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The forest behind the safehouse is tall and dark and unyielding. 

When Vegas was eight, one of his father’s missions had gone awry, forcing the family to take cover for a month. Vegas was given free reign of the property, so long as he didn’t cry. 

Vegas had loved it: the towering trees, the dense canopy. And everywhere he looked, green seemed to spring into his eyes: a green so deep and so blue, he’d gasped.

Green, he’d thought. So this was the color of life. 

And then he’d turn, and he’d see—

###

The forest behind the safehouse is tall and dark and unyielding. 

Years ago, when Vegas was eight, he would spend hours walking through the underbrush, his tiny boy-hands brushing away leaves as green as his mother’s emeralds. 

The forest hasn’t changed, though he has. He may be taller, but the forest is no less green. Vegas drinks in the smell: damp earth, dense canopy. 

His head aches. A dull roar ebbs its way from ear to ear. Before him, his father stands with a gun in his hands. White suit, white pants. Resort scarf. Pucci, maybe. He turns to Vegas, now, and he smiles slightly. 

“Are you ready?” 

Vegas nods. His father presses the gun into his hands. All his life, he’s wanted to help. He’s trained for this. Killing should be simple. He’s watched things die before: three hedgehogs, a guinea pig. Tankfuls of fish. How is another person any different? You only kill those that deserve it; you only destroy that which threatens family. These are his father’s rules, and so they’re Vegas’ rules too. 

His father gestures at one of his men. From behind a thicket of trees, two guards drag forward the person that Vegas will kill. He can’t be much older than Vegas. Maybe a few centimeters taller. He’s dressed in a pair of boxers that Vegas recognizes but can’t place. No shirt. An improbable bowl cut. His chest is red, pink, and welted. His father’s belt, Vegas thinks, and he winces in sympathy. He knows—he knows how it goes. He looks at his father, his mouth already in the shape of a question. 

But his father shrugs and grins widely. He shoves the man down, until two knees rub themselves into the underbrush. Around them, the forest murmurs—sighs—

The man raises his head. His bottom lip twitches. His cheeks are damp. But his eyes are black and restless. 

“Are you really going to kill me?” the man says, looking straight at Vegas, “because if you are, just do it.” 

Vegas stares. For a moment he could have sworn—No. He doesn’t know this man. If he did, he would have done something about it by now. It’s been years since he’s left loose ends for his father to find. 

His father scowls.  

“Kill him.” 

The man closes his eyes. And for a moment the forest is still. But then the leaves rustle and his father frowns, and rather than wait—rather than breathe—Vegas pulls the trigger—he shuts his eyes and he pulls the trigger and—

###

The forest behind the safehouse hasn’t changed, though Vegas has. He may be taller, but the forest is no less green. Vegas exhales, calming the roar in his head.  

His father turns to him. Smiles. 

“Are you ready?” 

Vegas nods. His father hands him the gun, and soon a man is brought before them. He stumbles a bit as he’s forced down. He’s shirtless. His chest is ridged in the way that Vegas himself knows. 

The man raises his head. He doesn’t beg for his life—doesn’t do any of the things that people in his situation would. And it’s odd. Vegas thinks he might almost recognize the man’s boxers. The absurd bowl cut. But where? 

It’s been a while since he’s met strangers—longer still since Gun has looked into his affairs. 

“Well?” Gun says. “What are you waiting for? Kill him.” 

Vegas stares. All at once the gun is heavy. And he could close his eyes—he could close his eyes and pull the trigger—he even gets the sense that he has before. But the man keeps staring at him. Black eyes, twin cave mouths. They say to Vegas: stop . They say to Vegas: you are not your father . 

The man licks his lips, and for a moment, Vegas imagines tonguing the man’s neck. 

“Vegas,” the man whispers. “Don’t—” 

Vegas startles, steps back. “How do you know my name?” 

The man stills. He darts his gaze at Gun, who glares, a second pistol already aimed and ready to go.

“If you won’t kill him, then I will,” his father says.

What difference would it make ? Vegas thinks. Would it be better, if the bullet came from him?  

He leans in. Stares at the man and his too-black eyes. 

“Do I know you?” 

The man swallows. “Yes—yes, you do,” he says. He’s pale and too calm. “But don’t do this, Vegas. It’ll only hurt you. Please, you’re not your father. Don’t—” 

Before Vegas can think—before he can move—Gun strides over. Aims the gun. Shoots. 

###

He wakes to a sudden pain in his chest—as if his lungs were on fire—as if his guts might slide through each rib if he so much as breathes the wrong way. 

“You’re awake,” his father’s voice says. A towel is pressed against his chest. It smells like—lemongrass. Mint. When Vegas blinks, his father swims into view. And rather than stern, the shape of his lips is kind. 

Vegas tries to prop himself up. “Where—” 

“Hush.” 

Vegas shuts his mouth. Leans back into the bed. He’s long learned not to fight his father.

They must be in one of their safehouses, he realizes. The one by the forest, given the birdsong outside. He recognizes also the lingering scent of bleach—a sharpness that teases at his nostrils. The day is dark—each wall a mottled blue. But he can still see the gleaming kitchen counter, the chair in his father’s study. And along the far wall, the guest bedroom.

He winces as his father neatens the towel. One hand finds its way to Vegas’ shoulder, forehead, cheek. The band of the signet ring is cold—soothing. Vegas turns away.  

“What happened?” he asks quietly. 

His father hums. “You had an assignment. The Italians again. You were hurt, but you managed to escape. I had you brought here, while things die down.” 

Vegas nods. His head feels fuzzy. But the story makes sense: he’s wounded and his father is checking in on him. This is how it’s always been. His father gives him an assignment, and Vegas has to figure it out—has to carry it out and come back alive. 

“Did I succeed?” he asks. He tries to put on his most neutral expression. He must have succeeded for his father to spend time with him like this. But it’s odd—odd that he doesn’t remember the mission, or his injuries. 

“Mostly. Though there were some loose ends.” His father wipes the sweat from Vegas’ brow. Thumbs at what must be a damning bruise. When he speaks again his voice is silky—forcibly light. 

“I thought you’d learned the value of a clean job after what happened last time.” 

Vegas swallows. “A loose end,” he says. His voice comes out scratchy. “What can I do to take care of it?”

A grin. Slowly—gently—Gun presses a gun into Vegas’ hands. He gives Vegas an assessing look. “You know what you have to do,” he says. He juts his chin towards the guest bedroom. “Sometimes you just have to put a pet down. If it’s too sick or too tired or just not right for you, what’s the use of letting it live?” 

Vegas blinks. Did he bring back someone from the mission? If he squints he can see where the guest door has been opened just a crack, where surely someone is waiting for him, for him to—

“Vegas,” his father says. “What did I teach you about being sentimental?”

###

He wakes to a sudden pain in his chest, but before he can gasp, his father is already speaking. 

“You’re awake.” A towel is pressed against his chest. When Vegas opens his eyes, his father looks right back. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look angry, either.  

Vegas tries to prop himself up. “Where—” 

“Hush.” 

Vegas shuts his mouth. 

He surveys the room as he leans back into the bed. They must be in one of the family safehouses, he realizes. The one by the rich forest. He recognizes its smell—the smell of life and rot, and the hint of bleach around the edges. The room itself is his—long unused. An old poster here, but the desk is empty except for a gun. 

He winces as his father neatens the towel. Then the hand meets his cheek, the signet ring its own cold sting. 

“You had an assignment,” his father explains. “The Italians again. You were hurt, but you managed to escape. I had you brought here, while things die down.” 

Vegas nods. He wishes he could remember more, but sometimes missions fall apart like this. He’s lucky to be alive—luckier still to be here: safe and with family. 

“Did I succeed?”  

“Mostly.” His father wipes the sweat from Vegas’ brow. He offers Vegas a hand, and in one swift movement, Vegas is pulled to a stand. 

He grits his teeth. Tries not to stumble when a gun is placed in his hands. 

“There was one loose end though.” 

“A loose end.” Vegas swallows. “What can I do to take care of it?”

“Follow me.” 

His father leads him through the living room, the kitchen, and behind the study where the guest room sits. The door is already partway open. 

Gun gestures. “Well?” 

Vegas isn’t sure what to expect when he enters. Maybe someone double-crossed them—maybe that’s why he’s been injured. Maybe his father wants to show him who the traitor is—maybe Gun wants Vegas to do the deed. 

But the man in the room is—

“Vegas?” 

Vegas steps back. He recognizes the man. One of Kinn’s bodyguards—the one who always appears smaller than he is. His chest is welted; thighs littered with scorch marks. He’s held up by rope, strung up from the ceiling. 

Vegas frowns, rattling his brain for a name. But he must really be out of it because nothing comes. He turns to his father. 

“What did he—” 

“Does it matter what he did?” His father points at the gun in Vegas’ hands. “Sometimes you just have to put a pet down. If it’s too sick or too tired or just not right for you, what’s the use of letting it live?” 

Vegas stills. When he steps closer, the bodyguard doesn’t fidget—shows no signs of being afraid. Instead the man takes a deep breath. 

“Vegas,” he says, unbearably calm. “Is this what you’re running away from? Because you can stop—you can stop, now.” 

Vegas flinches. What do you know of stopping, he wants to say. When he was eight, he spent an entire summer in this house and was told he had to stop: stop breathing, stop crying, stop making noises. No. Nothing comes out of stopping. He stopped breathing and still his mother died. He stopped making noises and still his father opened up his back. He stopped crying and still he had to leave—leave the forest and its green lifeblood for the city and its steel, its human meat, its monsters reskinned in cloaks of wealth. No, he thinks. What do you know of stopping? 

“Vegas…” Gun says. A warning tone. “What did I teach you about being sentimental?”

Vegas steps closer. Raises his arm. 

Why can’t he kill this man? Anger flashes through him. Is this what his mother must have felt? Being forced to choose: her son or her husband. Her life, or—

“Vegas,” the bodyguard says. He’s pleading this time. 

This time—

This time? 

Vegas blinks. He pulls the trigger. 

###

He’s standing in a room with a gun in his hand and his father’s eyes dead-set on disappointment. 

“Well?” Gun says. A warning tone. “What did I teach you about being sentimental?” 

Vegas looks up at the man hanging from the ceiling. One of Kinn’s bodyguards. He must have really fucked up if Gun hasn’t killed him yet. His father only toys with those who’ve stolen from him. Once, when Vegas was eight, he watched as his father—

No. He raises his hand. Aims the gun at the man’s forehead. But still the man stares at him, holding his gaze as if Gun isn’t even present. 

“Vegas,” the man says, “you don’t have to do this.” 

Vegas flinches. But his father has already crossed the room—twisted the ring in towards his palm—slapped the man across the face. And then he strides over to Vegas and does the same. 

“What did I teach you,” his father says, his voice toeing the line between discontent and rage, “about being sentimental?” 

Vegas hangs his head. He knows the answer. It’s simple because it’s true. Being sentimental is as good as being dead. “Nothing good comes of it,” he whispers. He can taste blood in his mouth. He runs his tongue around his gums. His father’s ring had been wet, already warmed by the other man’s cheek. 

Gun grunts. “Say it louder.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of it.” 

“Louder.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of it!” 

A nod. And then: “So kill him.” 

Vegas swallows. But he’s already too slow and it’s Gun’s fist that meets his face this time, hard and fast and biting. 

“Take care of this before I return,” Gun snarls, and then he slams the door shut behind him. 

For a while, neither Vegas nor the bodyguard speak. Vegas looks at the gun. Its weight should be comforting. By now he’s used to killing—used to prying secrets out of living men who may as well be dead. And he’s good with the dying part: the part where he ends someone’s life. He’d likened it to a perfect dive, once, during the rare time Kinn had been forced to oversee a minor mission. “It’s like a performance, you see,” he’d said, trying to explain. “Every trick—every wound—every mark I make is meant for the finish. The kill has to be perfect. If it isn’t, it’s a waste.” 

Kinn had looked at him as if he’d grown a third head. 

Vegas swallows. He may as well make it painless. A gunshot to the head: it’ll be ugly, but his father will be happy, and doesn’t Vegas want to be a good son? The thought prickles at him—makes him feel sticky in his gut. 

“Vegas,” the bodyguard says. He looks at Vegas as if they share something outside of this room—as if they know each other fully. 

Vegas blinks. He strides up, grasps the man by the chin. Drags his fingers down the torn chest and retraces the path with the muzzle of the gun. Reads the tattoo. 

No legacy is so rich as honesty. 

Bullshit.

“I really should kill you,” he says softly. “Except I’m not sure if I want to.” He thinks of all of his father’s lessons—thinks of how Gun would have only kept this man alive if there was something left here—something left he couldn’t squeeze or find. What has this man stolen from his father? Something precious? Something—

The man laughs. A crackling sound. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it now. Just—” 

The thing is, Vegas can slap as hard as his father does. 

The bodyguard stills once more. 

There’s a dresser in the corner where Gun had left a flogger, a whip, any number of implements. Only Vegas knows about the bottle of pills in the third drawer. He’d hid them there, back when he was eight and his mother told him to. It was the last thing he did for her. And look at him now: look at him contemplating it. More than a decade late, but he’s finally realizing what he’s capable of. 

Mercy . 

As if. 

“Vegas, please—” the bodyguard says, following his gaze. He must think that Vegas is going to whip him—to hurt him worse than Gun did. But Vegas won’t. He can afford this casual kindness. It may help him, later down the line. Gain this man’s trust and then slowly break him. Isn’t that what he’s always wanted anyways? To tame someone—to own someone. To break someone so thoroughly that they’ll look at him—really look—and still want him. 

Slowly, Vegas raises the gun. He doesn’t pull the trigger, though the safety is disengaged. He brings the muzzle to two lips, already blood-flecked and peeling. 

“Open, puppy.”

The man grunts—protests—but then metal meets teeth—tongue—throat. 

“Now suck.” 

###

When he slips the pills past the bodyguard’s mouth, Vegas makes sure to use his tongue. How long have they been at it? The gun had been the first part. Lips wrapped around black steel. It’d been obscene. Vicious. Vegas had wanted to shove his whole hand in, gun and fist and wrist and all, and fuck and shoot and then fuck again. He’d wanted it, then. He’d wanted it truly. 

And the thing was, the bodyguard hadn’t protested. Spit slobbered down his chin, and Vegas licked it. Tears welled up in the man’s eyes and Vegas kissed them. A low, wanting moan had vibrated in the man’s throat, and Vegas had fucked it. 

“Do you like it?” Vegas asks quietly. 

The man moans again. His voice is hoarse. Wrecked in a too-fucked, fucked-up sort of way. But the pills will help. Made for sleeping, his mother had said. But Vegas knows — he’s used them before. The way they can make you go loose. A freefall kind of feeling. 

“Do you like it? Tell me you like it.” 

“I—” The man moans again. For a moment, a twinge of irritation threads its way behind Vegas’ eyes. He should know this man’s name. And this man should be thanking him—should be on his feet and groveling for his life once more—

“I liked it,” the man whispers. He shudders. His wrists are nearly purple, still strung up from the ceiling. His cock is hard. On a whim, Vegas nudges it with the gun, now spit-slick and damp. 

“Look,” he says, smiling. “You’re nearly as big as it.” 

He presses the muzzle into the man’s hip. Imagines firing; decides against it. The man’s hips twitch—judder—before Vegas slaps the man along the thigh. It’s strange and funny, the way the man responds, like he isn’t sure whether he wants to arch into the touch or away from it. But the man is still hard. Precum-wet and flushed for it. Vegas could run the muzzle along the length of the cock, wet the mouth of his gun with the man’s want—

The man shivers, and Vegas tightens his hold on the gun. 

“Stop moving, pet.” 

By now the pills are starting to take effect. The man blinks hazily at Vegas. And for a moment, it’s as if they know each other. As if they’ve shared more than blood and spit and come. But what is it? Vegas twists his lips, feeling a sudden shame.

“Don’t look at me.” 

The man lets his gaze drop. 

But even then it’s not enough. So Vegas takes a pillowcase; bags it around the man’s head, collars it with a belt his father had left behind. 

“That’s more like it,” he says, and the man mumbles something—mumbles stop , maybe. Or please . 

How boring. Vegas needs to unhook him from the ceiling soon, before the man actually collapses. But right now fear draws a long sinuous line along the man’s body, spreading his legs and weakening his knees. 

“That’s it,” Vegas says. He drags the gun behind the man’s cock, nestles it along delicate skin, flesh, and all the private wounds his father must have left behind. The man groans.

Good. Vegas slips into his own room, brings back condoms. Lube. A few other toys he wouldn’t mind experimenting with. But the man must not be completely out of it yet. When Vegas returns, the man yells out, harsh and loud— 

“Stop! Get back; no—no—” 

Vegas smiles. He reaches over, cupping a chin through the thick cloth. He kisses at the soaked spot by the man’s nose and thumbs at a nipple until the man whimpers. 

“Don’t worry, pet,” he says soothingly. “I got you.” 

And it must be the right thing to say because the man nods. “Vegas,” he says, gentler but no less desperate. His shoulders relax. His throat too. It bobs like something cut loose. 

“Vegas, please. Please.” 

Why is the man so—so familiar? Vegas doesn’t understand it. The man looks pitiful—looks like something Vegas could ruin so easily— 

“Sleep,” he eventually says, and the man obeys. His head hangs, shoulders limmed in the dying light. 

Toys in hand, Vegas gets to work. 

###

He wakes up to a sterile room. A hospital. His entire body hurts—as if it’d been crumpled around a truck and left to broil. Speaking is difficult; breathing too.

“Hey.” 

A familiar face. Macau, and— 

He chokes when he tries to say the name of the man in front of him. It’s like his body doesn’t want it—as if he needs to protect himself from it. But he recognizes the face: it belongs to the man he’s hurt. He wants to ask if it’s real—if it’s real, what’s been happening. All those things that Vegas did—and for what? Is this just another mission gone wrong? And where is his father? 

The man looks at him worriedly. “Don’t speak,” he says. “You were hooked to a breathing tube for days.” A hoarse laugh. “You had me worried. For a while we weren’t sure if you were going to make it.” 

Warm fingers find his and squeeze. Vegas tries squeezing back but finds no strength at all. The man doesn’t seem to mind. His palm is a comforting weight in Vegas’ hand. The same weight as a gun. 

“Here, let me help you.” 

The man adjusts Vegas’ pillow. And then a straw is propped between his lips and he’s told to suck slowly—to do everything slowly. He’s glad. He’s tired. He’s getting tired again, and it’s only when he looks down does he realize that the ring on his finger is gone. 

Was it real, after all? 

He looks up—swings his head towards where the man had been sitting, and when he does, he must tear something because a great searing pain spiders out from his chest, and he gasps, gagging—

—Fingers along his head. His temples. A pill or a tongue slipped between his lips once more, and then his throat sleeving itself around a cock or a wrist. It’s hard to tell the difference when he can’t bite down or open his eyes. He tries screaming. Tries crying. And throughout the entire time, a single phrase echoes in his head. 

No legacy is so rich as—

###

The last hedgehog dies and the man beside him has his hand on Vegas’ knee. Vegas could kill him for that—considers killing him—but when he looks over, the man’s face is drawn into a picture of such earnest sympathy that it makes him falter. 

The man, Vegas realizes, can go if he wants. The cuffs are gone. The wounds on the man’s chest are healing. But for some reason the man stays. He follows Vegas back into the bedroom, and then there’s a slap—a flick of the mood—a set of chains, cold and bright and furious— blue light followed by red—

“You like me like this, don’t you?” Vegas finds himself saying, and there’s something dark in the man’s gaze—in the way his pupils widen and his mouth parts. 

So the man wants it too. 

It should be disgusting. Shameful. The son of the minor family lowering himself to another man—to lick another man out like this. This is what it’s come to: Vegas on his knees, tonguing a tight ring of muscle as if that’s all he’s good for—as if he’s the one who’s the dog. Is this what his father fears? Is this what his father has fought so hard to squash away? 

He shivers. Divots his fingers into the man’s ass until his prints leave their own half-moons, turning the man lunar tenfold. 

“Do you want this?” he asks.

The man nods. 

“Say it.” 

“Please…” 

Vegas dips his head in, hovers hot breath around the pink hole. “Say it like you mean it,” he says, and he traces the words with his tongue. 

“ Yes,” the man shudders. And then: “Please, yes. I want it. I need it. Please.”  

Grinning, Vegas settles the man down onto the bed. Back against the mattress because he wants to look—to see the man’s face. For a moment, he rubs their bodies together. A frictive force. And then he nudges apart the man’s legs, fingers finding the hole tight again. 

“Nervous, are we?” 

“Vegas,” the man whispers. 

Vegas flinches. “Shut up,” he says, slicking up his fingers. And then more gently, when the man stiffens, “I’m working on you, can’t you see?” 

The man takes the first two fingers beautifully. He winces on the third, cries out on the fourth. “But you can take it, right? You wouldn’t want to disappoint me,” Vegas says sweetly. He lets his fingers sit, lets the man ease himself into the sensation—into being a prop—an extension of Vegas’ will—and that’s when Vegas adds the thumb.

“Please,” the man begs. “Vegas, please.” 

But the man doesn’t ask for Vegas to stop, and so Vegas keeps going. He makes the man take his wrist. And it looks good. It looks right. The man’s insides are warm and dark and gorgeous. What would it take, Vegas thinks, for the man to like this? For the man to beg for this again? 

He pulls out his arm, ignoring the whine that follows. He finds the man’s mouth. “I should fuck you,” he says seriously—desperately—and then he does. He rolls on the condom and then shoves his cock in as if this man were his—really his. What kind of man wants a monster and not another man? But the answer doesn’t come, even when Vegas does—a vicious sting of pleasure that ends too quickly—too abruptly. 

Wordlessly, he pulls off the condom. Makes the man suck it clean—watches as the man grimaces at the taste, at the way cum clings to latex—before arranging their bodies in parallel. The man’s teeth gleam. The whites of his eyes too. 

“So you’re fucked in the head too,” Vegas whispers, and the man looks back with a frightening assurance. 

“Yeah.” 

They fall asleep—doze lightly. And Vegas nearly believes the lie—nearly believes that it means something. That finally, this man could be—could be what, exactly? 

When Vegas wakes up, his gun is nowhere to be found. Neither is the man. 

###

“Vegas, calm down. You have to calm down—look—I’m here.” 

Vegas swallows. “What—” he looks around wildly. Hospital room. Tubes snaking along one arm, bandages around his chest. When he takes a breath, it hurts and so he stops—tries to sip on air instead—but that only amplifies the pain. 

“You haven’t been doing too well,” Pete says quietly. He smooths away what must be a loose strand of hair. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Vegas shakes his head. He remembers being shot by the pool. He’d been angry—hurt. Desolate. Yes, he’d felt desolate—had felt like dying—but then he’d turned to find—

His mind trips—skitters—and the memory crumples up, is shuffled away. 

Who did he find? 

He shakes his head again. “No,” he says, with more sharpness than he intends. “I don’t remember.” He only has vague images—No, all he has are the remnants of dreams.  

“It’s okay,” Pete says neutrally, but Vegas catches the flare of disappointment. And it’s irritating—frustrating, how evasive this all is. As if there were some grand secret he shouldn’t know. It’s like Pete is playing at being nice . As if they’re—

“Why are you even here?” 

“I—” Pete hesitates. And there it is: blood. Vegas hones in. “A bodyguard for the main family has no place by my side.” He pauses, waiting for the words to land. “Did they send you here to spy on my recovery?” 

Another strange look passes over Pete’s face. But then he gathers himself. “What if they did?” he says. He sounds so matter-of-fact that Vegas wants to claw his face off and burn it—to burn this man—to tear him apart from limb to limb. No man is supposed to see him weak like this. No man is supposed to see any sentimentality in him. No, every fiber of Vegas’ mind-heart-brain screams. No. 

But Pete only fixes the sheets around Vegas. When he speaks again, his voice is so polite—so deferential—it takes Vegas a few seconds to parse his words. 

“Even if they did, you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

###

He’s naked again. He isn’t eight, though. He isn’t told to hide or to be quiet or to stop crying. He’s a man with four holes in his chest and a hole in his arm, and Pete wipes carefully around the edge of each wound. The towel is soft and warm and wet and Vegas feels startlingly vulnerable. 

“Is this okay?” Pete asks gently. 

Vegas nods. Vaguely, he remembers falling asleep in the hospital bed. And somehow they’d ended up here, in a generous bath, the water all the way up to his knees. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine himself deep inside another man’s body. It’s all the same temperature: warm but not quite hot enough. 

Pete swipes at his back. Neck, shoulders, erectors. Then the arm that’s unwounded, and then the arm that—

Vegas suddenly has a vision of Pete shooting at him—of the bullet entering his arm. It’d been the garage—the main family’s compound. They’d stared across from each other, and then—

—then nothing. 

Vegas blinks. It must be a memory. But he doesn’t know what to make of it. And if it involved Pete—

He looks up, watching as Pete nervously dabs at the injury. The water is still clear—not pink or red around the edges. But it could still happen. Pete could still kill him like this. Maybe he’d even call Porsche to watch. Maybe they’d toast to a job well done. Maybe they’d be generous—maybe Porsche would take pity and put a knife through his neck. 

Vegas shakes his head. Feels woozy in his stomach. The last time this happened—the last time he’d been this injured, Macau had given him blood: the only other AB blood type in his family. But Macau isn’t here, and—

Vegas looks at Pete curiously. 

“What’s your blood type?” 

“Ah—” Pete stutters. Grins sheepishly. “O. My blood type is O.”

His expression confirms Vegas’ suspicions. Vegas narrows his eyes. “That’s something I knew, right? Before—” 

“Vegas.” Pete’s voice is soft but unbending. He wrings the towel. His knuckles are white.  

“Tell me.” 

“I—” Pete chews his lip, looks close to crying. Except he doesn’t. His jaw sets. “Stop,” he says, abruptly cold. “Stop this. It won’t help. The doctors said your memory loss is temporary. You fell when you were shot. You’ll just have to wait.” He looks furious. Every few seconds he squeezes the towel tighter.  

Vegas licks his lips. “Or what?” He gives Pete what he hopes is a knowing look. He’s noticed Pete watching him throughout the bath—the subtle glances. The careful emotional distance. And the familiarity Pete has with his body is new. It isn’t something that existed before: this whole time, Pete hasn’t once flinched when they’ve touched. And each touch has been deliberate. 

There’s something here, Vegas thinks. They’ve shared something. 

Now, he reaches out on a whim. Grabs Pete by the wrist and drags him into the tub before the man can blink. The water splashes—slips over the edges of the tub and slicks up the bathroom floor. 

“What—” Pete splutters. Vegas is faster. It takes another second before he finds Pete’s zipper and—

“You’re hard,” Vegas says, “Even now, you’re hard.” He looks closely, finding a thigh and a wrist and digging his hands in, miming a geography he should know. “Is this what it was like?” he asks bluntly. “You and me.” 

Pete swallows. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Their faces are so close, the air between them so humid—that Vegas could just lean in. He could lean in and he could tilt his head and he could breathe out and Pete could breathe in and—

“Are you sure,” Pete says quietly.  

Vegas nods. When hasn’t he ever been sure? But he doesn’t have time to say it—doesn’t get a chance to say anything at all—because Pete’s mouth finds the words from beneath his tongue and wipes it away—wipes each word away until Vegas digs his nails in and ignores the stretch and pull of his wounds.

“Bed,” he mutters, and he tries not to hide himself when Pete laughs. 

###

They end up not really doing anything at all. Pete is too perceptive. The moment Vegas realizes his wounds haven’t quite closed up—that any strain will set him back—Pete puts a stop to the touching. Firmly—infuriatingly—patiently—he removes Vegas’ hand from his cock. 

It’s ridiculous, is what it is. Vegas tries to stand from the bath—stumbles—is helped up and then out. Fuck, he thinks. He’s never been so weak. He steels himself as Pete dries and half-carries, half-drags him to bed with surprising strength. And then Pete calls for soup and insists on feeding him. 

The entire experience is miserable. Vegas is still hard. He’s so hard his fingernails itch with it. He wants to—fuck. He wants something that isn’t soft or measured or careful. All this care, and for what? 

“A few more weeks,” Pete says apologetically. He holds up a spoonful of soup. 

Vegas glares. 

There’s something—something isn’t right. The wrongness jangles in his head.  

“How did you get here,” he says, pushing away the spoon.  

To his credit, Pete smiles easily. But his eyes are strained. 

“What do you mean? I’ve been staying in the next room since you were brought here.” Pete widens his smile but the effect is practiced, deliberate. Vegas narrows his eyes. 

“It’s been a few weeks,” Pete adds. “We almost lost you, but—” 

“But what?” 

Vegas flips through what little he remembers. He’s been shot. But he’s alive. He’s seen Macau, who doesn’t seem to have a problem with Pete. Is it Porsche, maybe? Or Kinn? 

But Pete wouldn’t be here if something happened to Porsche or Kinn. And from what Vegas knows, his father hadn’t planned—

His father. 

Vegas shakes his head. No. Even if his father had planned something, he would’ve made his disappointment known if Vegas had failed. He would’ve visited by now or sent a man in his stead. And if he hasn’t, then doesn’t that mean that Vegas succeeded in whatever they set out to do? Maybe his father is simply waiting for him to get better—

Vegas sits up. Slaps the bowl of soup out of Pete’s hands, ignoring the way Pete’s face snags on itself. “My father,” he says haltingly. “Has he come by?” 

Pete pales. He hunches his shoulders as if deference would make his response all the more palatable. Vegas could spit. 

“Tell me.” 

“Vegas—I’m sorry—” 

No. 

No, Vegas thinks. He knows that tone. It’s the same one his cousins used when his mother had died. The tentative one—the one where they were afraid he’d cry—or worse yet, break something. Hurt something. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. No. His father can’t be dead—he can’t. No. Any minute now, his father is going to walk through that door and belt him. Vegas tenses. Please, he thinks, staring at the empty door. Just come. Just come and beat me. Please. Please. I’ll even beg. I’ll say I want it. Just—please—

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Pete presses a thumb along his cheek. He flinches. His father would have laughed. Would have smacked him by now. Would have driven the heel of his palm into Vegas’ jaw, would have made Vegas kiss the ring on his hand, would have made Vegas crawl across the room and lick the soup up from the bleached floors, gaze hardening as Vegas choked on the taste. Always something vaguely chemical. 

Vegas sways. He wants to scream. Feels it bubbling out of him even as he tries to keep it in, tries to swallow it down. A heavy gray pain settles over his chest. He tries to reach out for the soup—for Pete’s hand—

“You have to stop,” Pete is saying. Desperate again. An awful note in his voice. “Please, Vegas. You have to keep breathing. You have to stay alive. You promised. Please, Vegas, please—” 

###

In his dream, he and Pete are dead, but the world is not, and because they’re dead too young and with too much unfinished business, they’ve decided to haunt the world together. 

Sometimes it’s pleasant: they spend afternoons in dappled sunshine, their legs crossed and their mouths sticky with each other’s spit. They’ve been learning, in this dream, about what’s left of their bodies. As ghosts, they don’t eat or shit or come. But their ghost-bodies can want, and it seems like each day is a new day of wanting. 

In this dream, Pete turns towards him, linking their hands together. 

“Are you okay?” 

Vegas nods. He knows what Pete means. Okay , as in good. Good as in serviceable. Serviceable as in—

A quicksilver smile. A smirk. Vegas covers Pete’s body with his own. 

Today they’ve decided on playing in the safehouse. It’s empty this time of year, perfect for two ghosts with only time to kill. And so they’ve spent the day fucking. In the morning Vegas strings Pete up into the ceiling—forces him to cry—tells him all the things he wants to do. Doesn’t Pete want to hurt? Doesn’t Pete want to be owned? Isn’t it great, like this, to spend forever with Vegas? 

Because it is great. Pete has nowhere to go. All Pete can do is cry and giggle and laugh and swallow what Vegas gives him. 

There is a part where he makes Pete crawl towards him. Where he spits into Pete’s mouth and has Pete beg to hold the spit just so . They pretend it’s cum. Vegas smears it along Pete’s chin. Tells him what a whore he is, that he’d do this for anyone, wouldn’t he? And he likes it when Pete cries because it reminds him of the way he himself cannot cry. He cannot cry, because he’s not supposed to. So Pete will cry for him, and he’ll make Pete cry so prettily—will tear him apart, make him hover along the edge of an orgasm that won’t come—and he’ll sink himself into that tight little hole and choke Pete with three fingers so that each room will echo with the sounds of Pete slobbering and sniffling and crying and wailing. 

This, Vegas thinks briefly, is how all of his dreams should go. 

But then there is another side to the dream. His father, too, is dead. And so sometimes his father appears. At some point, his father stands in the corner and watches. Silently. At first Vegas pretends his father isn’t there, hoping against hope that Pete doesn’t notice, except of course Pete sees him too. And of course his father has words for them—choice words about how fitting, it is, for Vegas to fuck not just a bodyguard but a bodyguard for the main family. He spits the words out like trash—a bodyguard for the main family —before Vegas tugs Pete away, slamming the door and wishing for a lock. 

But his father follows them. 

Each time he appears, he refuses to let go. Are ghosts supposed to haunt other ghosts? These are the dreams that make Vegas want to cry—to curl up against Pete and wait for it to be over, but the dream just continues, just goes on and on—

One time it goes like this: His father tells them what to do. He orders Vegas to strip Pete of his clothes, and suddenly Vegas does. It’s like he’s lost control of his body, a doubled sort of feeling—Has this happened before? Vegas swears it’s happened before, where he’s simply a worm in his own ghost-brain, a lowlife who can’t even—

“Now suck him off,” his father orders, and Vegas swallows Pete in one go. 

The tip of Pete’s cock brushes against the back of his throat. Vegas doesn’t look up. And then he looks up anyways, watching as Pete stares, open-mouthed and panting as Gun laughs, laughs at the both of them. 

“You’re desperate for it, aren’t you,” his father sneers, and he calls them impotent. Tells Pete to fuck Vegas’ mouth harder and faster and can’t you do it right? 

And when Pete is sobbing, begging for it to stop, saying things like please, and slower and Vegas , it only makes Gun laugh even harder. 

“More,” his father says, and Vegas sucks like a good boy, a good son, a good obedient weapon. A stone meant to whet a sword. That’s what he is. He hollows his throat and laps at the slit of Pete’s cock and tells himself that yes, this is what he wants, yes this is what he needs, yes—yes—

The joke, then, is that they can only stop. They can only start and they can stop but they can’t finish. And what kind of life is that? When his father finally lets them pause, Vegas finds himself cooking food for all of them. And when his father disappears, he finds himself tying Pete back up because this—this is his, now. 

“You’re mine,” he tells Pete grimly, glaring until Pete puts on the meekest face he has and nods—nods yes and then parrots it all back to Vegas. “I’m yours,” Pete says, and he opens his mouth, letting himself be fed like the worm Vegas feels himself to be. 

###

In the dream, there comes a time when Vegas knows his father must die. He isn’t sure how it’ll happen, but he becomes convinced of its necessity. They’re fucking again, him and Pete, and it’s when his father appears and watches that he arrives at the conclusion.  

“Tell him,” his father says as Vegas drives into Pete. They’re ankles-around shoulders, Pete’s ass snug around his cock. “Tell him about how you fucked Tawan.” 

Vegas falters—exhales. What is there to say, really? That Tawan was a good fuck but that Pete is better? That he likes how Pete knows—knows how awful, how twisted this all is, and that Pete will still get it up anyway? 

His father laughs. “It’s a joke.” He walks closer. Runs two fingers along Pete’s shoulder. Vegas bites back a shiver—a flinch. He can’t move unless he pulls out—and if he pulls out, he’ll be alone again, One soul in one body rather than two souls in—

“Tell me,” Pete whispers. His mouth curls. He doesn’t look at Gun—he only stares back at Vegas. And suddenly it’s as if they’re the only two people in the room. “Tell me, Vegas.” 

So Vegas does. But from the way Pete’s ankles dig into his throat, he knows—sure as anything—that this is the last straw. 

###

In Vegas’ dream, his father is dead. One shot to the forehead. He doesn’t know if it’s from him—doesn’t know anything except that his father’s eyes are open but his father is dead. Two seemingly contradictory facts. But they’re both true. 

“It’s him or me,” he hears. But the voice isn’t Pete’s or his father’s. 

Vegas turns. 

“It’s him or me,” Tawan says. He grins, a hollow shape. When Vegas looks around, they’re no longer in the main family’s compound—no longer at the safe house either. It’s an empty warehouse. And it’s just him and Tawan and the gun in his hand, and this time, when Vegas shoots, he’s sure—he’s sure as anything. Not you , he thinks. Not ever you . 

When he’s done—when the gun is done spitting bullets and Tawan is laying flat, body spackled into the cement—Vegas stands and sighs and leaves. 

He knows he doesn’t deserve it. But he goes anyways, because it’s all he knows in this life: how to search for something that won’t love him back, how to hurt someone in order so that they might see him, how to present himself as a monster dressed in the finest of furs, and he hopes—and he prays—and he clenches his fists and manifests Pete into being. 

Please , he thinks. Come , he thinks. 

And then the other thoughts: 

Take my hand. 

Let me own you.  

###

Vegas wakes. It’s real because when he thinks of his father a chill creeps up his gut. His father is dead. And he is alive. His mind feels blank; his body sluggish. But he’s back in the hospital bed, and it’s dark, and the room is velvet and silent and lush. Like this, Vegas knows he should drift back off to sleep. 

Perhaps the worst of it is over, he thinks. Perhaps his dreams will stop, perhaps his mind will quiet, perhaps he can finally grasp with both hands some semblance of normalcy. 

“Vegas—” 

A moan in the adjoining room. Vegas’ brain comes online, plays catch-up. Not Macau, not— 

Pete, then. 

He sits up. Makes way to the shared door. Opens it, and finds himself staring into the dark, into the whites of two eyes.

“Pete,” he croaks. When Pete doesn’t answer, he affects a carelessness he doesn’t possess. “If you can’t sleep, you may as well stay up with me.” 

He turns on his heel. Pete follows. 

They end up in the same bed: Vegas still in the hospital gown but Pete with his shirt off, pajama pants slung low along his hips. It’s the type of wordless understanding that only comes about in the dark. The shadows hide the details—the things someone like Pete would otherwise pick up on. The tremble in Vegas’ hands. The thinness in Vegas’ voice. When Vegas reaches over—when he slings a hand across Pete’s chest—Pete only exhales and shifts closer, as if even that category of touch were an invitation. 

“Well?” Pete whispers. Five fingers dance across Vegas’ forearm, running rivers up and down the wrist. 

Vegas grunts. But the touches don’t stop. Pete shifts—body turning—until his chin is nestled along Vegas’ shoulder. And then he moves Vegas’ arm, settling it by his hip, before laying still once more. 

For a while, neither of them speak. Vegas keeps his face tilted up, towards the ceiling. But he knows Pete is watching him. Can hear each blink, each clump of lashes brushing skin. He could just—

Five fingers again, except this time they’re more tentative. More circuitous. They find skin. They tug along the hospital gown, as if loosening a ghost from Vegas’ body. And then the warmth of a palm, stamp-rolling its way from Vegas’ chest all the way down to his hip—his—

“You have to tell me,” Pete whispers. “You have to tell me how you want me.” 

Vegas swallows. He wavers. How much can one man take, in the end? He can’t tell—can’t know for sure what he’s done to Pete—what he’s taken, what he’s spat out. What did he leave in the forest? And what has he left here? 

“I want you,” he says, and though the words sound flimsy to his ears, the palm along his cock firms, becoming a statement rather than a question. A declaration. 

“Like this?” Pete says. 

Vegas nods. 

The sound of a smile. “What else do you want?” 

Vegas snorts. “Hungry so soon?” But he’s already thinking. He does want more. He’s injured, yes, but he doesn’t need to fuck Pete to own him. He doesn’t need to hold Pete down, face pressed into the pillows, a steady hand on that slight neck, for Pete to understand what he’s chosen. Vegas doesn’t even need to get off for it to be true. 

“Get on top of me,” he whispers, and Pete clambers up, knees hugging Vegas’ waist. It’s clumsy yet calculated: the kind of thing a man would do while offering himself up as a wanted thing, as an animal Vegas might crush out of comfort. 

Vegas says nothing. But he holds Pete, right there, watching as Pete sways slightly. Yes, he thinks. Pete has chosen this. And now it’s his time to choose. 

“Keep your pants on,” he says. He arches a brow at Pete’s grunt of dismay. “It’s either this or nothing. Did you think you had a choice?” 

“No,” Pete says. He lowers his gaze.  

Vegas grins. “Now, one hand on your throat. The other on your cock.” 

Pete whines, a rolling sound. Vegas ignores it. “No,” he says when Pete stutters—pauses. “You’re not allowed to touch skin. Hold your cock through your pants. There you go. Slowly—yes—like that.” 

Vegas settles himself into the bed. Drinks in the view: Pete with his lips caught in his teeth, his eyes shut and then wide open. Vegas presses his thumb into one slight hip until he knows the touch will bruise. He’s hard—he wants to bend Pete over—wants to chain him up and make him cry, wants to spread Pete out, wants to make him beg to be used. 

He schools himself. Soon. 

For now, he strokes his way along the other hip. The tattoo. Then claws at it and waits for Pete’s cry. “You’re just a hole,” he grunts, because he wants Pete to know. To swallow the fact, the unchangeability of it. “You’re a fucking hole, and you’re mine.” 

He makes Pete fuck himself like this: slowly, and then all at once. He makes sure to give direction because he’s feeling generous. Makes sure it’s specific, so that Pete won’t have to think. “Like this,” he says, and he tugs on Pete’s thumb, slaps at Pete’s cock. He makes Pete rub himself through the thick cotton, makes Pete run a finger down the length before giving it another slap, makes Pete call himself small, call himself dirty and needy and whorish, until the only sound that fills the room is the fabric slicking itself into a second skin and Pete’s shuddering breaths. 

“You like it, don’t you?” he says as Pete begins to hiccup. Pete nods desperately. “Please,” he says, “Please, I need to—” 

“Come?” Vegas shakes his head. “Puppy, I'll tell you when you’ll come. You’re not allowed to without….” He pauses. Arches a brow. 

“Puppy?” 

“Permission,” Pete gasps. “I’m not allowed to come without your permission.” 

Vegas nods. Good. As a reward, he plasters his own hand around Pete’s wrist. Steers it down and then up the length of cock once more, watching as Pete heaves—sweats—trembles. 

For a moment, Vegas thinks about the dream he had—some wispy thing where Pete swallowed his gun. He thinks Pete would like that—files it away for later, when he’s better and when Pete’s been bad—or maybe when Pete’s been good. He doesn’t know. He just knows he wants Pete—wants Pete this very minute, wants him so badly that his want is a phosphorescent thing, an exorbitant thing, a thing that makes him want to ruin Pete until all that’s left is wrecked, obedient crying.  

“You should come,” he finally says, and Pete comes with a cry—muttering something intelligible, two syllables too dangerously close to Vegas’ name—before falling forward. 

Vegas smiles. Pets at the damp hair, the soaked forehead. “Good pet,” he says, watching as Pete folds and unfolds, his breathing evening out, his body sticky against Vegas’. 

“I am,” Pete whispers after a while, and Vegas laughs. 

“Yes,” he says, closing his eyes. “Yes, you are.” 

###

A pre-dawn conversation, one that Vegas will only vaguely remember: 

“Why—why do you want this?” he whispers.

Pete shifts. “Does it matter? Maybe I like it. Or maybe because I’m crazy.”

Their elbows touch. Vegas tries not to focus on the single spot of warmth. The hum of the air conditioner buzzes around them, a veil of sound.  

“Did you know,” Pete whispers, “that the first time you woke up, you told me I was your most precious person? You said I didn’t have to be your pet.” 

Vegas snorts, suddenly grateful for the darkness. “Was Macau there? He must have thought I’d gone insane.” 

“He did.” A pointed silence. And then: “But what if I want both?” 

Vegas weighs his words.  

“A person and a pet—that’s a lot, isn’t it?” 

A huff. “I told you I was crazy.” 

Vegas laughs. “Maybe you are.”

The dark holds them tightly before letting go, and the voice in Vegas’ head—the one that tells him that he deserves nothing—that all he’s good for is bleach and rot—that all he needs to do is hold a gun to become one—

The voice, Vegas realizes, isn’t entirely true. 

###

He recovers quickly. It’s as if someone has flipped a switch. The dreams no longer plague him. And slowly, his memories return, disentangling themselves from the fog of pain.

Pete continues to tend to him. He’s neat. He knows more about stitches—about the way things hurt—than Vegas is willing to press. In the mornings he wipes Vegas clean with smooth, efficient strokes. Sometimes he hums something tuneless as he checks on each injury, taking extra care with the ones he’d given Vegas: the bullet along the arm, the cracked cheekbone. Sometimes Macau visits, but he tends to keep away. The boy had never been good with pain—had always winced in the face of Gun’s anger. 

Well, Vegas considers, at least he no longer has to worry about that.   

Korn visits him the week before he’s discharged. 

Pete stands in the corner—a visual reprisal of his former role—something that neither Vegas nor Korn fail to notice. Vegas watches as Korn eyes Pete, giving him the sort of onceover that makes Vegas wonder whether it’s because he’s imagining all the things that Vegas must have done to Pete—all the things that Vegas had done to all the other bodyguards sent into the minor family’s compound. 

The thought makes him feel oddly protective. He glares as Korn pulls up a chair.   

“What do you want?” he spits out. 

Korn ignores the question. Silently he sets up a chessboard on the table by the bed. Dangles two kings before them. 

“White or black?” 

Vegas grits his teeth. “Neither,” he says. “I’m not your son.” 

Korn shrugs. “Of course you’re not,” he says calmly. Vegas swallows. He’s used to the way his father conveys contempt: through touch. A shove. The press of a thumb along a nerve. But Korn just watches him as if he weren’t even worth the effort. 

“Well?” Vegas says, knowing that he’s failing a test of sorts. He pushes away the chessboard. Scatters the pieces onto the floor. Korn doesn’t even blink. 

“I simply wanted to offer my condolences,” Korn says after a pause—after Vegas feels himself flush like a boy and ball up his fists. But then Korn turns away to give Pete another long, deliberate look.

“Well?”  

Pete walks over. 

“On your knees,” Korn says quietly, and Pete bends down. Knees to the floor. Methodically, he hands each fallen piece back to Korn. And when it’s done—when it’s over—Korn presses one leather boot to the small of Pete’s back. 

“Not so fast. I thought we had taught you better than that, Pete.” He gives Vegas a small smile before winking. “You’ll have to forgive this one. For so long, he’s served our family. I didn’t realize our lessons would fade so soon.” 

He begins to reset the board, foot never moving. He waves at the pieces. 

“Here, you can start with White.” 

Vegas props himself up. He doesn’t want to, but what choice does he have? Pete stays kneeling, his face in shadow. But his elbows are tensed. He is immovable. There’s no point—no point in acting out when all Korn has to do is stomp down—

“Fine,” Vegas says. 

He moves the first piece. 

###

It takes eight moves for Korn to win, and even then it’s clear that he could have won earlier. 

“Giuoco Piano,” he says, toppling Vegas’ King. “The Quiet Game. You should consider opening with it next time.” 

Vegas gives him a thin smile. “Of course.” And then because Korn doesn’t move—and because he can hear Pete’s breathing, the way it’s become a heavy, dull pattern, he nods at Korn’s boot. “Is there anything….” 

And here it is: another game he’s lost. Korn shifts, nudging Pete along the ribs with the tip of his boot. Pete gasps. 

“That’s all,” Korn says magnanimously. He comes to a stand. Nods at the both of them: Pete still bowed and Vegas helpless. “Just wanted to check in on my brother’s son.”  

When the door shuts—when the click signals that the afternoon is over—Vegas tries not to flinch.  

###

He pulls Pete towards the bed once Korn’s footsteps fade away. For several minutes, he has Pete stand silently with his pants pulled down to his knees. 

“Bowing so easily to Korn,” he snaps. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” He yanks Pete close. Spits and then smears it across Pete’s chin. Cups Pete’s cock like it’s nothing—like it’s nothing to either of them. 

“You think I’d fuck a traitor?” 

Pete stays wordless. His eyes are shut, squeezed tight. 

“No,” he whispers. He sounds like he’s on the edge of tears. But his lips curl, flexing their way towards a smile. 

“You like this don’t you,” Vegas says darkly. He feels monstrous, too small and too large for his body, for the bed he’s had to make home. He circles Pete’s wrist; clamps down on bone.  

“Whose pet are you really?”  

Pete stills. His face wipes itself blank. But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t pull up his pants and turn around and slam the door and leave Vegas alone. He stays, shrinking until it’s as if he’s the shorter, slighter, more harmless one. 

It only makes Vegas angrier—more frustrated. Look at us, he wants to say. You with your dick out. Me with my back bared to the world. Did you think for a moment that I’d be able to protect you? That I’d be able to protect you from him ? 

He wrenches Pete close until their foreheads knock together. 

“Strip,” he says, and Pete obeys. It’s sexless. Efficient. It’s the opposite of satisfying, and Vegas knows it—knows it as he tweaks a nipple and pinches it. But still Pete remains silent—breathing through his nose as Vegas has him scramble onto the bed and spread his legs.

It’s only when Vegas gives Pete’s cock a half-hearted flick that the silence breaks. The sob is small and unripe and contained.

Vegas grimaces. He gives the cock a harder slap. “This,” he says in his most casual voice. “Look at this. It isn’t even yours.” He waits for Pete’s face to crack. Goes on when it doesn’t. “What do you even use this for? As if you could even fuck with it.” 

Pete whimpers. There we go. Vegas kisses him again. Uses his teeth. Snarls into the strip of skin behind Pete’s ear until he can taste sweat. “As if I’d even let you use it.” 

And there it is: another whimper, a sob. “Shut up ,” Vegas says, his rage flickering. He doesn’t know—doesn’t know how to feel—doesn’t know why Pete likes this, why Pete’s still hard, why Pete’s still fucking here . 

“Look at me,” he says, and Pete snaps to attention.  

“I could fuck you,” Vegas says quietly, “I could fuck you on every surface of this room and the only thing you’d be allowed to say is please and thank you .” He lowers his voice, drumming his fingers along the bend of Pete’s knee, where it’s still pink from his time on the floor. 

“I don’t even have to let you come. You’re just a pet. A plaything.” He kisses Pete along the side of the mouth. It’s still stuck halfway between the shape of a smile or a snarl. “You look good like this,” he breathes. “My puppy.” 

In the end, he has Pete jack himself off. Makes Pete stop right before he comes to give the cock another hot slap—and then forces Pete to come without touching himself. Has Pete fuck the air—has Pete beg for it until cum arcs its way across his chest and Pete’s thighs. And then he has Pete lap it up. Has Pete nod when he calls him good and good puppy and good boy and has Pete say please and thank you and sorry.

He doesn’t realize until afterwards that Pete hasn’t once said his name. The truth of it hurtles through his chest when Pete tucks himself into his armpit. They’re marinating in their own sweat—their own smell–their bodies. Vegas feels insane for it. He feels mad. 

Pete must think of me as a monster , is his first thought, but it’s closely followed by a second, more potent one: Pete must really like monsters to have chosen to stay . 

###

For a while they’re silent. Pete retreats to the adjoining room under the guise of cleaning himself. But Vegas knows that it isn’t just that. What they did—did they cross a line, just now? Part of him wants to apologize; the other part wants to block it out entirely. If only Pete could just understand. 

Against all odds, Pete joins him after the shower. He makes Vegas stand by the bed while he changes the sheets. Vegas leans along the dresser, and then—when Pete offers a hand—they fall into bed together. Their legs briefly tangle, and for a moment it’s as if they’re something much sweeter than they are. A picture of another couple—two people who must really—

Vegas doesn’t even try to finish the thought. 

By now the room has darkened, turned indigo. It’s twilight. The moon peeks through the blinds, turning Pete silver along the nose. 

“I know,” Pete says. His chin is sharp, digging its way through the last of Vegas’ bandages. Vegas shifts for a better view. 

“What do you know?” 

Pete huffs, his hair fluttering. 

“I already know you’re sorry,” he says. He pats at the pillow by Vegas’ head and shrugs himself up until their mouths meet. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t. But I know. You’re sorry.” 

Vegas swallows. 

“Sure,” he says. He finds Pete’s nose. Traces the light with his tongue. “Sure,” he says again. “So what if I am.” 

###

The minor family compound is nearly empty upon his return. Fewer than a dozen men remain, though according to Pete, Porsche will be hiring more soon. 

“For now, Kinn has agreed to lend the minor family—Porsche—his own forces,” Pete reports solemnly. He’d spent all afternoon on the phone with Porsche as Vegas gathered the few things left in the hospital room. Now, they briskly unpack. Vegas tries to keep the frown off his face. None of this surprises him. He’s effectively defanged, after all: no father, no ring, no men. Only an empty house and a man who used to belong to another. But he’s played against worse odds—knows, in his heart, that his father did too. 

But can he trust Pete? Vegas toys with the idea of telling him the seed of the plan that’s emerged. He very nearly does the first night they spend together, alone in a house too big for just the two of them. Their footsteps echo; their moans too. And when they’re silent once more, Vegas opens his mouth. 

“Pete,” he says, “about Korn—” 

He knows Pete is awake—knows from the stillness of his shoulders. But all at once Vegas freezes up. 

Pete shifts, waiting. But Vegas shakes his head. Buries his nose in Pete’s hair instead. He can at least have this. 

“Never mind.” 

The next morning, he slips out of the complex after assigning Pete a list of errands: food, laundry, provisions—all things that his own men once took care of. And as Pete busies himself with the kitchen, Vegas walks his bike behind half a dozen alleyways before revving his way down a familiar path. 

Tankhun accosts him first, in a bright fuschia coat, as if oblivious to the heat. He clucks his tongue as Vegas nears the glass paneled doors, the wide sheltered driveway. Looks over his sunglasses with an exaggerated gasp. 

“You!” he points. “I thought Pete would have killed you by now.” 

Vegas shrugs. “You’d be surprised.” 

Tankhun frowns disapproval. “I could have our guards take you right now,” he threatens, but there’s no bite to his tone. For all that Korn invests in security, Vegas sees not one fitted suit in the vicinity. He raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t think Chan will be coming to save you anytime soon.” 

“Who said I need Chan when I still have Arm?” Tankkhun throws Vegas a dirty look. But again, there’s little malice. It only makes Vegas all the more alert—all the more humiliated. He must really pose no threat anymore, for Tankhun to treat him like nothing more than a pest. 

“Well?” Tankhun says, folding his arms. He circles Vegas and the motorcycle once, twice, clucking his tongue again the entire time, before leaning on the handlebars and blowing bubblegum breath into Vegas’ face. “What are you here for?” 

“To see Porsche.” 

“Porsche?” Tankhun gives him a dubious look. But he must be in a good mood, because suddenly he claps once—twice—and a guard materializes out of nowhere. 

“Send for Porsche,” Tankhun says breezily. 

And before Vegas can say anything—before he can even pretend to ignore the small kindness—Tankhun floats away. “Send my love to Pete,” he says singsong. 

Vegas can only nod. 

###

The moment they lock eyes, Porsche frowns. 

“I’m beginning to think I’m unwanted,” Vegas says in an attempt at levity, but Porsche only shakes his head and leads him into the gardens. 

“Back here,” he says, barely moving his lips. “Korn has cameras set up everywhere.” 

Vegas ducks his head under a branch and then wades through what must be an entire row of prize orchids, before Porsche stops behind the thickest of willow trees. 

“Here—this should work.” 

“Here?” Vegas looks around, spying at least three different lenses, each aimed at where they stand. “Are you sure Kinn won’t—” 

Porsche makes a face. “Arm controls the cameras on this end of the property; anything I don’t want anyone else to see, he’ll swap out.” 

Vegas nods. “Good to know.” 

“Well? What is it?” Porsche presses out the pleat of his pants. Wealth—luxury—looks good on him. Vegas lets his eyes linger until Porsche shifts uncomfortably. “I imagine you didn’t just come here to say hello.” 

Vegas dips his head. Fine. If Porsche wants to jump straight to business, then so be it. 

“It’s about Korn,” he says quietly. “There are things I’ve found out about the woman in the photo—the woman in the attic.” 

Porsche blinks. “You mean my mother,” he says dully. 

Vegas takes a deep breath. As he’d thought. “Yes,” he says smoothly. “About your mother.” 

###

He takes up Porsche’s offer for a cigarette break before leaving. Together, they sit along one of the garden walls, drinking in the sun. Vegas lets himself believe—wonder—for just a little bit, how different his life would be had the circumstances of his birth changed. Maybe this would be his too. 

He swallows a snort. No, he’d probably be dead. 

All too soon they’re back along the driveway. Porsche runs a finger along the length of the bike. There was a time, once, Vegas thinks—

Porsche grins. He’s likely thinking the same thing, but ultimately he only claps Vegas’ back. “Just treat Pete well, alright?”  

Vegas shrugs. “You don’t need to remind me.”

The ride back: Vegas takes a longer route, winding through the crowded markets, the unctuous back alleys. Just a few months ago, this part of the city had been his—his birthright. He might have been in the minor family—he may have been Gun’s son—but he still held power in both hands, in both fists. 

And now he’s simply Vegas. Even his name means nothing anymore. Riding through these streets feels more like defeat than anything else. 

###

Pete welcomes him back with a rueful grin. 

“I tried making lunch,” he says apologetically. He’s tied an apron around his waist. Two fingers press against the fabric in studied nervousness. Vegas chuckles.  

“What happened?” 

“I couldn’t get the noodles the way you like them. I hope you’re okay with store-bought.” 

Vegas smiles. For a moment he’d thought Pete would have made note of his absence. But this is good too. Perhaps he won’t have to hide much if Pete won’t pry. 

He presses a kiss to Pete’s neck.  

“It’s no problem at all.” 

They spend the rest of the day lounging. Pete begins neatening each room, exclaiming over the state of the kitchens, the mess hall, the darkened rooms. 

“We don’t have maids, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Vegas says after Pete begins to grumble about the dim lighting and all the things that he’ll need to fix up. Vegas tries not to feel a creeping sense of—nostalgia, probably. His men used to take turns cleaning the shared spaces. Gun had thought it character building, but Vegas had known the truth: they couldn’t afford it. But they still had to keep up appearances then, and it was out of sheer loyalty that the men agreed. 

And now it’s been nearly two months. The kitchen smells of rot—of overripe produce. The remaining cook had fled just a few weeks before, when the yakuza had come knocking to frighten away any remaining staff. This, apparently, is something that Porsche will address, but Vegas can read the writing on the wall. At best, the compound will become nothing more than an extension of the main complex. Maybe Korn will simply use these rooms as meeting halls—as guest residences for his more dangerous business partners, the ones he can’t trust to share the same space.  

By late afternoon, the hospital sends a woman to help with his physical therapy. For an hour Vegas feels as if his shoulders are being ripped from his back. It’s good pain—it means he’s getting better, recovering his range of motion—but it’s all he can do to keep himself from twisting around and showing her out. 

Afterwards, he finds Pete. 

“What took you so long?” Pete says, and that’s all he’s able to before Vegas has him pinned to the floor. They fuck, bodies doubling in the evening heat. Pete’s skin: sticky, too soft from his days guarding Tankhun. He parts his legs easily, his head rolled back. 

“Mine,” Vegas says, and Pete nods, mewls, makes all the sounds that Vegas likes hearing. It’s satisfying. Vegas chases Pete’s mouth until Pete gives in, and then they’re tongue against tongue, two spent cocks rutting against each other. 

“You smell like orchids,” Pete says dreamily when they part for air. He sits up and hauls himself to the bed, his head dangling off the footboard. Like this, it’s almost as if they’ve gone back in time, their positions reversed, back when the only death that concerned Vegas was that of a hedgehog. The only smell in his nose: Pete’s sweat, and the forest outside. 

Vegas smooths out his face. He should’ve showered when he returned. If Pete can piece it together—

What the hell, he thinks. 

“I’m seeing Porsche tonight,” he says absently. 

“Again?” 

Vegas raises a brow. “I didn’t realize you’d followed me.” 

Even upside-down, Pete gives him a wry look. He twists around, rubbing the heel of his palm along a knot in Vegas’ shoulder. 

“I smelled him on you the minute you came back.” 

Of course. Vegas nods. “After this,” he says, “if this works, then I’ll have bought us time.”

“Time for—?” 

“Did you think we’d be free of this life forever? I may not lead the minor family, but I still share its name. I’m not out of the game just yet.”

Vegas grunts as Pete hits a sore spot. Would Pete do the same, if their positions were switched? For a few minutes, they stay silent.  

“At least let me dress you,” Pete finally says. 

###

Vegas doesn’t expect Pete to make a production out of dressing him, but he does. 

“Here,” Pete says, pouring a glass of—vintage? red that Vegas can’t identify. Pete has him buttoning himself into something silky and printed. When he sips the wine goes down like a sunburn: scorching, hot, and sweet. He coughs. 

Pete preens over him for the next hour. Every so often Pete fills his glass. It’s cute, Vegas thinks. Pete must assume he’s nervous—that the alcohol will do the trick. 

“You know,” he says, shrugging on a proffered blazer. “You’re quite good at this.” 

A bright laugh. “Are you surprised?” 

Vegas shakes his head, hiding a grin. “No,” he says. “Just an observation.” 

In reality, he’s too—too busy feeling good to be surprised. He feels attended to. How long has it been since he’s been the center of someone’s attention like this? It’s warm, and his knees are loose; his mouth feels bitten and red. He looks at the both of them in the mirror. Pete wedges his chin along his neck from behind. One hand presses along the injured shoulder in a tight circle until Vegas winces. 

“Mine,” Pete whispers.

It’s only then that Vegas realizes the trick—the sleight of hand—the sureness in Pete’s eyes. 

“You drugged me.” 

Pete nods. “I’m a bad pet, aren’t I?” He sounds resigned, but his eyes are lampblack and fathomless. “But I’m the better one to do the job.” He gives Vegas a look that could almost be regretful, and Vegas tries to reach out—stumbles—

“Hey, now,” Pete says. A low murmur. The room spins. Vegas feels as if he’s floating, as if he’s one entire pulsing bruise, just ready and waiting for a pulse, for a touch—

Carefully, Pete removes the empty wine glass from his hands. And then he slips onto a tidy pair of slacks. A shirt. It figures, Vegas thinks hazily, that Pete would have had this planned from the very beginning. 

“Are you sure you can do this?” he manages to ask. 

Pete nods. He turns, crouching down to cradle Vegas’ face before slipping a cushion underneath his cheek. In a mild voice, he says, “I would kill for you, you know.” 

Vegas chuckles. He should be furious, but whatever Pete has given him has him feeling slow and honeyed. Obedient. A little horny. He opens up one thigh. “You should at least ride me when you come back,” he says, and he’s thankful when Pete ignores how the words come out in a croak, too thin and too needy. 

Pete only gives him a darker, more promising look. 

“Of course,” he says, and then all Vegas sees is the back of his eyelids—the color of a throat—the color of the inside of Pete’s mouth, Pete’s tongue, Pete’s hole—

###

In the dream, he’s kissing Pete and there is no gun in sight. There’s danger looming, though. If he opens his eyes wide he can spot a gathering storm past the window and the gardens and the horizon. But the bed is comfortable and Pete’s skin is so warm—so smooth—that Vegas can’t do anything but focus on the chest, the cock, the set of hips in front of him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and Pete laughs. 

“Isn’t this good?” 

It is good. It’s as if Pete knows exactly what he needs. When Vegas runs one finger down a thigh, Pete obediently lets the other drop open. When Vegas thumbs a nipple, Pete arches up-up-up. When Vegas nips at the tender part of an armpit, Pete giggles—whispers— “You can shave them again if you want.” 

So they’re like this, then. They’re fitting together. Vegas wishes he could pause the moment, and then as if by will, time itself thickens, coheres. Every cell of his body tingles. Every edge where their bodies touch vibrates. It’s like he’s back in the forest, surrounded by a million different gasping leaves, each breathing out the smell of his own wanting. Evergreen and sweet summer blood, green and liquid and sticky. 

“Do you like this?” Pete asks, and his black eyes are coy, his smile wry. 

Vegas nods. 

“I do.” 

### 

He wakes up as he’s being ridden. A hand—Pete’s—along his jaw. But all he feels is a tight hole, swallowing up his cock. He almost whimpers. Manages to swallow it and snap his hips up instead. 

“Fuck,” he says. 

For a while, Pete says nothing. He keeps fucking Vegas. The only sounds he makes are soft grunts. His other hand is—his other hand is holding Vegas’ arm in place, but it’s slick. When Vegas breathes in he smells a telltale metallic scent. But he doesn’t press. Doesn’t need to. He knows, in a way, what Pete is capable of. And perhaps this is simply Pete reminding him. 

They continue fucking. Every so often Pete raises his hips, then slams all the way down. A punctuation in between the gentle rocking rhythm. If Pete notices the way Vegas pants—the way he begins to strain—the way he fists the sheets—he says nothing. Pete only rocks forwards, slotting their bodies together, until it’s truly as if they were a single creature: a set of bellows, in-in-in, out-out-out. 

“Would you kill for me?” Pete asks, his body shuddering. He’s sweating, finally. Proof, at least, that he’s not unaffected. He shudders again, squeezing Vegas with his insides. It’s filthy—gentle–clean. Vegas grips him. Nearly chokes him. Then grins, hoping that Pete can see at least his teeth—at least the smile—in the blackness. 

“The question is,” Vegas says, “is whether you would.” 

Pete nods. He nods again with another squeeze and Vegas stutters—gasps—sips in air as if it’s too much, until it truly is too much. He tries to buck—tries to fuck into Pete harder, but Pete makes a noise of dissent, pressing down-down-down. 

And then he covers Vegas’ hands with his own and the only thing—the only thing he says before he comes is—

“Do it. Hurt me.” 

Vegas comes. 

###

Morning: Pete wakes Vegas up with a slow brush of his hand along the cheek. Vegas turns towards the warmth.  His mouth feels puffy, slack, and dry. They’d fallen asleep without cleaning up: their arms are glued together, thighs too. 

“How did it go?” he says. They can’t be more than an hour past dawn. All around him the room is golden, flooded with light. 

Pete nods into his neck. “A truce,” he says. “Porsche will speak with Kinn. He still doesn’t trust you—” He must roll his eyes when Vegas chuckles. “ —and for good reason.” Idly, he tucks away the hair by Vegas’ ear. Runs a finger down Vegas’ throat. 

“But it sounds like Kinn is having a good time playing honeymoon,” he continues. “He’s decided to be generous. Porsche and I will act as go-betweens for the both of you. Neither of you will meet, but the both of you will set the terms of any future deals. The complex too—Porsche will hold the pen, but you’ll negotiate the terms. If anyone has a problem with the minor family’s deals, you’ll have free reign to remind them of who you are.”

Vegas raises his brows. For a moment he wonders what Pete must have said for the negotiations to tip so far in his favor. 

“And Korn?” 

A huff. “That part too. Kinn agrees with you. But for now we’ll lay low. Kinn is working on buying his own informants. There’s nothing we can do if Korn remains in control of both information and capital. Until we have leverage…”

“Of course.” So they’re all on the same team again. “Is that it?” 

Pete shifts, sitting up. “There is one more thing,” he says, and he pulls Vegas along, dragging them both into the bathroom until they’re both soaked, gasping. Their skin slick and slippery. Pete presses an open-mouthed kiss to Vegas’ temple. 

“Doesn’t a good pet deserve a reward?” he says softly. 

Vegas eyes him. “You do,” he says. Because it’s true, though they still have a ways to go. Korn is alive. His father is dead. Neither Pete nor he have actual power in the games around them. 

But here: his body against Pete’s—doesn’t Pete deserve a reward? Don’t they both? 

Pete thrusts a sponge into Vegas’ hands. 

“Here,” he says, his voice soft and good and dangerous. “Tell me how you’d clean your pet.” 

Vegas does. 

###

And Vegas does again. 

###

And he does again. 

###

The minor family’s complex is empty again. Vegas winds his arms around Pete, tracing the purple set of his thumb prints around Pete’s neck, the pulsing jugular, the thin wrists, the calves. All the ways he could hurt Pete, he points them out. 

“You start with the throat,” Vegas says. His mouth makes it sound reverent. And from the way Pete’s eyes gleam—from the way he bends into the touch—it is. Silently—almost inevitably—Pete throws his head back, one hand already crawling past sternum and clavicle to find the swell of his throat. 

“There you go,” Vegas whispers. It’s the safest he’s ever felt. Not in a forest or in a dream or in his head. But here: his hands around another’s. His skin against another’s. His cock—

“There you go. Show me how it hurts.”