. Vegas casts a weary look at the mansion and cringes inwardly. From behind the house, thick dark smoke continues to curl up into the sky, it must be from the remnants of the car. There are faint tendrils of smoke coming from the house itself as well, but the fire department has it all under control they have assured him. Remarkably enough, the mansion is still structurally sound but it will need extensive repairs, especially the front part of it. 

What a fucking nightmare. You can keep a lid on a lot of things with money, but not on the explosion of a car bomb in downtown Bangkok. Apart from the paramedics and the firemen, the whole area is crawling with cops and the media. A flash goes off and Vegas blinks, temporarily blinded. “Fuck off” he growls angrily at the reporter before turning towards one of the nearby cops. “Are you blind or what? Do you job, for fuck’s sake, and get this human parasite off my property and away from this crime scene!” 

Oww. His ribs hurt, Vegas figures some might be broken from when he crashed into the marble pillars of the foyer. Or was it the sideboard? Whatever. His own injuries have to wait though, he needs to—

“My men are already going through the CCTV footage from inside and around the property for the last 72 hours,” Jai interrupts his line of thought, watching closely as Macau is lifted onto a stretcher. “I’ll keep you posted. We’ll find out who’s responsible for this, don’t worry.”

All Vegas can do is nod tersely, then watch helplessly as the paramedics take away Macau and his bodyguard. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! People died; not only the driver but also an unknown number of guards and staff as well. What a fucking disaster! “Get the fuck out of my way,” he snarls at the cops as he limps back towards the house, closely followed by a group of bodyguards but then he stops. “Hey!” Vegas has spied the doctor amongst a crowd of shocked bystanders and waves at him. Damn, that hurt, must not move the arm like that. “Come here, I need you to patch me up.”

“You should go to a hospital,” the doctor insists a few moments later. “Car bombs weren’t part of my job description, I am really drawing a line here. I think you better look for a new in-house doctor.”

“Tough luck.” There is absolutely no sympathy to be found in Vegas for the doctor’s plight. “You think you can just quit this job? Think again. Now shut the fuck up and come along; we need to check if the infirmary is still intact so you can pluck all those glass shards out of my back since I am not going to a fucking hospital unless I am dying.” Determined, Vegas heads for the house once more.

“I’m going to file a complaint!” the doc protests weakly, but falls into line.

“Look at my face, this is me not giving a fuck,” Vegas grumbles. His guards clear the way for him, no one dares to hinder them from entering the house. But once he’s inside, Vegas immediately despairs as he slowly makes his way towards the foyer. What a chaos! 

There are stress-fissures marring the walls and shattered lamps and windows everywhere. Vegas has to climb over toppled furniture, there are books and other decorative items scattered all over the floor among glass, wood and marble shards. Paintings have been thrown to the ground, their canvas curling up from the intense heat they have been subjected to. The air is still heavy with smoke that makes his throat itch, but Vegas tries not to cough because his ribcage would surely protest fiercely. Soot is everywhere, and an abundance of wooden shards from the antique mahogany ornaments too. Restoring them to their former glory is going to cost him a fortune. What a fucking mess. 

“Make sure no one goes anywhere near my private rooms,” he instructs his bodyguards who immediately relay his orders. “In fact, do not allow anyone to wander around here without at least one guard keeping an eye on what they are doing at all times. And under no circumstances allow anyone down into the cellar.” 

For taking the brunt of the explosion, the foyer is still remarkably intact. The place is crawling with police and CSI, Vegas recognises a few faces. Grimacing, his eyes come to rest on a larger blood pool a bit further to the side. 

“How’s your friend doing?” the doctor inquires softly.  

Vegas’ stomach twists into knots and he takes a deep steadying breath which his ribs immediately make him regret. “I haven’t gotten any news from the hospital yet, but the paramedics said it wasn’t immediately life-threatening.” Poor Porsche drew the short lot this time; a large metal shrapnel hit him straight in the back. Vegas will never forget the panicky sound Kinn made when he called him to inform him about Porsche’s injury; his cousin must be at the hospital right now, out of his mind with worry, and Vegas can relate a bit too much to that situation. 

Since they are only in the way here, Vegas leads his little group away through the damaged hallways until they reach a part of the house that is still relatively intact. Their in-house clinic is located there and now the doctor takes over. He cuts the clothes off Vegas, then uses tweezers to painstakingly extract an ever-growing numbers of glass and metal shards from all over his body. Heavens, there is even one stuck in his cheek, Vegas didn’t even notice. He remembers the paparazzi and groans inwardly. Great, that image will be all over the news now. 

A few stitches here and there, a myriad of band-aids and a bandage around his ribcage, then Vegas is good to go. Apparently he’s pulled a muscle in his leg, that’s why he’s limping, nothing that can be done about it except rest. Hah! As if he has time to rest. He gets a call, already some clowns thinks that Vegas is out of commission and they are trying to take over one of the casinos. “Don’t argue with them, just shoot them,” Vegas orders icily. “Shoot them all, no exceptions. We need to make an example of them to nip those little uprisings in the bud. Take some photos, mail them to me and then dump the bodies into the river.”

The doctor shoots him a nervous glance, but Vegas doesn’t have the inclination to be a mild-mannered diplomat right now. Someone just tried to kill him! They killed his people, injured his best friend and almost killed his little brother! Whoever did this, they are dead men walking. 

“As soon as the cops allow it, find a crew to start the clean up,” he fires off more instructions to his staff while he gets dressed again. “Make a list of who got killed, pull their records and give me a summary about their family situation. We need to make sure those families are well-provided for. Get someone to hack into the police server to get me real-time information about whatever they find out about this bombing. Oh, and before I forget, put everyone who isn’t so injured that they need to be taken to hospital into lockdown. Guards, staff, everyone. Collect everyones phones and fine-comb through them. No one gets to leave until I say so.”

Then he excuses himself and slowly makes his way back to one of the many stairs, heading upstairs to his rooms. He remembered that he totally forgot about Venice, but the cat should be fine, after all their apartment isn’t facing the front of the building. And he is right, there are a some hairline cracks in the walls and a few books fell out of the bookshelf but otherwise the rooms look normal. 

It takes him a while to find Venice, the cat has squeezed itself into a small space between the bed and a cupboard, crouching there as it trembles uncontrollably. The sight makes Vegas’ heart ache. Despite his own injuries, he shifts the furniture to the side until he can pull the feline into his arms. “It’s okay,” Vegas whispers softly, and already he can feel the first tears running down his cheeks. “It’s okay, I’m here now.”  

The shock is catching up with him at last. He almost lost Macau and Porsche. Sobbing quietly, he curls up on the couch, cradling the traumatised cat in his arms. Fuck, someone’s going to pay for this. 

Vegas’ next 72 hours are split between police interviews and maintaining an iron rule over his criminal empire, crushing all budding opposition. All while he’s anxiously awaiting the latest medical updates on Macau and Porsche. As long as he keeps himself busy, he has less time to worry. 

As soon as it is feasible, Vegas kicks out all the various law enforcement officers from his residence. Some of them have been caught red-handed while snooping around, and he really cannot allow that to happen. Heaven forbid if one of them discovers what is going on in the cellar. As soon as they are gone, Jai organises a complete swipe of the mansion to check for bugs and hidden cameras. And he does all of that from the hospital room he’s sharing with Macau, the man’s a true gem. 

After setting the broken bone in his arm, the doctors decide to keep Macau there as a precaution. That’s fine, it gives Vegas more time to clean up at home. Jai has also a fresh cast on his foot. True to his word, he’s not leaving Macau’s side, and no one who hasn’t been vetted by him and Arm comes anywhere near Vegas’ brother. 

As for Porsche, he lost quite a bit of blood but apart from that there wasn’t all too much damage. As soon as they wheel him out of the operating theatre, Kinn whisks him away to the main family mansion and to safety. Since then there has been radio silence but Vegas assumes that Porsche is in good hands. 

One of Tankhun’s guards contacts Vegas as well. Upon hearing about the car bomb, Tankhun had a nervous breakdown, he’s heavily sedated and that’s why he hasn’t personally called Vegas yet. 

And surprise surprise—even Kim lowers himself to check in with Vegas, but only to yell at him for endangering his boyfriend’s brother. Oh right, Porsche’s brother is dating Kim, what a weird thing to happen. Vegas has no patience to deal with this and simply hangs up in the middle of the rant. 

The only one of his relatives not contacting him is his dear uncle. Well, it was to be expected. 

At some point Vegas forces himself to catch up on some sleep but his various cuts and bruises, not to mention his broken ribs, make resting a challenge. Thankfully Venice is keeping him company, his purring soothes Vegas’ frazzled nerves and so he gets at least a few hours of sleep. 

While the staff works overtime cleaning up the worst of the damage inside of the house, always under the watchful eyes of the guards lest they try to escape the enforced lockdown, there is some progress to report when it comes to shedding light on who’s responsible for this whole mess. Jai’s computer wizards have been working overtime, and they are nothing but efficient. Vegas’ noose is tightening imperceptibly, while the police are still in the dark, not getting anywhere with their investigation. 

Finally Macau is released from hospital. When he and Jai enter the living room, they are accompanied by Kinn and Porsche. Surprise! Macau more or less flings himself at his brother, trying to smother Vegas in a bear hug. For a moment, Vegas is seeing stars, his broken ribs scream under the onslaught, but he endures it all silently, returning the fierce hug. He’s just so glad Macau is still alive. “Love you too,” he mumbles softly. 

It’s a rather long hug, Macau is obviously in dire need of comfort, but eventually he reluctantly disentangles himself from Vegas. “Can we even safely live here?” he asks meekly. “This place looks as if it’s going to come crashing down on our heads any moment.”

“It won’t, I had people check,” Vegas assures him. Then it’s time to face his cousin. “What on earth are you two doing here?” He really doesn’t understand Kinn. And why did he take along Porsche, who looks as if he’s about to keel over any second? “Your father is going to have a major fit, Kinn, this was a stupid move.”

His cousin shrugs, he is rather pale with dark shadows under his eyes. Seems he didn’t sleep well, no wonder.  Porsche sways ever so slightly, and Kinn instantly slips an arm around his waist to steady his boyfriend. “Never mind my father, I told him it’s a good press opportunity, showing our strong family bonds. The media laps up that kind of shit, it’s really popular.” Kinn makes a beeline to a nearby couch and assists Porsche in sitting down. “The actual reason why I’m here is to accompany this stubborn idiot—who should be in bed resting instead of traveling across town to see how you are holding up.” Oh, seems his cousin is rather irritated with both Vegas and his boyfriend. 

“I am tired of lying on my stomach because of the damn stitches on my back,” Porsche complaints but he sounds and looks rather weary. “I’m fine, just a bit woozy from the blood loss and the aftereffects of the general anaesthetic.” 

“You had to have a blood transfusion and an emergency operation,” Kinn points out tiredly. “The only reason why I allowed you to come here is that I’m too exhausted to argue with you right now.” Then he decides to direct his ire at Vegas instead. “So who the fuck did you piss off now, that they would go to such extremes as a car bomb? The Russians? The Japanese? And could you please try not to get my boyfriend killed because of your shady business deals?” 

The nerve. Such a typical behaviour for Kinn, to shift the blame to others. Vegas narrows his eyes. “Shady business, my ass. How about you don’t throw stones while sitting in a glass house? Besides, I really cannot be blamed for Porsche getting injured; that, my dear cousin, is entirely your fault. If you hadn’t refused to involve him in your barely legal business deals, he wouldn’t have tried to tag along to my meeting. May I remind you that he’d be dead if I hadn’t insisted that both he and Macau get out of the car and stay home?” 

Both Porsche and Macau flinch, but Vegas has had some very trying days and he is done mincing his words. “Yes, you two should be glad to be alive. This isn’t a fucking game or a tv show. Me and Kinn, we are each running an organised crime network. That is CRIME with capital letters for you, dumbasses. What do you think we are doing day in and day out? For heaven’s sake, you have seen me shoot people, Macau! Why do you think we want to keep the two of you out of it, huh? Because we know about the risks, and we don’t want you to get killed!” 

Macau opens his mouth but then wisely decides that now is not the time to rile up Vegas even more. Instead he sits down on the couch next to Porsche, doing his best to look all pitiful as he cradles his broken arm. 

“Exactly!” Kinn exclaims. “I hate having to agree with Vegas but we are doing this for your own good! Stop being so damn stubborn, Porsche. If you truly want to help, to get involved, then stick to the legal part of the business. Oh, and stop rolling your eyes, I am not going to fall for this, I am seriously pissed off right now.” Porsche moans softly and Kinn’s eyes immediately widen in alarm. “You are not going to faint, are you? Damn, I knew it was a bad idea to come here.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Porsche mumbles quickly and pats the free seat beside him. “Just feeling a wee bit weak, come sit beside me so I can lean against you.” 

Kinn, the idiot, falls for it and now it’s Vegas’ turn to roll his eyes. “Listen… why don’t you just take Porsche home again? As you can see, I’m fine. Macau is fine as well. We’re already working on the repairs, we’ve removed all the bugs Uncle Korn’s people have tried to plant in the aftermath of the explosion and I am sure the police investigation will eventually show results as well. Just go home.”

“Oh please.” Kinn snorts softly while holding Porsche’s hand. “As if you’d leave it to the police to find out who did this. Just spit it out already, who are your suspects? Apart from the Russians that is. Seems to me there is a limited pool of suspects since this involves car bombs.”

“Once I find out, I’ll let you know,” Vegas promises. “As soon as I have dealt with them, that is.” 

“Actually…” Jai has been staying discreetly in the background but now he limps closer to Vegas, pointing at something on his smartphone. “You might be interested in this, Khun Vegas.”

A quick glance, and Vegas’ hands curl into fists. “I see.” Simmering with anger, he turns on his heel and marches out of the room. Well, it’s more like an angry limp. 

“Aww shit,” Jai mutters and hastily hobbles after his boss as fast as the cast around his broken foot allows. 

From the sounds of it, everyone else decides to follow Vegas as well as he heads towards the improvised holding area for the staff. It’s natural to feel a certain amount of irritation, he tells himself. People got killed, as their employer it’s his right to be upset. He will deal with it entirely professionally, he decides. Vegas knows he has come a long way, his anger issues really are a thing of the past. 

Five minutes later he is re-evaluating the situation because the man standing before him is entirely too sure of himself, and it ticks Vegas off. The large room is cramped with people, they are all a bit grumpy about being confined like this but as far as Vegas is concerned, it was a necessary evil to catch this human cockroach. 

“A little bit of humility would do you good,” he points out mildly, because he is calm and collected, the perfect employer really. “The burner phone, the encrypted and password protected messages, the bank account in your cousin’s name… You have to admit things really do not look good for you. Just confess and spare yourself a lot of trouble.”

The guard snorts haughtily. His eyes are shifting back and forth as he’s scanning the room. What is he looking for? Allies? An escape path? “That phone doesn’t belong to me. And my cousin won the lottery, you can check, it’s all on record. Quite frankly, this is workplace harassment, Khun Vegas, and I don’t need to subject myself to this. Since you seem unhappy with my work and are even going as far as throwing around unfounded suspicions, I suggest I quit. If you really had any solid evidence pointing at me, you’d be handing me over to the cops.”

There is a faint buzzing in Vegas’ ears. Or mind. He isn’t quite sure. It’s a very curious sensation, but he doesn’t have the time to figure out where it comes from right now. “Stay out of this,” he warns his cousin who seems ready to throw himself at the guard. “Now, where were we? Ah yes… You seem to be operating under several misconceptions here. First and foremost the one that I will hand any evidence I uncover about this explosion over to the police. This is a joke, right? I mean, you know who you work for, you know my name. You work for a Theerapanyakul. You believe just because I did a stint as a police detective I’ll be all law-abiding in this instance?” Vegas needs to pause, because the buzzing in his mind is getting more persistent. And it sounds vaguely familiar. “You have got to be kidding me!”

To his right, Jai flinches slightly and he isn’t the only one. Even the cocky guard appears to be startled and then it dawns on Vegas that he shouted those last words. Oh. The buzzing is seriously messing with his ability to stay calm. Actually, it’s not really a buzzing, more like a fluttering. Gritting his teeth, Vegas spears the man before him with an icy stare. “Fuck the police. You better start coughing up names really fast because I see no evidence that you are smart enough to come up with this assassination plot on your own.”

“I am being falsely accused!” the guard insists defiantly. There is sweat beading on his forehead, he keeps shifting from one leg to the other, scanning the room with ever growing urgency. “You all are just going to stand here and stay silent?” he asks the crowd urgently. “You know me, we worked together, you know I’d never do anything like this!” 

No one dares to speak up for him though, they all avert their eyes, some of them even taking a few cautious steps backwards to put more distance between them. There is no sympathy to be found here. 

“Vegas…” Porsche sounds concerned. “Are you really sure about this? Just how solid is your evidence?”

The fluttering in Vegas’ mind is drowning out those words. Flutter flutter flutter. Very familiar indeed, but it’s been such a long time since he heard it last. Not since— 

“You tried to kill me.” Vegas keeps his voice carefully controlled. “You nearly killed my best friend.” The fluttering rises to a roar and then suddenly it falls silent. “You tried to kill my brother,” Vegas adds very quietly. 

The guard stares at him, keeping his face blank, projecting an image of innocence. He’s good, he probably would have fooled everyone, made them doubt themselves for accusing him, well anyone but Vegas. It’s the spark of arrogance in his eyes, the faint hint of a sneer the man cannot hide completely the moment Macau is mentioned, that triggers Vegas. 

Something inside of him awakens, something that was born one fateful night in an abandoned warehouse, born amidst blood and screams and death. Something that he has kept carefully hidden in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, hidden from everyone, even himself. It stirs and unfurls, a dark grotesque entity that once scented blood and now it yearns for more. 

Vegas’ foot connects with the man’s balls before the guy has the chance to dodge the sudden move. With a howl, he goes down, curling in on himself as he clutches his cock and testicles. “You really shouldn’t have gone after my little brother,” Vegas remarks in a voice so devoid of emotions that he nearly doesn’t recognise it as his own. “You don’t want to talk? Fine, I’ll make you talk.” 

The thing inside of Vegas crows greedily, and one moment later his fingers sink into the guard’s hair with a firm grip. “Let’s go and have a little chat, you asshole.” With a hard yank, Vegas starts to drag the whimpering guard out of the room, his grip on the hair relentless. 

“Vegas!” Someone calls after him but Vegas is on a mission. He hauls the screaming man along some hallways, through a couple of rooms, ignoring all the shouting in his wake. Flutter flutter flutter. What on earth has he been thinking, restricting himself like this, suppressing his true self? There is the door he was looking for, with a crash Vegas shoulders it open. Automatic lights flicker on, illuminating the staircase down into the cellar. 

His captive is still too incapacitated to resist effectively, his body making very satisfying thuds as  Vegas—correction, the true reborn Papilio memnon—drags him down the stairs. 

“Shit shit shit!” Is that Macau or Jai swearing? Whatever. 

It’s a long way down, and then an even longer way following the pleasantly lid hallway lined with doors. Goodness, the doors have numbers, how very organised, Pete has really outdone himself. For a second, memories of barely lit corridors with flickering lights, the stench of death permeating a damp musty darkness resurface, but Vegas brushes them aside without a second thought. A quick kick to the ribs has the guard moaning in agony. Vegas drags him past several closed doors in his search for a wet work room, ruthlessly stomping on the man’s fingers whenever he attempts to hold on to something. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for. 

“Oh, I recognise the setup.” Delighted, Vegas pulls his captive into room #12 that has a metal floor and a metal chair welded to it dead centre. And there’s a drain too, how convenient. The best part of the room are the walls though. A lovely sunny yellow, glowing warmly in the rays of the spotlights sunken into the ceiling. And directly opposite the entrance hangs a painting, just the silhouette of a man standing in a clearing, the first rays of the rising sun highlighting his outline. Vegas’ heart thuds painfully. 

“Damn but I’m getting all sentimental,” he informs the snivelling guard while he manhandles him into the chair and handcuffs him to it. “I believe that’s supposed to be the clearing where I fucked Pete after killing my father.” Behind him, there is a horrified gasp, someone’s trying to ruin his moment, so Vegas decides not to pay any attention to his audience. “Lovely painting, isn’t it?”

The drain comes in handy since the terrified guard looses control of his bladder, screaming hoarsely for help that isn’t coming. Meanwhile Vegas zooms in on the large toolbox on wheels he has spied in one of the corners. This feels like a bit Christmas, he can hardly contain his excitement, opening one drawer after another, cooing at all the knives and other assorted torture gear he uncovers. So very neat! 

“… Vegas…?” 

The butterfly flutters its wings in annoyance. “Don’t be a party pooper, Porsche. Either go home, or stay and be quiet. You wanted to be more involved in the family business? Here, let me teach you some useful techniques.” The toolbox is quite heavy, its wheels squeak as Vegas rolls it closer to the middle of the room. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Porsche, Kinn and Macau lingering by the door, casting helpless glances at each other. 

Weak, the thing within Vegas whispers. They cannot do what must be done, so it’s up to us. “Now where were we? Oh yes, I think we can skip over the part where you confess since we both know that you are guilty, right?” The guard is panting hard, fighting against the handcuffs, not listening to what Vegas is telling him. Oh well. Vegas snaps his fingers right in front of the man’s eyes to get his attention. “Dude, I’m talking to you.”

“What is he going to do to him?” Macau’s anxious whisper echoes through the room. 

“I’m going to make him hurt,” Vegas states matter-of-factly. “I am going to expose him to so much agony that he will beg me to die, and then I will continue and make it a hundred times worse. I’m going to hurt him until I have ripped his humanity to shreds, until he’s nothing but a canvas for my anger. I’m going to hurt him until he’s given me the names of every single person responsible for that bomb. And then we’ll play some more.” Vegas crouches down until he and the guard are eye level. “You and I, we’re going to have so much fun together. Just like me and my father.” 

Jai takes this as his cue to resolutely drag the shocked Macau from the room. It’s probably for the best, this is going to get very bloody, not to mention illegal. Macau shouldn’t be exposed to such ugliness. “Staying or leaving?” Vegas straightens again and checks with Porsche and his cousin. “If you’re leaving, close the door behind you. If you’re staying, don’t interfere.” 

“What the fuck has gotten into you, Vegas?” Both Kinn and Porsche appear to be rather taken aback, struggling to deal with Vegas’ sudden transformation into his true self. Weak. So weak. “Do you have to get all creepy? Just smack him around a bit until he talks,” Kinn suggests, eyeing his cousin warily. 

“Definitely staying,” Porsche grimaces as he slowly lowers himself to the floor, seating himself next to the door with his back leaning against the wall. “You want to go crazy? Fine. But don’t come crying to me tomorrow when you regret how you lost control over yourself.”

Not amused by this turn of events, Kinn reluctantly closes the door. He doesn’t sit down, he just folds his arms before his chest and leans against the wall to watch the show. “And I here I thought you didn’t like the cellar…” he mutters under his breath. 

“Oh Porsche, you think you know me so well…” With a faint smirk, Vegas eyes the tools in one of the drawers. The thing inside of him is struggling to break free, it doesn’t want to be leashed, it remembers the glorious feeling of steel meeting bone and it hungers for more. Actually, Vegas realises that they are no separate entities, they are one. It is Vegas who hungers to be unleashed. And all of a sudden, he cannot help but laugh. What is he even fretting about, the only one holding him back is himself. He doesn’t need anyone’s permission, he can do whatever the hell he wants. 

Which he does. Without further ado, he grabs a pair of pliers and before the guard has a chance to fully comprehend was is happening, Vegas has already removed one of his fingernails with a hard yank. “And we’re off to a good start,” he announces cheerfully; he has to raise his voice to make himself heard over the agonised scream of his victim that all too soon turns into a whimper. “One down, nine to go.” Fascinated, Vegas leans in to take a closer look at his work. Where the nail had been, there is now only the bare, exposed nail bed, consisting of bloody raw flesh. It bleeds more than he thought it would. 

Meanwhile the man has started to plead with Vegas. Seems he’s ready to talk, but Vegas is in no mood to listen yet. 

“No, don’t bother revealing your accomplices already, I haven’t really started yet. See, if you had only tried to kill me, this would have been an altogether different situation for you but no, you had to go after my friend and my brother as well. My brother.” There goes another fingernail, and the howling starts anew. “You tried to kill my brother.” With casual efficiency, Vegas removes another nail. “It made me very upset. This is me being upset.” The guard is thrashing wildly but there is no escape. And yet another fingernail is extracted. It continues until there are no nails left and the guard’s fingertips are a bloody mess. 

Vegas tosses the pliers to the side, they hit the metal floor with a clang. His whole body is buzzing, it’s as if he’s high, it feels incredible. He wants to toss his head back and shout, scream even louder than the guard, he wants to roar in triumph. But he reigns himself in, barely. He has an audience after all. 

Kinn is perhaps a bit pale around the nose, but since he has seen and indulged in his own share of violence, Vegas’ actions don’t seem to truly shock him. The expression on his face very clearly signals that he finds this display of brutality rather distasteful though. As for Porsche, he has closed his eyes and is sitting so still that he might as well be a marble statue. 

If only they would leave already. Maybe they will once all the accomplices have been revealed? “You may go ahead and spill the beans now,” Vegas informs his victim. “There are a lot of tools in these drawers, and I am willing to try them all out on you in order to get some answers.”

“Fuck you!” The guard shouts defiantly, which ends up costing him his left knee cap. 

The hammer is very well balanced and its handle fits perfectly into Vegas’ palm. “You want to try that again?” And before the man even has a chance to answer, there goes the right knee cap as well. “Oops, I’m sorry, my control kind of slipped,” Vegas apologises, his face unreadable. 

Porsche groans and Kinn coughs awkwardly. 

At that point the guard talks. Well, he screams. But he screams names. Dates. Bank account numbers. Passwords. Kinn listens attentively but Vegas doesn’t bother trying to commit everything to memory. He’s pretty sure that this room is bugged and whatever is said in here will be recorded. Hmmm, maybe visuals as well? While the guard is still spilling his secrets, Vegas inspects the ceiling until he finds the little camera lens. Neat. 

“I’ve told you everything, just kill me already”, the man moans eventually, tears streaming down his face. “Please kill me,” he begs. “Kill me.”

“You want to borrow my gun?” Kinn offers, but Vegas only shakes his head before he approaches the guard again. The man shrinks away from him as much as the restraints allow, fear written all over his sweaty tearstained face. 

“You want to die?” Vegas asks him softly. “I don’t think you have earned the right to die yet.”

“I told you what you wanted to hear!” the man wails, crying uncontrollably.

“Exactly, you told me what you think I wanted to hear. I am not saying that you lied. Just that you omitted certain facts.” Leaning down, Vegas studies that pale face closely, noting every little twitch. “You are so desperate to die, which means that there is one more person whose name you haven’t revealed yet. A name that you would rather take to the grave with you. The name of the person who really is behind all of this, not the decoys you tried to distract me with.”

The man’s eyes widen imperceptibly. Bingo. Those eyes. It takes all of Vegas’ self-control to keep himself from digging his fingers into those eyes; somehow he knows—remembers?—exactly how it will feel and he is craving that sensation again. Unfortunately he cannot allow himself to get distracted right now. “I don’t know what he bribed or threatened you with, and quite frankly I don’t care either. You probably think that the worst that can happen to you is dying, right? Perhaps more torture, but in the end, if you keep your mouth shut, you’ll die and it’ll all be over.”

Vegas scoffs at this level of self-deception. “Newsflash: you couldn’t be more wrong. You know what I am going to do once you are dead? I’m going to go after your family. Your elderly parents. Your brother and his wife. Your sister, her husband and their three adorable children. The widowed grandmother. Your newly-pensioned aunt and uncle. Your two cousins and their families. I’m going to exterminate your whole fucking family line.” 

Everyone’s struck speechless; well, Kinn and his boyfriend are. After his initial shock, the guard simply starts bawling, and Vegas knows he has won. “The name,” he reminds him, his voice heavy with impatience. “Let me hear it, and they will live.”

“You’re a monster.” Between sobs, the injured man glares at Vegas, there is so much pure hatred in his eyes. 

“Why thank you, I take that as a compliment. Now quit stalling.” And as an added incentive, Vegas presses the nail of his index finger into the raw flesh that once held the man’s thumbnail. The instant scream of pain is music to his ears. 

“… Vegas…” Kinn feels obliged to protest from the sidelines, but it is pretty half-hearted. 

Once the man has stopped screaming, he hiccups tearfully, and then mumbles something under his breath. 

“Louder,” Vegas demands, arching an eyebrow at him. He’s pretty certain he knows who is behind all of this, but he needs verbal confirmation.

The man swallows hard, clears his throat and bellows: “Khun Korn! It was Khun Korn’s idea! All of it!” 

Ah yes, it is just as he thought. Vegas takes a step back, and exhales the breath he was holding. Then he glances over at Kinn, who has started shaking his head in denial. Poor guy. “See, your damn father is just as bad as mine,” Vegas points out quietly. “I’m telling you right here and now that I am going to make him pay for this.”

“My family…” The guard continues to sob uncontrollably. “Please… remember your promise…”

“Yeah yeah… I’ll keep my promise.” For now, Vegas has lost interest in the guard, he’s more fascinated with his cousin’s reaction to this revelation. 

“This has to be a lie,” Kinn is still shaking his head in disbelief. “I know my father wants you dead, but he’d never resort to using a car bomb. That’s way too uncivilised, it’s not his style.” 

Vegas places his hands on his hips and scowls at his cousin. “Oh, wake up, Kinn. How much longer are you willing to allow your father to lead you around by the nose? Let me ask you one question: Are you going to deal with him or will you leave it to me? Because he needs to be dealt with, he’s crossed the line with this, I don’t give a damn about him being family.”

Fuelled into action by these words, Kinn stalks towards Vegas with narrowed eyes. “You better not get anywhere near my father, Vegas. I am warning you, my father is off limits.”

“Really now? Oh Kinn… Still the loyal son, I see. Let me change your mind about that real quick.” With an impatient snort, Vegas whirls around to face the bleeding guard again. “Let me ask you something: You knew the bomb was in the car and that it was intended for me, with the driver as collateral damage. You also knew that it would go off as soon as the motor is started. You must have been keeping an eye on the scene, right? I saw the call log of the burner phone, would you please tell Khun Kinn who you called in the moments before the explosion?”

Kinn furrows his eyebrows, glowering at Vegas and his captive. “What’s this about now? What point are you trying to make, Vegas? Whatever it is, I’m not going to allow you to go after my father, you hear me? No way.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Irritated, Vegas kicks the guard to hurry him along. “Tell him, or I’ll start with your toe nails. When you saw Macau and Porsche getting into the car, who the fuck did you call and what did you talk about?”

“Khun Korn,” the man yells fearfully. “I called Khun Korn! Khun Macau and Khun Porsche weren’t supposed to be there, so I called Khun Korn to ask if we should abort!”

Even someone as stuck in denial as Kinn has to notice where this line of question is going; Vegas notes how his cousin’s face is loosing all colour.

“And what did Khun Korn answer?” he pressures the guard, his expression a chilling mask of calm. “Come on, let’s hear it. Nice and loud. Try to recall his exact words.”

“He said—” The guard starts sobbing again. “Khun Korn said… ‘Good riddance, that will save me a lot of work in the future’… and then he hung up.”

Stunned, Kinn stares at Vegas; it’s as if he has been dealt an invisible mortal wound. Concerned, Porsche struggles back to his feet. There is a small bloodstain on the wall he has been leaning against, his wound is bleeding again. 

Vegas is buzzing—no, fluttering—he wants to crow at the look on his cousin’s face. Serves him right, finally he has succeeded in taking this pompous ass down a notch! “Did you hear it, Kinn? ‘Good riddance’. That’s what your beloved father truly thinks about the man you love. ‘Good riddance’. That’s how much he cares about your feelings, about the people you love. ‘Good riddance’.” 

“That’s enough, Vegas,” Porsche warns him softly. As soon as he reaches Kinn’s side, he pulls him into a hug. A shudder runs through Kinn, then he buries his face in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck. 

Vegas sees how Kinn trembles and cannot resist the cruel urge to rub it in even more. “Still feeling all protective about daddy dearest? You think from now on, whenever you tell Porsche that you love him, he will secretly wonder if you love him more than your father, because that’s the only way he will stay alive?”

“That’s enough! Shut up, Vegas.” Genuinely angry now, Porsche glares at him. “Kinn, don’t listen to him. I know I’m perfectly safe with you. This thing with your father, we’ll figure it out together.” He sways a bit, and grimaces. “You got what you wanted, Vegas, now put an end to it and kill the guy already.”

They are such a perfect couple, so loyal to each other, so damn in love that it’s nauseating. Vegas stares at Kinn and Porsche, and feels nothing but red hot jealousy. It’s bloody unfair. How come life turned out to be so fucking unfair, why can't he have the same kind of relationship? 

“I’m not done yet,” he hisses, spins around, grabs a screwdriver from the toolbox and rams it into the guard’s thigh. Another high-pitched scream of pain echoes through the room and hearing it makes him instantly feel better. “I want to play some more,” he declares, breathing hard. 

A moment later, his friend grabs him by the shoulder, roughly turns him around and with a resounding smack, Porsche’s hand meets his cheek. Hard. “I said that’s enough now! Snap out of it, dammit!” Thoroughly exasperated, Porsche gives him a hard shake. “I don’t know what has gotten into you all of a sudden, is this a delayed shock-reaction from the explosion? What the fuck, Vegas? Torture? Really? Torture? This isn’t like you, what the hell is going on with you? You were doing so well lately—”

“I am not!” Vegas shrugs free and gets right in Porsche’s startled face. “I. Am. Not. Doing. Well. You hear me?!” His chest is heaving, everything he has suppressed these last months is bubbling up with a vengeance and he gives Porsche a hard shove that makes him stumble backward. If not for Kinn reaching out to steady him, he would have fallen.

But this isn’t the end of it, Vegas has a lot off things to get off his chest. “This isn’t like me? You don’t know what I’m like! The Vegas you think you know is fake; I’ve been faking it all and none of you even noticed! You don’t know me, the real me, none of you does! The only one who truly knows me is Pete, and he’s not around anymore! He’s gone and I can’t breathe, you are all smothering me with your concern and your worry and your friendship!”

Vegas feels… he feels… Damn, he is so upset. Yes, he’s upset and angry, and so he just tilts his head back and screams his rage to high heavens until he runs out of breath and all he can do is pant. “I-I am… so fucking… tired… of… of pretending… to be the… person… you all… w-want me… to be!” The urge to vent becomes overwhelming, he kicks the toolbox so hard that it skids across the floor, hits the opposite wall and tilts over with a crash, spilling all the torture equipment on the floor. 

One of the many knives comes to rest right by his feet. As far as knives go, it’s a beautiful one. A thin, dark blade with an intricately carved wooden handle. Pretty. And very familiar. There is a sudden sharp ache in Vegas’ chest, right where his heart used to be before it was shattered, and he leans down to pick it up. Vegas’ stomach twists into knots, he closes his eyes, and swears he can still feel the touch of Pete’s fingers against his, showing him the correct way to hold this knife. 

“This is a handcrafted, Japanese boning knife,” he whispers softly, reverently, to no one in particular. “White Shirogami steel with a black mirror finish.” The ache in his chest is getting more intense. 

His trip down memory lane is interrupted by a shuffling sound. A quick glance confirms that Porsche and Kinn have retreated towards the door, eyeing him warily. “It’s heavier than it looks,” Vegas explains. “You want to try it?” But immediately he changes his mind. “Actually, you can’t. Pete gave this knife to me, it’s very special. I killed my father with it, you see.” 

In the background the guard is still whimpering, but Vegas is trying to filter that distracting sound out. “My father also never knew the true me, until I carved it into his bones that night, one letter at a time. I peeled the skin off him one strip after another, and I remember that he screamed a lot and I liked that. I liked hurting him. And I guess that scared me, because all of you keep telling me what a good person I am. I discovered that night that I’m not a good person at all, but I didn’t want to disappoint any of you. I didn’t want you to stop liking me, so I turned myself into the Vegas everyone expected me to be. And I almost fooled myself as well. Are you happy now?” But from the looks of it, they still don’t understand what he’s talking about. 

Vegas sighs. “Actually, it doesn’t matter if you like this fake Vegas because I’m tired of maintaining this facade. I’m tired of lying to myself. I am so done with all of it.” Shooting a glance at the handcuffed guard, Vegas’ hand tightens around the handle of the knife. “This guy nearly killed my little brother and he deserves everything that is coming to him, and then some more. If you cannot stomach what I am going to do to him, there is the door, I suggest you leave. And don’t ever tell me again that I behave in a way that isn’t like me. Because this right here is the true me. I am going to hurt this asshole, I am going to enjoy every second of it, and for once I will not feel bad about how good it feels to hurt someone.” There, he has said his piece and already it’s as if a heavy load has lifted from his shoulders. 

“Porsche, let’s go.” Kinn seems to get it now because he opens the door and tries to manoeuvre his boyfriend out into the corridor, but Porsche is unwilling and resists. So damn stubborn. Fine, time to bring out the heavy guns. 

Vegas faces Porsche calmly and lifts the knife so that the light casts a lovely reflection on the shimmering steel. “This blade is exceptionally sharp, Porsche. It cuts through fabric like butter. I was really surprised how little pressure was required to cut through my father’s pants and into his thigh. I mean, I’ve prepared meat for cooking before, but cutting into living flesh really is a novel experience. The bleeding is quite a hassle at first but with a little bit of anatomical knowledge you learn how to avoid cutting the larger vessels. You don’t want him to bleed out before you are done after all. I cut cubes out of him, my pound of flesh for every injustice I ever suffered at his hands. It was pretty messy, but I quickly got the hang of it and then it was just a game to cut the cubes into a shape where I could actually stack them beside him. He was conscious, you know, and he screamed his head off through it all. He cried, the snot was running, there was some drool as well. You should have seen him, the great Khun Gun Theerapanyakul, begging for his life and later begging for his death. He even shit his pants, it was hilarious.”

At first, Porsche glares defiantly at him but the longer Vegas’ monologue lasts, the more the colour drains from his face, and he was pale to begin with. There is a wild expression in his eyes as he struggles to process what he’s hearing, his lips part as if to interrupt Vegas, but no sound emerges. In the end it gets too much and he throws up noisily. The incensed look Kinn shoots Vegas promises retribution, but Vegas gets his will, both Kinn and Porsche leave. 

The door closes behind them, and now Vegas has the traitor all to himself. The man’s eyes dart around wildly, he is probably looking for a way out of this dilemma and the stark fear on his face pleases Vegas enormously. 

“Sucks to be you,” he mumbles, strolling towards his victim, each step slow and deliberate. The man’s chest rises and falls in frantic gasps; he struggles fiercely, the skin at his wrists and ankles already rubbed raw by the handcuffs but he is unable to stop Vegas’ approach. “As promised, I won’t touch your family, at least you can take comfort in that when the pain gets too overwhelming for you.” 

“See, it’s your misfortune that all my suppressed emotions have come back online all of a sudden. It’s a real mess inside of my head and I am very angry right now, so I have absolutely no intention to pretend I am a civilised human being when it comes to you.” Something crunches slightly underneath his shoe, Vegas peeks down to discover that he’s stepped on a couple of bloody fingernails. Somehow, this amuses him, it’s food for his ravenous darker side. 

“You should have just come to me and asked me for money, if that’s the reason why you betrayed me. I am pretty reasonable with my employees, I would have given you a zero interest loan. If Korn blackmailed you in any way, you should have told me as well and I would have helped you out. I am a firm believer that loyalty goes both ways, you see.” There are too many tools all over the floor, so Vegas starts cleaning up, putting them all back into the toolbox. Not that he accidentally stumbles and slips later on, he already has one leg that aches. 

His captive starts to ramble, he’s so panic-stricken that his words don’t really make much sense and Vegas tunes them out. He is good at that, he discovers. “By hiring you, I entrusted you with my safety and the safety of my family. You broke that trust. You betrayed me. Just like him.” There is that hollow pain again in his heart. For a split second, the guard’s face blends into that of Pete, and this only increases Vegas’ heartache. “I trusted you, and you betrayed me,” he accuses Pete. No wait… Vegas blinks and everything is back to normal. 

This brief episode has given him an idea though. It’s pretty unhinged and sick, but well, if it works this would solve the biggest predicament he currently finds himself in. “I hate being betrayed,” Vegas’ voice drops down to a whisper. “It really sucks if you trust someone and then that person tramples all over that trust. But you know what has really been tearing me apart? That there’s nothing I can do, that there’s no outlet for all this fury within me. If he were here right now, all I would do is beat the shit out of him and that’s not nearly enough to placate all the rage within me for what he did to me.” Thoughtfully, he faces the sobbing ruin of a man before him, and then nods slowly to himself. “You see, the problem is that I still love him. I love him so damn much; it’s really maddening because I cannot hurt him as much as I want.” Vegas sighs and wearily runs his dirty fingers through his hair. “And here’s where you come into play. I cannot hurt him, but I can hurt you. We’ll just pretend that you are him. You will be his placeholder, so that I can get it all off my chest, and no one will ever know. I certainly won’t tell him about this when he comes crawling back, and you’ll be long dead. It’s the perfect solution really.”

The man disagrees, and he’s very vocal about it. His panic-stricken voice echoes through the room, amplified by the metal floor. This is a construction flaw that Pete didn’t take into consideration, Vegas guesses, and they will need to rectify it. 

“Listen, you’re entirely too loud,” he complains, frowning as he strokes his chin. “You’re supposed to be Pete’s placeholder but your voice makes it kind of difficult for me to envision him. Are you going to shut up and not disturb this fantasy of mine, or will you be difficult about it? Ahh, I see you are planning to be difficult. That’s okay, I have a solution for that as well.”

He has the pliers and he has Pete’s knife. Since the man is handcuffed to the chair, there’s no way for him to escape. Vegas straddles him and goes to work. The man is not very cooperative, his body convulses against the restraints. As soon as he gets a hint of what Vegas is up to, he clamps his mouth shut and desperately turns his head away in a futile attempt to create some distance. It turns into a delightful struggle, but with the help of some additional tools Vegas eventually manages to pry that mouth wide open to secure a tight grip on the tongue with the help of the pliers. And then it’s really a piece of cake to sever the tongue with a mere flick of his wrist. Damn, he loves that knife. 

There is a lot of blood, it sprays all over him. The man blubbers and coughs, making incoherent pitiful noises of pain, and Vegas drinks in the terror flickering over his ashen, blood-specked face. It’s such a rush, he can even feel himself getting hard. Really? He had no idea he’d find this arousing, guess he learned something new about himself today. 

“We’re not done yet, open up.” Vegas temporarily drops the knife and then pinches the man’s nose shut. Now the only way to breathe is through his ruined mouth; the guard opens it wide, spits out more blood and snaps after air like a fish on land. That is good enough for Vegas. With the help of the pliers he shoves the severed tongue deep into the back of the man’s throat, and then forcefully presses his jaws together. The man’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. Panicky, he ends up swallowing; it’s either that or drown in his own blood as he inhales it. Since it’s a rather large piece of meat, it takes some work gulping it down completely, but the blood helps to make it go down more smoothly. 

Vegas releases his hold on the nose and jaws, allowing him to breath properly once more. “If you throw up, we’ll do it all over again,” he warns him and jumps back to his feet to pick up his knife. “See, that wasn’t so hard, no? Now your voice won’t mess this up anymore and we can get to work.”

Vegas takes a moment to close his eyes, trying to envision Pete. Or rather, the Abyss. The monster that looked him dead in the eyes while burning him cheerfully. This time, the flashback is so vivid that he sucks in a startled breath. Fuck. Yeah, all the memories are fully back, just in time. Now it’s actually stupidly easy to pretend that the man before him is someone else, great. 

“As I mentioned before, I am really pissed off with you, Pete. You don’t mind if I call you Pete, right?” Not waiting for an answer, Vegas starts cutting off the man’s clothes, they are in his way. “You and your fucking jealousy. As if I ever even looked at another man since I met you. I don’t know what kind of a shitty upbringing you had that makes you so distrustful, but did you really have to cut those damn letters into my chest?” Vegas huffs angrily, tossing the discarded pieces of clothing to the side. “You know, tattoos are a thing, they are even quite trendy. You could have put your mark on me in a very stylish way, Pete. Did I ever give you the impression I’d say no to a tattoo? No. I think I’ve been nothing but accommodating during our relationship.”

Of course the man—pardon, ‘Pete’—tries to break free, his arms and legs straining against the handcuffs. It does him no good though, the chair is welded to the floor and the handcuffs sit tight. Vegas applauds himself for coming up with this idea, before his inner eyes he can really see Pete whenever he looks at the man on the chair. The mind is a marvellous thing. 

“Also, right during sex? Really? I am not into knife play, at least I think so. There I was, having a really good time and you fucking ruined it!” Irked, Vegas swings the knife and cuts the letter ‘M’ into ‘Pete’s’ chest. “How does this feel? Sucks, doesn’t it? How are you supposed to get off with this kind of pain, huh? I mean I was right there on the edge of this really great orgasm, but you had to grab that knife and stop it dead in its tracks. You fucking asshole.”  

‘Pete’ bucks so hard that the knife almost slips but Vegas has been prepared for it and so the letter ‘I’ turns into a perfectly straight line. “See, this is how you are supposed to do it, Pete. Nice and straight,” Vegas rambles on, this rant is incredibly freeing. “But what did you do? Your damn letters were all over the place. You fucking know how much I hate it when things are asymmetric.” He has to stop for a moment and wipe his face because ‘Pete’ is still sputtering up blood all over the place as he jerks around frantically, trying to free himself. He’s noisy too, but oh well. “Straight lines, see how nice this ‘N’ looks? With a bit of an effort, you could have done the same but no, I guess you couldn’t be bothered. You really expected me to be okay with having crooked scars on my chest for the rest of my life, you asshole?!” Since he’s so pissed off, the cuts for the ‘E’ are a bit deeper. Is that a rib? Vegas scrapes lightly at the white spot with the tip of the knife, and ‘Pete’ howls in pain. Yeah, it’s a rib. 

“Another thing: I cannot believe I let you top me and you fucking ruined the whole experience for me,” Vegas complaints, this is a pet peeve of his. “Don’t even get me started on how sore I was! I couldn’t sit properly for a whole damn week!” He’s feeling very aggrieved about this, he discovers, so aggrieved that he nudges that rib once more. “You are such a selfish prick, Pete. Why the hell did I have to fall in love with someone like you? Let me tell you, you are a lousy top, not taking care of your lover!” 

‘Pete’s’ nailless fingers claw uselessly at the air as gargling noises escape from his throat amidst another spray of blood. So pathetic. 

Breathing hard, Vegas takes a step back, taking a good hard look at ‘Pete’. Damn, it hurts. He loves this man to the point of insanity, he thought it was mutual and yet…

“Why did you have to use that damn torch?” he asks him, letting out a forceful breath. “Why? You know, everything before that I could have easily forgiven, Pete.” Vegas’ voice is growing all thick and gruff as he once again recalls that sense of ultimate betrayal. 

‘Pete’ is shivering uncontrollably, his dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, his breath by now coming in short, shallow gasps, and it pleases Vegas enormously how he is suffering. 

“I warned you,” Vegas reminds him quietly. “I told you I’d not forgive you for using the torch on me, so here we are. You probably thought you could wait me out until I have mellowed down a bit  and then I will forgive you, right? Well, think again, Pete. Just be glad that there is no butane torch amongst these tools, and that I’m too lazy to go get one right now. It’s an oversight really, I’ll see to it that these toolboxes are restocked with one as soon as I’m done with you. Anyway, now we have to make do without a torch.”

With a dark smile, he holds up the Japanese knife. “To go full circle, let’s use this one, shall we? You taught me how to inflict true suffering with this knife, you gave me a new life and so I will give you a very slow and painful death with this knife in return. What goes around, comes around, Pete. What did you tell me back then?” 

To his surprise, Vegas notes that his vision goes blurry and his heart is aching somewhat fierce as he recalls that particular memory. “You said—” His voice breaks and he has to clear his throat. “You told me you didn’t love me enough to stop yourself…” 

Damn, this hurt so badly that Vegas needs some time to breathe through the pain wrecking him. “You jerk,” he whispers. “After all I’ve been through with you… After giving you all my love, and then some… How dare you? How dare you say something like this to me, Pete? How dare you choose your dark side over me? You fucking asshole… you insensitive oaf… you heartless bastard!” Vegas’s howl of outraged pain fills the room. 

Amidst the flashing of Shirogami steel, the sunny walls soon turn blood red, until the person on the chair has turned into an unrecognisable pile of meat and bones. 

It takes a while for Vegas to come back into a semblance of himself. He gently puts the butterfly back into its cocoon so it can rest; this is only temporary, he promises, they will fly again soon.  Eventually he struggles to his feet and decides to leave, there is nothing more to be done in here. He’s feeling drained, but in a good way. It’s a little bit like how one feels after a night of good sex, yes. Vegas doesn’t smoke but a cup of coffee would be nice now. What time is it even? They should install clocks in the wet work rooms. 

When he opens the door and steps out into the hallway, they are already waiting for him, the whole gang, they didn’t go far. Shit. Hopefully that room is soundproof.

With a sigh, Vegas quickly pulls the door shut behind him. “Send a clean-up crew,” he orders Jai, who is closest to him. “Did anyone watch this on CCTV?” Thankfully, Jai shakes his head. “Good. Get me the tape and make sure no copies exist. And under no circumstances allow Macau to take a peek in here, you hear me?” 

Again, Jai nods. “Boss…” he starts, and for the first time since Vegas knows him, the bodyguard is at a loss for words. “Boss… uhm… you might want to clean yourself up,” he then finishes awkwardly, gesturing at Vegas. 

Oh. True. A glance down at himself confirms it, there isn’t a spot on Vegas that isn’t drenched in blood. Damn, he didn’t want Macau to see him like this. “Sorry about that,” he tells his brother with what he hopes passes as a faint smile. Vegas isn’t quite sure if he successfully managed to hide away his true monstrous side behind his fake human mask again. Perhaps not, because Macau stares at him with wide horrified eyes that are brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” Vegas repeats because he really is sorry for once again disappointing his brother. 

“Where did Porsche go?” he then asks Kinn. Life goal achieved, his cousin looks genuinely scared of Vegas. Neat. And also kind of sad, they had been making so much progress in their relationship these past few months. 

“He’s in your infirmary, your doctor stitched him up again and gave him something to sleep.” Kinn hesitates. “Vegas, about my father…”

“I’ll give you three months to get him to resign and leave the country,” Vegas decides. “Once the three months are over, all bets are off. I believe under the circumstances that’s a more than generous offer; I suggest you take it, Kinn.” 

Thankfully, Kinn nods his agreement after thinking the offer over quickly. 

“Are you all right, Vegas?” Macau interrupts. He has gotten over his initial shock at the sight of all the blood, but asks a question that Vegas doesn’t know how to answer. Is he all right? Is he finally doing all right now that he has accepted his true self and has vented all his grievances against Pete? 

“I don’t know,” Vegas admits after a while. “I honestly don’t know. Do me a favour and call my therapist, will you? I think I need to talk.” He’d love to reach out and ruffle Macau’s hair but there’s simply too much blood covering his hands. 

No one speaks. Vegas isn’t sure what else they expect him to say. When the silence gets too oppressive, he decides to leave.

“Where are you going?” Kinn calls after him.

“I have a cat to cuddle,” Vegas informs them as he heads for the stairs. Venice probably misses him already. A cup of steaming hot coffee will be nice as well. Oh, and a couple of sandwiches, because he’s really hungry. 

Venice does not want to cuddle. Vegas is feeling oddly offended when the cat swipes its claws at him and hisses for the first time in nearly a year. Then the cat hops off the couch, its tail twitching, and struts out of the living room. Well, no salmon for you tonight, hell’s spawn! 

All Vegas wanted was to relax on the couch for a while, a purring cat on his lap, while drinking his well-deserved coffee. And later a long hot bath. Is that too much to ask for? Suddenly his chest tightens as the realisation sinks in: Has it really been a year already? Seriously? That cannot be true, right? How is that even possible? 

Vegas’ fingers tighten around the coffee mug as if he needs to steady himself, to ward off the shock. How did he allow so much time to slip past him without even noticing? He’s thoroughly rattled.

Sure, he’s been busy. Work mostly. His wounds, the cat and yes, more work. So much work. But really, a whole year has passed? “Fuck,” he mumbles softly, perching on the edge of the couch, his shoulders rigid. There is a bitter taste in his mouth, he’s no longer in the mood for coffee, even the sandwiches do not interest him anymore, he has lost his appetite. 

Why does he feel such a sharp edge of panic within him all of a sudden? And what’s with this aching sense of loss? 

Once he has placed the mug back on the side table, he hunches over, elbows digging into his knees as he rests his head in his hands in despair. Fuck. Apart from the faint faraway noises of the handymen repairing the mansion, there is total silence. Sighing, Vegas runs his fingers through his hair, noticing how stiff and grimy it feels. Must be the drying blood, he hasn’t bothered cleaning himself up yet. He desperately digs his fingernails deep into his scalp, hoping for the pain to wipe away all these strange and unexpected emotions.

The door opens and he can hear the steady footsteps of someone approaching him, but he doesn’t want to look up to check out who it is. 

“Khun Macau said it was an emergency,” his therapist says softly. 

Vegas swallows and nods, then forces himself to open his eyes again and sit up straight. “I suppose it is.” Damn, there is something wrong with his voice, it sounds as if he’s almost on the brink of tears. 

“He also said that you had a complete meltdown and freaked everyone out. Do you want to talk about it?” she offers, just like she does every time they meet. 

The difference is that this time Vegas doesn’t decline her offer. “Hell, yes. Yes, I want to talk. I really want to talk.” 

“Lovely, then we’ll talk. But first—” The woman gives him a distinctly motherly look, arching her grey eyebrows as she slowly looks him over. Then she raises her hand and points towards the door that leads to the bathroom. “—go, take a long shower and make yourself presentable. I am not talking to you while you look like a character from a slasher movie, Khun Vegas.”  

“Yes mom,” Vegas mutters under his breath and quickly escapes into the bathroom before she can throw her knitting needles at him. Because she totally would do that. Perhaps. 

A while later Vegas finds himself back on the couch, freshly showered, wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants, and he doesn’t know how to start. Where to start. In the armchair directly opposite the couch, his therapist is already knitting, ever so patient, as always. The familiar clicking of the knitting needles usually help to soothe his frazzled nerves but this time they provide no comfort. 

He’s wringing his hands, he notes, slightly surprised how stressed he is all of a sudden when he was fine just a short while ago. It’s Venice who triggered it all, but ultimately the only one to blame is Vegas, who lost track of time. 

A drop of water lands in his bare forearm; his hair is still damp from the shower, he didn’t bother to blow dry it. And another drop. It’s almost as if he were crying. Which he isn’t. There is no reason for him to cry. It’s just water, not tears.

Vegas clears his throat. Once. Twice. Then he finally looks up to face the woman in the armchair. “I don’t know where to start,” he admits quietly. “I mean, when I told Macau to call you I knew what I wanted to talk about, but now that has changed again. I think.”

“I believe you know exactly what you want to talk about. It’s just that you do not want to start talking because you are afraid of how it will make you feel.” Dark eyes fixate him from behind silver-rimmed glasses. 

Touché. Vegas puts the discussion about the reborn butterfly on the back burner. “Venice almost clawed me today.” He averts his eyes once more, looking down at his hands again. He used to have a lot of scratches on his hands. Those scratches have long since faded away, leaving not even a scar behind. His throat tightens and he swallows hard. “It’s almost been a year since he last did that, you know. It’s been a year since…”

“Since…?”

Vegas shoots her a quick glance; yeah, she knows exactly what he is referring to and yet she expects him to elaborate. Fine. “I totally lost track of time, I never imagined it has been that long since…” The rest of the words get stuck in his throat. Too bad the coffee is long gone, he sure could use something to drink now. Even cold coffee would be fine.

Let’s give this another try. 

“All this time, and it never even once crossed my mind… I mean, up until about 30 minutes ago, if you had asked me what the one thing is that I am 100% certain about, I would have told you that it’s Pete coming back for me. I never once doubted it. Not once. It’s what he usually does, you know? He fucks up, I get upset and then he goes into hiding to give me time to calm down again.” Damn, where is that glass of water when you need it? Vegas’ throat feels impossibly tight, and he’s clenching his hands even tighter, until the knuckles turn all white. “I thought he’s just giving me time to calm down.” His voice drops down to an unsteady whisper. “I thought I just have to wait a couple more weeks, and then he’ll show up again. But I lost track of time because I kept myself so damn busy, and now it’s almost been a year.”

The clicking of the knitting needles stops. “Ask me,” his therapist encourages him gently. 

Vegas inhales a long shuddering breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. “H-he… He’s not coming back, is he?” 

There is a moment of silence, then a soft sigh. “No, he’s not coming back, Khun Vegas.”

Vegas blinks, the words are hitting him pretty hard. It’s as if something deep inside of him breaks. Pete is not coming back. Not in a few weeks. Not in a few months. Not ever. Pete is gone for good. 

He takes a few uneven breaths, desperately trying to keep himself from falling apart. He needs to keep himself together, he needs to… Vegas presses his lips into a thin quivering line, refusing to give in and let the tears come. But it’s all for nothing. Despite his efforts, he feels his face crumbling as the first stifled sob breaks free. 

Head bowed, with trembling shoulders, he barely manages to pull his hands up to cover his eyes before the dam breaks and the tears come hard and fast. It hurts. It hurts so much. Pete’s gone for good and he just cannot wrap his mind around that. 

There is a light touch as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Startled, with his breath coming in irregular bursts between sobs, Vegas blinks his tears away, looks up and meets the eyes of his therapist for a brief moment. The woman has discarded her knitting kit, she lowers herself onto the couch beside him and graces him with a smile full of tenderness. “Oh Vegas… It’s all right to cry, let it all out.” And then she pulls him into a hug. 

Once again, Vegas crumbles, but this time it’s even worse. Just this little gesture of kindness and he is completely falling apart. He leans forward into her embrace and buries his face into the crook of her neck, crying so hard that he can hardly breathe. 

Time passes. Vegas can feel her slowly patting his back, providing quiet comfort. It reminds him of his mother who has also left him. Just like Pete. Everyone he loves has left him and he’s all alone now. 

Eventually, his sobs starts to fade and his ragged breathing is slowing down as well. After a few steadying breaths, he sits back and gives his therapist a watery smile. He must be a mess, but he didn’t bring anything to wipe his face.

The woman returns his smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and hands him an old-fashioned fabric handkerchief. “Here you go, dear.” 

Always prepared for everything. Vegas isn’t even surprised any more, he just takes the handkerchief and cleans himself up. 

“That was long overdue,” she points out gently. “Do you feel a bit better now?”

Since he doesn’t trust himself to speak just yet, Vegas simply nods. The therapist gives his shoulder one last squeeze, then she rises and returns to her armchair. As soon as she has settled down, she picks up her knitting kit. Seems its business as usual again. 

“I was rather astonished how dead sure you were that Khun Pete would be returning to you,” she admits, and starts knitting her shawl again. Or is that supposed to be a sock? Whatever. “Personally, I thought the chances were at best 50/50 during the first two months, and pretty much non-existent afterwards. But you really never doubted that he would come back to you. Why is that?”

Vegas is feeling all raw and hollow, how is he supposed to answer that now that he knows he’s been abandoned? “I really made a fool out of myself, didn’t I?” he asks quietly. “I should have known better. He basically told me but I just didn’t want to hear it at that time.” 

“What did he tell you?” 

“He told me that he loves me. But not enough to stop himself from hurting me.” No, he’s not going to start crying again even though those words are like a dagger to his heart. “I really thought he loved me just as much as I loved him. That’s why he would return.”

“Interesting.” The therapist sounds rather intrigued. “When exactly did he say that?” 

“Before he started using the torch on me. He also warned me to stop triggering him.” Vegas  slumps against the backrest, leans his head back, and lets out a heavy sigh while he closes his eyes. 

“I think it’s best if you tell me the whole story, and start from the beginning. You have been avoiding to talk about this assault for a year, it’s high time we had a chat about it.” 

She’s right of course. Keeping his eyes close, Vegas starts talking. About his meeting with Porsche, the pool incident, Pete’s unfounded jealousy, the handcuffs, the chain and Pete topping him. About how it was so good and then turned into a horror show when Pete started cutting him up. And how it went from bad to worse after he had his little meltdown and then came back with the butane torch. He talks about how it felt to be at the mercy of the Abyss, about the sense of betrayal and about the horrible pain he was subjected to while being tortured. He talk and talks until he has told her everything, and then he falls silent, feeing drained. 

“My goodness.” At some point his therapist has stopped knitting, listening intently to his story. Then she allows herself a few minutes to process it all. “Is putting a bullet in his head still off the table?” she then wonders after a while.

Vegas gives her such an incredulous look that she ends up chuckling softly. 

“I see you still haven’t changed your mind about that. Very well. I guess when you decided to date a sociopath this wasn’t quite the outcome you expected. I do have to point out that there were plenty of warning signs though. We’ve talk about this before in our sessions, remember?”

Grudgingly, Vegas nods. 

“What I find very interesting is that even though you are obviously angry with him for giving you these burn wounds—and understandably so—the torture you had to endure at his hands isn’t what upsets you the most. You feel heart-broken because he acted according to his antisocial personality disorder, picking his own needs over yours.”

“This is all about love. He said he didn’t love me enough to stop himself from hurting me…” There it is again, the feeling of absolute devastation Vegas feels whenever he remembers these words. “And that’s why he left and never came back, isn’t it? He just doesn’t love me enough.”

“But he did stop himself,” his therapist reminds him patiently. When she notes Vegas’ confusion, she sighs. “Khun Vegas, do I have to get you a mirror so that you can take a look at the scars on your chest again?” 

“I don’t know what you are getting at.” Now Vegas is even more confused. 

“He told you he didn’t love you enough to stop himself from hurting you, but he stopped, didn’t he? He burned exactly one letter into your chest, and then he stopped. Have you ever asked yourself why he didn’t continue?”

Actually, Vegas never gave it much thought. “I figured he got interrupted and had to leave in a hurry?” The mere hint of Pete stopping for any other reasons is enough to throw him right into another round of emotional turmoil. Even the tiniest spark of hope simply is too cruel.

“Here is what I think—and please take this with a grain of salt, Khun Vegas, because Khun Pete is an extremely complex person. Neither you nor I have any real insight into his motivations. Nevertheless my guess is that he stopped burning you because he expected a certain outcome, a certain gratification, and that didn’t materialise.”

Vegas’ thoughts are racing. “You mean he didn’t get a kick out of hurting me?” As much as he wants to believe it, it doesn’t make sense. “I don’t know. That never seemed to stop him before. You witnessed the knitting needle incident first hand, you saw that he liked it. Why would he not like it this time then? Because I screamed my head off?”

“That might be part of the reason, yes.” His therapist shrugs. “In the end we can only speculate about it. I believe that Khun Pete is a very confused individual. I believe he doesn’t really understand his own emotions most of the time. He does what he pleases, consequences be damned. But then he met you and suddenly this strategy didn’t work any more. You became important enough that he made a conscious effort to avoid any kind of behaviour that would upset you. It was probably the first time in his life he bothered behaving like this, and it didn’t sit well with him, since it clashed with his antisocial personality disorder. I suppose he started testing your boundaries to see how far he could go and what he could get away with. Just like with the knitting needle. And since you allowed him to cross that boundary without any severe consequences, he figured he could get away with cutting and burning you as well.”

“So he stopped because he regretted what he did? Does that mean he cares about me after all?” Vegas needs an answer to these questions in order not to go insane. 

“He’s a sociopath, Khun Vegas. You need to stop being in denial about his diagnosis. Don’t expect him to feel any remorse for hurting you. If he’s feeling any sort of remorse it will be because his actions didn’t cause the outcome he expected which messes up his plans.” Since Vegas immediately looks pretty dejected upon hearing this, she sighs and adds: “I believe that Khun Pete truly cares about you as much as he is able to care about another person. Otherwise he would have killed you long ago. But here you are, still alive. I suppose that counts as a love declaration when it comes to him.”

“Him not killing me isn’t for his lack of trying. He did shoot me after all,” Vegas feels the need to point out. 

“I beg your pardon?” The woman lowers her knitting needles and fixates Vegas with a disbelieving stare. “This is news to me. Why do I get the feeling you have been omitting vital information, Khun Vegas?” 

Oops. Vegas first instinct is to deny it all, but then he changes his mind. For the sake of his sanity he needs to figure out exactly why Pete has left him, and this woman is the only one qualified to help him with it. “Sorry about that.” He sighs, wearily running his fingers through his damp hair. “I basically did it to protect you, but you know what? Screw that. Let me tell you a little story. It all started when the guy I had a one-night stand with ended up as the first victim of a serial killer…”

Not mincing his words, Vegas spills the beans. All of it. Every sordid detail about his life, how he got to know Pete, how their rather toxic relationship developed. He tells her about the murders and how they all turned out to be connected to him. He talks about Pete’s gaslighting, the endless manipulations and lies. He mentions Tawan and his role in everything. He explains about Pete’s fake identity, how he found out about Pete being the serial killer he was hunting, and how Pete shot him. He talks about the aftermath of the shooting and how they tried to make their relationship work despite it all. How Pete tricked him into killing his father and how that changed Vegas on a profound level. He talks about the fake new Vegas, about the takeover of the family business, and how he tried so hard to please everyone even though that turned out to be impossible. He bares it all, and his therapist listens quietly. 

“I wish you had told me earlier,” is her first comment after he finishes. There is no anger, just a hint of resignation on her face, if Vegas interprets it correctly. “Please go and get me a cup of coffee, I need to think about all this new information before we continue.”

Suits him just fine, Vegas could use some coffee as well. While he’s at it, he pops some painkillers because his ribs are not happy with how much he moved around today. Venice has apparently forgiven him; the cat joins him in the kitchen, weaving between his legs, meowing loudly until he feeds him. “He really dumped us,” Vegas tells him with a sad little smile. “I’m so sorry, your other dad’s not coming back after all.” 

He heads back into the living room, hands his therapist a coffee mug and then goes back to sit on the couch. On second thought, he grabs a couple of soft pillows and a blanket to make himself comfortable. He has a feeling they might be here for a while. And then he waits, sipping his cappuccino. 

“All right.” A quarter of an hour later, the woman is finally ready to continue their conversation. “I have to warn you, I am in no way qualified to give you sound advice when it comes to Khun Pete being a serial killer. You would need to talk to a specialist from a behavioural science unit for that. I cannot say I am particularly surprised that he has killed someone; it’s more the way he is killing people that has me concerned.” 

“We could give him brownie points for being creative,” Vegas tries to joke, but she is having none of it. 

“The amount of violence he inflicts during his murders is worrisome because that does not bode well for you as his intimate partner. There are studies about ASPDs in relationships, and I am afraid in most cases these relationships are pretty rough on the Non-ASPD partner. At the same time it now makes perfect sense to me why you are attracted to him this much. I’m not saying that you have psychopathic tendencies as well, but the two of you seem very compatible. Khun Pete must have sensed how much you like to inflict violence, this probably perked his initial interest in you. Add to that his physical attraction to you; he must have been thrilled to find a potential partner in crime and that’s why he tried so hard to mould you into a carbon copy of himself. In his eyes, your only flaw is most likely how emotional you are; that makes you very unpredictable because he himself doesn’t understand this level of emotions at all.”

“That is all good and well, but it still doesn’t explain why the hell he dumped me.” Vegas is starting to feel frustrated. He just wants to understand Pete’s feelings for him. “Can we keep the deep-dive into his mind for another time, please?”

“I thought we already went through this? Plain and simple: He thought you were just a toy he could play with for a while and then discard. Then your status got upgraded to a potential partner in crime. And then you became his lover. He’s never had a relationship before, he doesn’t know how to behave in order to make a relationship work, and most importantly, he never bothered to even try and make a relationship work. He has never had to put himself on a leash to please another person before either. I keep telling you that people with ASPD struggle with impulse control. He told you not to trigger him, you didn’t take him serious. And then he slipped, for a moment you simply became the toy again. But at the point his inner mindset in regards to you had already changed, so he didn’t get any gratification from hurting his toy. It was a huge disappointment for him, a complete disaster, it most likely shook him to his core. He realised how badly he had fucked up, so he did what he did before: he ran away. He probably had every intention to return after a while, but something must have changed his mind along the way. Does that answer your question?” 

Yes, it does. “So what you are saying is that even though he’s a psychopathic serial killer, he does love me, right?” Vegas asks her hopefully.

The woman groans and rolls her eyes. “Just because he loves differently doesn’t mean his love doesn’t count. Yes, in his own way he loves you. You are probably the first person who has seen his dark side and didn’t lose interest in him, romantically speaking. I can imagine that makes you very special in his eyes. From how you describe him, I think he must have been incredibly lonely before he came across you. He doesn’t believe that he’s lovable. He doesn’t understand how you could love him. He has no concept of unconditional love. He probably figured that since he hurt you so badly, and you threatened not to forgive him, that your love for him also died that day. I promise you, it would never occur to him that a year later you’d sit here and have a complete emotional meltdown because you just realised that for him this relationship is over while you are still waiting every day for his return.”

Venice hops on the couch, gives the therapist the evil eye and curls up in Vegas’ lap. The cat’s fur is so soft, and petting him helps calming the chaos in Vegas’ mind. “I see,” he mumbles thoughtfully. 

“You are going to need to work on setting some hard boundaries, Khun Vegas.” His therapist has abandoned her knitting efforts, the expression on her face is very serious now. “Boundaries are essential when dealing with people who have ASPD.”

Vegas snorts softly. “Pete doesn’t give a fuck about the boundaries I set. That man waltzed past my boundaries so often that there is a path with his name on it in borderland.”

“Nevertheless you need to establish clear boundaries. And you need to work on your communication; he needs to know the exact consequences that await him when crossing your boundaries. And you need to stick to those consequences. You remember the study I mentioned? Let’s forget about the serial killer aspect for a moment; the fact is that the two of you are not automatically a lost cause. There are documented cases of ASPD people being influenced for the better by their partners. If you want, I can try to gather more information and practical tips on the topic, so we can work on it together in the future.” She pauses for a moment, watching him thoughtfully. “So what are you going to do?”

“Uhm…” Vegas blinks because that question catches him off guard. Venice purrs louder, and then taps him with his paw to remind Vegas to keep petting him. Damn, Vegas is at a loss for words. What is he going to do?

Seeing his hesitation, the woman sighs. “In case you are still concerned about your safety, I believe there is absolutely no chance that he will torture you again in the foreseeable future. Does this help you with making a decision?”

Well, that is kind of reassuring, isn't it? Vegas stares at the cat in his lap, the poor hell’s spawn abandoned by its favourite person. He thinks about himself, and that it took him a whole freaking year to figure out that he’s been dumped like a hot potato. Bloody hell. Vegas got the boot. Pete ditched him, tossed him aside, left him in the dust. Bloody fucking hell.

Vegas feels absurdly betrayed. “Unbelievable,” he mutters to himself. “You know, Pete used to be like a cockroach, impossible to get rid off. He didn’t give a fuck about any of my attempts to break up with him, but now I am supposed to just accept that he’s gone for good? Nah, fuck this, the hell I will. I’m not going to let Pete just dump me.”

“Oh dear, you are going to go after him, aren’t you?” Resigned, his therapist pulls a fresh roll of yarn from her shoulder bag. “Very well. Since you have made up your mind about it, I am not going to try and talk you out of it. Be so kind and fetch some more coffee for both of us, will you? And when you come back, let’s have a little chat about what caused your brother to call me in a panic, babbling about you ‘completely loosing your mind’ and turning into a ‘bloodthirsty, out-of-control Hannibal Lecter-wannabe’—his words, not mine.” 

Vegas gulps. Shit. Of course she would remember that, but he isn’t sure he wants to do this deep dive into his own dark side just yet. “Uhm… coffee you say? Coming up right away.” And before she can even arc her eyebrows at him, he grabs Venice and flees to the kitchen.