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Pete is way too drunk, and it's way too late, and the fact that he's still here, sitting with Porsche on the bar stools at Hum Bar and nursing a Cosmopolitan is a sign of everything that's wrong with the world.
"Come on," Porsche says, wrapping his freakishly long arm around Pete's shoulders and shaking him gently, to make Pete get on his feet.
It's quite the project. Sliding his ass off the stool, making his legs support his weight, a lot is going on and Pete barely has the coordination to make it all happen.
The last time he was this drunk Porsche had managed to get Tankhun out of the house for the first time in two decades.
They smoke outside. The air is humid and warm, gross after the aircon inside, but it helps clear his head a bit. The cigarette feels good. He's tried to quit a few times over the past several years, but somehow, eventually, he always ends up lighting up again.
"I need to know, Pete," Porsche says, puffing on his own without any seeming guilt or regret. Pete still can't believe the new head of the Theerapanyakul empire hasn't forced, bribed or emotionally blackmailed him into quitting.
"What do you need to know?" Pete slurs, both of them leaning against the wall, not looking at each other.
"Is it... are things getting worse, with him?" Porsche asks, slowly. "You have to tell me, because I have resources now, Pete. I can help, you wouldn't even need to--"
Porsche stops talking when Pete's giggle turns into a full throated laugh, so much that he can't hold the cigarette anymore and it falls to the ground, a bright spark on the pavement.
He almost crumples from the laughter, but manages to calm down enough to stay upright in the end.
He wipes his eyes and looks over to see Porsche's cautious expression.
"So things are just fucking perfect, is that what you're telling me?" Porsche asks.
Pete sighs, getting his breath back. "Are they perfect back at the tower?"
Porsche inhales the smoke for a long moment. "Fair point."
"He tried to spank me," Pete says, reaching out a hand for another smoke, with Porsche provides from his pack. Pete doesn't have one of his own these days, part of his quitting strategy. "He thinks... he thinks spanking is something that would work for us." He can't help a giggle.
"We tried that," Porsche says, handing over a lighter. "It was fun."
Pete hums. "I tried to blow him, smooth things over, it got a little rough, which I liked. He... didn't react well."
"Did he..." Porsche starts and it's clear to Pete from his expression that the next words are going to be about violence. If only Pete were so lucky.
"He locked himself in the the other bedroom," Pete says, because it's technically only Macau's room a few times a year.
"For how long?" Porsche asks after a pause.
Pete shrugs. "I hope he's out by now."
Porsche's eyebrows climb up for a brief moment, before he gets his face under control, and then they spend a long moment just being quiet, with the music from the bar as faint background noise. Porsche doesn't usually chain smoke but Pete thinks that right now he'd stay out here and finish a whole pack if Pete wanted to drag it out.
He shouldn't be telling Porsche any of this. It's feels too private and vulnerable and sacred, even with too much colorful alcohol in his bloodstream. But who is he supposed to talk to? His grandma? The other guys he used to work with, most of whom are dead now?
And who does Vegas have, if Pete has Porsche?
"You wanna sleep over?" Porsche asks, finally. "Plenty of extra room."
Pete doesn't ask which house Porsche means - the one he's running or the one where he usually spends his nights.
Pete sighs, closing his eyes. "I want another drink."
Porsche makes a humming noise, as if considering the proposal. "I'll allow it. But then I'm cutting you off."
"You don't work here anymore," Pete says, taking another drag and feeling like the smoke is starting to make him nauseous.
"One drink, and for every additional one after that you have to spend an hour listening to Kinn complain about quarterly reports," Porsche says.
Pete smiles. He's done that, actually. It was terrible even when he was invisible, like the furniture, and could tune it all out.
*
The problem is, he can hear P'Chan's voice in the back of his mind, scolding him for losing himself like this. For being sloppy, disorganized, for not having a plan, not having a clear idea of what he wants.
The problem is, P'Chan is dead.
Vegas is in the kitchen when Pete comes in at 3am, only half drunk now. He got out of the taxi thirty minutes away from home and walked the rest of the way. The confined space was making him feel woozy. He thought a walk would clear his head. Mostly it felt like he was begging for someone to attack him. He was wearing a nice watch that Vegas had given him, his wallet had some cash in it and was protruding slightly from his back pocket. He was alone and clearly drunk, in the middle of the night. Either a tourist or a careless rich boy, or both.
If only someone had tried. He could have taken care of himself, even in his current state his training would be enough against some desperate pickpocket. If only someone had tried and Pete could have gotten in a fight, hit something, gotten punched or kicked, had the daylights knocked out of him, gotten a concussion...
He doesn't go any further than the kitchen. He manages to get the door closed behind him, and then there's no reason to move anymore. Vegas is here, the entire apartment smells like something delicious and savory, and Pete slowly sinks to the floor where he stands.
He can hear Vegas walk closer to him, slowly and quietly, bare feet on the tile, and then just as slowly crouch down.
Vegas doesn't put his arms around him, doesn't force Pete to look at him. Everything is still and quiet until Pete looks up himself, and sees that Vegas is holding out a glass of water.
"You look thirsty," Vegas says.
Pete is parched, actually. He hasn't had anything but cocktails in hours and the walk home made him work up a sweat. He drinks the water, cool from the fridge, until the glass is empty, and hands it back.
Vegas disappears for a moment, and then he's back. This time they're both on their knees, and Vegas' head comes to rest on Pete's shoulder. "You smell like a party," Vegas says. "I kind of like it."
Pete huffs out a laugh. "I should shower."
"Let me help," Vegas says, and rises smoothly to his feet, pulling Pete along by the arm.
They have a shower and a bath - it was the one thing Vegas had insisted on, when he was given his new marching orders by his cousins - and Vegas opts for the shower. Pete doesn't think he'd be able to get up again if they went for the bath. He'd probably fall asleep in there and wake up tomorrow.
But a shower means standing up, which is doable. Vegas helps him strip off his smoke-drenched clothes, leans Pete against the cool glass of the shower stall and washes his back and shoulders.
Pete smells the soap Vegas is using, a new brand Pete bought last week, and thinks about what he saw in the kitchen. It looked like Vegas was in the middle of cooking a meal for ten people. He'd gotten more and more into cooking since he recovered enough to move around, especially when Macau was home, but Pete had never seen anything like that. He must have been cooking for hours. Their kitchen was pretty small - how many dishes had Vegas hidden in the fridge or the freezer?
Vegas washes Pete's hair, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. It feels nice and relaxing. However Pete thought this night would end, he didn't think it would be like this. Like nothing had happened between them, like everything was soft and cozy and warm, like the steam over the bathroom mirror.
By the time they're both clean Pete feels more like himself. He towels off, and Vegas does too, before leading Pete into the bedroom.
Pete thinks they'll go to sleep now, he goes to the dresser to get a pair of boxers, but Vegas stops him.
Instead he digs through the back of the closet, through a small black velvet sack that's one of the few things Vegas brought here from the minor family compound.
"Can you get a pillow from the living room?" Vegas asks, and Pete stares for another confused moment before complying. There are three decorative pillows on the sofa, all in shades of black and dark blue. They're rectangles, like smaller versions of the actual pillows they sleep on.
"Just put it down on the floor," Vegas says, still looking through the back of the closet, when Pete returns.
"I don't think sleeping down here is going to help anything," Pete says, letting the pillow fall in a random spot. He wants the softness of a bed tonight, whatever Vegas has on his mind.
Vegas chuckles and then turns around. He's holding... a dildo. Not a very big one. Black, with a flared base. "Can you sit back on your knees, please? Put the pillow between your legs. I want you to be comfortable."
It's probably close to 4am and Pete is straddling a decorative pillow, naked, with his hair still moist. "Maybe we should just go to sleep," Pete says. Things have already gone wrong once today, he doesn't think he could stomach another incident.
"OK, just let me try one thing," Vegas says. "Just a few minutes, and then if you're done, we're done."
Pete nods, and Vegas kneels next to him, and buries one hand in Pete's hair.
Pete moans, immediately, like clockwork, because Vegas is pulling. He's pulling Pete's head back and Pete goes, and he can see Vegas is looking at his mouth so Pete opens it, a little at first and then wider.
"Take this in," Vegas says, and brings the dildo to Pete's face with his other hand. He slides the tip into Pete's mouth and then carefully pushes it in deeper, navigating between Pete's teeth and tongue.
The dildo stops at the entrance to Pete's throat, not blocking his airways but making it difficult to make anything but garbled noise.
"Feel it," Vegas says, calmly. "Touch every part you can reach with your tongue. I know it's not very big, but I think it'll be enough. You're tired and you've had a long day, this doesn't need to be any more of a challenge."
Pete wants to ask what the fuck Vegas is talking about, but there's a plastic cock in his mouth. So instead he licks it and sucks at it a little, as much as the position will allow. It feels good, between Vegas' hand in his hair, the angle Vegas is keeping him in, and the thick intrusion pushing into his mouth. He can smell the silicone, can dig the sharp point of a tooth into a fake vein. He swallows and it's like he's having another sip of a cocktail, the saliva is sending him somewhere else right now. A place that's quieter and more relaxed, a place where Vegas' body is everywhere around him, and Pete can just enjoy how that feels.
"Such a good boy," Vegas says, a grin on his face. "I'm gonna take this out now. We can stop now and go to sleep, or we can play a little more. Up the ante. If you want to stop shake your head. If you want to keep going nod."
Pete nods, and hums around the dildo as Vegas pulls it out slowly.
"I'll be right back," Vegas says, and disappears. Pete can hear the quick patter of his feet on the floor.
He swallows the excess saliva that's build up in his mouth, opens and closes his mouth, letting his jaw readjust.
He's still just sitting here, on a pillow, naked in the middle of their bedroom. It had felt so nice when Vegas was here, touching him, putting things in his mouth, but now the awareness is creeping back in.
Vegas comes back and takes the same place again, in front of Pete. The dildo is back too, though this time it's covered in a thick layer of lube.
So, Vegas wants to fuck him with it. Which will feel nice, Pete is sure. He still doesn't understand why they're doing this in the middle of the night.
"This is gonna go in so easy," Vegas says, presenting the dildo for Pete's approval. "But the lube I used, it's something special. I... I made it myself, actually."
Pete's eyes fly open at that, and Vegas adds immediately: "I just added some things. Some stuff I think you'll like. Or maybe not, and we can stop. Just take it out if it doesn't work."
Pete is half curious and half amused at Vegas' obvious nervousness. Cooking his own lube? Probably the best excuse for staying up late in the kitchen, at least.
He takes the dildo and lifts up, because Vegas is clearly waiting for Pete to take the reins. He wants Pete to control the process, probably in case there's something wrong with the lube.
Pete can do that. He wasn't planning on having anything in his ass tonight, but the dildo really is very slick and not that big, and Pete is already in an easy position to put it inside himself.
Which is what Vegas intended, clearly. It's what the pillow is for. To make it easier for Pete, so he has something to push against.
Most of the thick layer of slick is concentrated on the top half of the dildo, which makes the bottom part easy to grip.
He rises on his knees and puts the dildo behind him on the pillow, holding it so he can line himself up.
The tip of it feels good, makes him sigh and close his eyes. He hasn't bottomed a lot, and sometimes it's too much, if he's not in the right mood, but right now it's just right. The dildo is solid and heavy and real, and Pete's body welcomes the intrusion. It's enough to be noticeable, to feel good, but not so much that he has to really work for it, take long breaks, worry about how fast he's going.
He sits down slowly and the thing slides into him, just like Vegas promised. There's nothing wrong with the lube, it's thick and smooth and only makes him wish it was Vegas inside of him, instead of a piece of plastic.
But at least he has Vegas in front of him, looking at him with such gratitude and adoration, like Pete just promised to buy him a new Ducati.
Pete is about to reach for him, pull him close, hold him because the expression on Vegas' face is unbearable. So open and desperate and pleading, but then Pete starts to feel something that makes him gasp instead.
The dildo inside him is... it's tingling. Against the inside of his body, everywhere it's touching - no, everywhere the lube is touching - it's like a low-grade, dull stinging.
"Holy..." Pete says, utterly distracted, trying to understand what's happening. "What did you put in there?"
"Ginger," Vegas says, smiling. "Chili extract. I looked up recipes online."
Fuck, fuck, it burns. Pete bites his upper lip and whimpers because it fucking burns from the inside and it's like nothing he's ever felt before. He fidgets on the pillow, not sure if he wants to get away from the sting or grind into it, moving his hips in erratic circles.
Vegas' arms are around him, Vegas' mouth is on his and Pete groans and mewls and kisses Vegas desperately, holding on to him for dear life.
Vegas' hands slide down to Pete's chest, thumbs massaging his nipples, which is a nice contrast to the fire in Pete's ass.
Vegas pulls away, until their foreheads are touching, and then he pinches Pete's nipples and twists, making Pete yell out in surprise.
Pete draws in a breath and feels the pain settle over his whole body, spread slowly like a balm. He giggles, he's so giddy, this feels so good. He's had way too much to drink for it to be possible tonight, but somehow he's hard.
Vegas kisses down Pete's jaw, his neck, the crook of his shoulder, and Vegas' fingers squeeze Pete's nipples tighter, let go, squeeze again. Pete squeezes down on the dildo, feeling the burn intensify, and his nipples just hurt all the time, whatever Vegas' fingers are doing, and there are tears rolling down Pete's cheeks. He doesn't know exactly why he's crying, but he can't hold them back.
"I need you to hurt me," he says, like it's a confession, like it's something Vegas doesn't know, something that needs to be said.
"I know, love, I know," Vegas says, and one of his hands moves lower, pinches at the skin above Pete's cock, right over his pubic bone. It makes him howl.
"I need it," Pete says, and sobs, the tears obscuring his vision.
"Shh, put your hands behind your head," Vegas says, forehead against Pete's shoulder, kissing Pete's chest between words. "Arms up, palms together, come on."
Pete shudders when he tries but his arms do obey him. He pulls them back, until his elbows are bent and his fingers are clasped together, hugging the back of his neck. It's not a position that's easy to stay in for long. But his hands are out of the game, and Vegas is kissing him again, warm and wet and comforting, and Pete loves him so much. If only what brought them together wasn't the demons living inside Vegas' head. If only the cruel joke of their lives wasn't that Pete wanted all the things Vegas wanted to cut out of himself.
"This makes me so hard, baby," Vegas says, and there are tears in his eyes. He pulls away enough that Pete can look down and see his erection, stiff and dark between his legs. "You're loving this and so am I, and you're doing it all yourself, Pete," Vegas says, visibly trying to push back a sob. "I just can't do it the other way--" Vegas says, and the rest of his words get swallowed up by whatever's trying to climb out of his throat and suffocate him.
Pete wants to reach out, wants to kiss him and hold him, but knows it wouldn't help. He can't help Vegas be a different person, have a different past. He has to walk through that path himself, every step of the way, and Pete can only be there as he does it.
Vegas told him to keep his hands behind his head and Pete keeps them there, even as his own vision goes blurry again.
They're sitting here, on the floor, crying and fucking or whatever this is supposed to be, and it's the middle of the night and Pete wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now.
"I know," he says. "Vegas, I know. I'm sorry, I'm--"
"You're perfect," Vegas chokes out, and his voice is higher than usual. "I'm grateful every day, Pete, every day--" and then the tears get in the way again. "Hands behind your back," Vegas says, a few moments later, when he can speak again and his face is a mess of red splotches and wetness. Pete's sure he doesn't look much different himself.
Pete puts his arms down, holds one wrist with the other hand loosely behind his back.
The dildo is still stinging him inside, but the burn is mild, noticeable but not overwhelming.
"What if I gave you a necklace?" Vegas asks, wiping at his face. "How would you feel about that?"
It would be the most bizarre question to ask at this moment in time, if Pete didn't get exactly what Vegas was really asking. A necklace is a thing Pete could wear around his neck, probably with some kind of pendant that would symbolize something. It would be unobtrusive but with him always.
Like a collar. Except not a collar, because collars are for pets.
Pete would give anything to be Vegas' pet, but he knows they're very far from that conversation.
This is what Vegas can give him now. It's what Vegas can accept - or hopes he can accept - if Pete is willing.
"I would love that," Pete says, wholeheartedly.
"OK," Vegas says, rubbing his hands over his face, as if trying to shape it back into something appropriate. "OK. I know the sting's probably gone by now, but I can touch your nipples a little more, play around until we get you to come--"
"I don't need that," Pete says, and knows his own voice sounds calmer as well. "I don't want it right now." The pain has mostly dissipated into a pleasant soreness, and Pete is tired and raw and mostly he just wants to rest. He doesn't need an orgasm, he just wants bed and Vegas and the warmth of his body. "There's something else I want, though. I... I want you to come. Can you? For me?"
"I..." Vegas says, pushed slightly off kilter. "You want to watch me?"
Touching Vegas would be ideal, but Pete will take whatever he can get. "Whatever feels good. Use me, or don't."
Vegas nods, and reaches down to grab hold of himself. There's some wetness at the tip of his cock but it doesn't look like enough to make it a smooth slide. Pete wants to help, wants to put his mouth on it, wants to get up and grab a bottle of regular, non-stingy lube, but Vegas doesn't ask for it, and Pete respects his preference.
Vegas jerks himself off faster and faster, biting his lips and closing his eyes and looking like doing this, on his knees in front of Pete, is like putting down a sack of bricks he's been carrying all day. His shoulders relax, and his head slumps, and his sounds get softer and louder, like he's letting himself crack open a little wider.
"Pete, let me see," he mumbles out and Pete can guess what he's asking, since there's only one part of Pete that's currently not visible to him. Pete gets rid of the pillow and turns around, shows his backside to Vegas, with the black dildo still inside him, and hears Vegas moan. And then he slowly pulls out the dildo, which is still stinging him just a little, and hears Vegas gasp like the air's just been punched out of him.
Pete can imagine what Vegas is seeing - Pete's ass must still be a little rosy from the spanking earlier, he can certainly still feel a very faint echo of it on his skin, even if the pain was barely noticeable when it was happening. His hole is wet and feels tender, probably the skin is red and a little swollen. He'll have to put something on it later, one of the creams he used to use for injuries when he was boxing, to calm the puffy skin.
When Pete turns back Vegas has crawled closer to the bed. He's facing it, one arm on the mattress, face hidden against that arm, while his other hand continues to work feverishly on his cock.
Pete crawls closer, puts an arm around the back of Vegas' shoulders. Doesn't try to coax Vegas to look at him. "You like seeing me a little bruised up, baby?" Pete whispers into his ear.
Vegas whimpers and shudders and comes, on a heavy exhale, and Pete holds him through it. Vegas sags against him when it's over, looking drained and relieved, like a mop with all the water squeezed out of it.
Pete wishes that the complicated matrix of their lives allowed Vegas to be selfish more often. To be OK with finding his own pleasure, to be observed while that was his main focus. To put all his guilt and anxieties away just long enough to take a deep breath.
Maybe this is the beginning. Pete feels like he has another tiny piece of the puzzle now, and Vegas probably feels like he does too. They'll compare their puzzle pieces later.
Pete kisses him and Vegas responds, and they stay like that for long minutes, before struggling off the floor.
They'll figure it out, Pete tells himself, as they climb into bed, heedless of the mess in the room, of whatever is still out in the kitchen. None of it matters for right now.
If Porsche managed to make it work with his step-cousin who used to publicly humiliate him for poor job performance, Pete and Vegas can figure this out.
Vegas clings to Pete, once they're on the sheets, and Pete kisses the top of his head.
Tomorrow is another day.