Archive of Our Own

Day one:

The shirt stuck to his back as he tried to remove it. Covered in blood, dried and hard, Pete wasn’t even sure whose it was.

He felt numb. Everything was a blur, the edges of his vision distorted. Somehow, he’d made it to the hospital, following behind as guards from the main family came out of nowhere and started to try and take Vegas away. Something inside him had snapped; the main family had wanted to kill him, and Pete wasn’t about to let them try again.

It took three people to restrain him. Arm had come from whatever place he’d been hiding and tried to explain over and over that they were taking him to the hospital. To save him. And Pete had to let them, or Vegas would die.

He’d die.

Because he got shot. Four times.

After changing into clothes that didn’t belong to him and schooling his expression into something he didn’t feel, he walked back to the waiting room, where he sat and waited for news. Because Vegas was in surgery.

His hands shook where they rested in his lap.

He yawned, his throat hurt.

***

Day three:

Pete wasn’t someone who usually had trouble falling asleep.

When he was a child, he’d been blessed with the ability to drift off just about anywhere if he was tired enough. And when he was an adult, though the life of organised crime and familial violence left him far more alert than he’d like, he could still fall asleep relatively quickly.

The constant sound of the heart monitor kept him awake in the early hours of a lonely Wednesday morning. Although not because the sound was particularly annoying or loud.

But because Pete was desperately terrified, it would stop.

The beat was steady and had been for hours. Yet he did not trust it to keep going. Somehow convinced that the moment he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, it would flatline. And the silence after would deafen him. Pete had already thought Vegas was dead once.

He didn’t know if he could do it again.

There was a chair next to Vegas’s bed that he had made himself a home on. It had a metal frame. There were arms that he could lean on, and it was cushioned on the back and the seat with that funny kind of plastic that made a noise every time he moved against it. But it wasn’t comfortable. Pete’s butt was numb, and his right leg had pins and needles from where he’d crossed his legs for so long. There was a plush-looking armchair in the corner of the room that Macau always sat on. It was empty as he’d gone home to get some of his belongings. Yet, for whatever reason, Pete couldn’t bring himself to sit on it.

From this angle, he had a perfect view of the entire room. His back was to the wall so no one could sneak up behind him, and the view of the door meant he knew who was coming in and out. So far, it has only been doctors, nurses, and Macau. But Pete knew it couldn’t be long before others wanted to come inside.

But until then, Pete would remain where he was. Right next to Vegas.

There was a dull ache in the crook of his arm from where they had taken a pint of blood from him hours ago. The nurse had been a junior and hadn’t yet had the chance to perfect her technique, so an ugly-looking bruise formed up his arm that looked like a fork of lightning. Or a strange-looking spider’s web. He didn’t mind the pain. In fact, he got a sick kind of satisfaction knowing that he was marked because of Vegas, for Vegas. The blood had been sucked out of his veins, hot and red, and slowly pumped straight into Vegas’s broken and weakened body.

Vegas was still anaemic after his surgery, and the hospital had run out of AB. So, instead of waiting a few hours to retrieve more, Pete offered his arm without hesitation. He’d lost so much blood that the doctors thought he wouldn’t make it. The moment those words left her mouth, it was like the world around Pete was inaudible. He was alone in a room with a stranger telling him that Vegas could die, and he’d rather be dead than exist in a world without him.

A noise from one of the machines Vegas was hooked up to startled him, and he turned to where he was lying. It was jarring, the way his face was so gaunt, and his skin was so pale. A thin tube in his nose went all the way down his throat and into his stomach, as well as one for oxygen, which sat at the opening of his nostrils. Luckily, he could breathe on his own, the bullets narrowly missing his lungs, so he didn’t have anything obstructing his throat.

The damage that the bullets caused to Vegas’s internal organs was astronomical. Hearing the doctors tell him that he was lucky to be alive had been a second of relief until they started to explain the true scope of his injuries, with words he didn’t understand and reassurances that sounded false. There was no relief after that.

From what Pete understood, his injuries were as follows:

1. Significant blood loss (internal and external), needing two blood transfusions (some of which came from Pete).
2. The first two bullets lodged themselves into his muscles, one in his rectus abdominis and the other in his internal oblique muscle.
3. The third bullet was in his right kidney.
4. The last bullet ricocheted off two ribs on his left side, causing fractures, which (miraculously) did not turn the bones into shrapnel and cause more internal injuries.
5. When they performed surgery to get the bullets out and repair the damage, they removed his right kidney and the pieces of the shell by his ribcage, which were close to travelling up into his lungs and heart. They also removed the bullets in his muscles, repairing them with mesh to prevent hernias.
6. Then there was the wound to his arm, which was caused by Pete; he knew the bullet only grazed him as his aim was excellent and he never missed. It was large enough to need stitches, but it was not life-threatening. His face was also bruised, mostly around his mouth. Also Pete’s fault.

He was being fed through the tube in his nose, which was also used to give him medication. He had a cannula in his arm, which was giving him various other drugs and nutrients, and a catheter so he could urinate.

Because he couldn’t eat, nor drink, nor leave the bed. It had been three days, and he was still unconscious.

And Pete was tired.

So, so, incredibly tired.

***

Day five:

Macau looked over at the nurse like he was the leader of a feral wolf pack as she gave Vegas a bed bath. Whenever someone so much as breathed near his brother, including Pete, he would hover until they left him alone, staring them down like an overprotective bloodhound.

Pete lets him be. They aren’t at that level of relationship yet. Not that they have a relationship at all at this point. He didn’t know if Macau knew anything about their horrendously violent and unconventional union, but he didn’t seem surprised to see him there. Just oddly resigned. And angry.

There was a moment when Macau first stormed into the room, forty-seven minutes after Vegas had been taken into surgery, that Pete thought he would kill him. He was like an angry alley cat, abandoned and hissing at anyone who came too close.

And Pete was always too close.

There was one guard with him. And he’d left to find out how many of his colleagues had survived as soon as he saw Pete in the room. But Macau had no idea of what was going on. Yelling at anyone who would listen for someone to give him some answers. And Pete, apparently, would give him those answers; as unqualified and severely overwhelmed as he felt, he stumbled through everything that had happened. Leaving no detail out.

Lying would not help. Pete figured most people around him had been doing that all his life. And though Vegas was trying to protect him by purposefully leaving him in the dark and out of the radar, it had resulted in a distraught and confused teenager having to find out that the person that had raised him, the person he loved with all his heart, might die. And that he was an orphan with no one else left in the world to rely on.

Except for Pete.

But he was a poor substitute for Vegas. As Macau had none too gently told him.

Multiple times.

Pete was fucking exhausted.

***

Day eight:

Pete had tried to keep his days to a routine. With everything up in the air and every minute that Vegas was comatose, passing painfully slowly, he needed to keep himself sane. And it was becoming increasingly difficult the longer he had to wait for him to wake up.

Macau was slowly losing it, too.

There were moments when Pete thought he was finally warming up to him, but then he’d go back to being spiteful and rude. It was giving him whiplash.

Pete understood that he was struggling to cope; he was a child who was deathly afraid that his brother was going to die, which was why he gave him much more leeway than he would in any other circumstance. It was beginning to wear on him, however, the snide comments, the arguing with everything that came out of Pete’s mouth. It was hard to know how to handle the situation when he had never had to deal with anything like this in his entire life.

At the very least, it distracted him from thinking about Vegas. Some of the time, anyway. The rest of the time, he prayed to whoever was listening to keep Vegas alive.

He noticed that Macau was very good at disguising how he felt. When angry with Pete, he most likely tried to hide his terror and hold himself together the best way he knew: by taking it out on someone else.

A Theerapanyakul trait, it seems.

The doctor had come in to speak to them about Vegas’s progress. He was more stable than ever, but they still couldn’t say when he’d wake up. If he’d wake up.

And it was this exact wording that caused Pete’s heart to virtually stop.

If.

If.

“What do you mean if?” Macau demanded, a cutting edge to his tone. “You said he was stable; he’s breathing on his own. What do you mean if?”

Pete silently agreed with him, but he understood where the doctor came from. They couldn’t guarantee anything, and if they did, they would be straight up lying to their faces.

The doctor tried to put Macau’s mind at ease with vague reassurances, but this did nothing to placate him. In the end, Pete told the doctor to leave; they were going in circles, and Macau only continued to get more irate.

“What the fuck was she even saying? I think she was spewing words that didn’t mean a thing,” he hissed, pacing around the room.

“She was trying to be diplomatic,” Pete said quietly, trying his best to reassure him. “They can’t give false hope or guarantee anything.”

“Then what the fuck was the point of her opening her mouth in the first place?” He shouted, kicking the trashcan in the room so that it smashed against the wall, making Pete violently flinch.

“Calm down.” Pete got up, glancing at Vegas as if he might have been disturbed by Macau’s outburst, “Shouting isn’t helping.”

“Nothing is helping!” He bellows, striding over to Pete and grabbing the front of his t-shirt with both hands, “Nothing—nothing is helping,” his breath catches in his throat, the pain in his eyes so visceral Pete can feel it pouring out and mixing with his own, “nothing I do is helping him—why is nothing helping him?” Macau sobs, the noises flooding out of him wretched and distressing.

It takes everything in Pete to hold himself together as he watches Macau fall apart.

***

Day eleven:

It’s the day of Khun Gun’s funeral. Macau doesn’t go. He only knows it’s happening because Macau’s bodyguard told him.

They spend the day in silence.

Macau lets Pete hold him while he cries.

***

Day thirteen:

There was something wrong with Vegas. Something worse than all the one thousand things that were already wrong with him.

Pete woke up in the early morning hours to a nurse and two doctors barging into the room, the machine monitoring his heart rate beeping incessantly. Standing up from the plastic chair, which now felt as if it was moulded to his form, he could see a sheen of sweat across Vegas’s ashen face. His breathing was loud, wheezing as if his lungs were struggling to work.

“What’s going on?” Pete asked, terror cascading through his bloodstream.

“We think he has an infection,” the nurse answered, likely taking pity on him after the doctors ignored his question. “We’re doing everything we can to help him; please try not to worry.”

Pete appreciated the sentiment, but asking him not to worry was like asking a blind person if they could see.

Impossible.

They prodded and poked at the lifeless form of Vegas, who looked so small and thin that he was nothing like the man he knew him to be. Helplessness made a home in his heart, and he wished there was something, anything he could do that wasn’t standing in the corner of the room, watching in despair. They hooked him up to yet another bag of medicine, telling him that it was Sepsis, blood poisoning. Pumping him full of powerful antibiotics was the only way to clear it, and if they should fail, Vegas probably wouldn’t make it.

After they left Pete with that information, stunned and alone in the room with Vegas’s fragile body, he sat down and cried for the first time since he first entered the hospital. He sat down on that fucking plastic chair and gripped Vegas’s hand for dear life, praying with all his heart that he would survive.

Pete knew he couldn’t live without him.

***

Day twenty-one:

Macau had gone back to hating him. It was a routine at this point. He would hate him, then cry and lean on Pete for support, then tentatively get along with him before going back to hating him again.

His whiplash was getting worse.

According to the doctors, Vegas was stable, though the last time they said that, he had Septicaemia. So Pete tried not to get his hopes up.

He longed for the day he would open his eyes. Even if it were to curse him out or if he were to fall straight back to sleep. At least Pete would know he was still in there. Without a sign of life, Pete was struggling to hold on. So long it had been since he had heard his voice or felt his warm hands move across his skin. He craved his touch like his body craved sleep. He would die without it.

Pete walked into the hospital room only to be met with an air of hostility. Macau glared at him as if he had spat on his food, and Pete wished he wasn’t as tired as he was so he could do something about it. Alas, there was no will or energy left in his body to care about this sullen teenage boy’s moody behaviour.

It was lunchtime, and he had walked out of the building to the market down the street to pick up some food. There was a hesitance in him to even blink when Vegas had first been brought into the hospital, yet now he would go insane if he didn’t allow himself to leave the room at least once a day. That, and one of the nurses, June, who reminded him of his grandma, had lovingly bullied him into it. Telling him it would be good for him to leave to sleep, eat or simply go for a walk.

Pete secretly thought it was because he was annoying everyone by constantly being around. But it didn’t matter; he could grudgingly admit that leaving Vegas briefly each day wasn’t the complete end of the world.

“Here,” he said wearily, holding a container to Macau, “I got you lunch.” He stared at Pete’s hand for ten seconds too long before snatching it from him without so much as a thank you. Pete felt frustrated; he didn’t know how to deal with this vast and overwhelming situation, and Macau wasn’t helping.

“You’re welcome,” he said pointedly, returning to his familiar seat and tucking into his own food.

He didn’t have an appetite but had grown used to choking down food so his body could function.

“What, you want me to thank you graciously, oh great main family bodyguard?” he sneered, a poor imitation of his brother. “Thank you for doing your job and looking after me.”

Pete laughed, flat and with no humour. “My job? You think I would be here, all day, every day, handing you food and letting you shit all over me if it was my job?” Macau looked at him in silence, his expression a mixture of confusion and shock. “I’m not a main family bodyguard anymore; I resigned.”

There was a live wire in the air, sparking with electricity, and Macau held the power switch.

“Then why are you here?” He asked quietly, his voice echoing sincerity that Pete didn’t know he was capable of.

“I—” he paused, not knowing what to say. His deep feelings towards Vegas had no name; he didn’t even understand them in his own head, let alone speak them out loud, “I’m here because I want to be. I care; is that not enough?”

Macau didn’t reply.

It had to be enough.

There wasn’t anything else left in him.

***

Day twenty-seven:

It was four o’clock in the morning when he awoke. A bad dream had startled him out of a restless sleep. The same one he’d had every single night since Vegas had been shot. One of him dying. One of despair and terror and a crushing loneliness that lingered on him even when he was awake.

Stretching his neck, the cracking of his bones loud in the room’s silence, he sighed deeply and painfully. Pete looked over to the side to see the same image greet him: Vegas fast asleep, bruises yellowed, and cheeks hollow. Still handsome, still unmoving.

Macau had gone home to sleep in his own bed that evening; something about needing a real shower to get rid of the hospital smell, which made no sense if he thought about it. He probably just wanted a night away from Pete.

He had no idea what was going on with the minor family compound; if he were being honest, he had no real idea of what was happening with anything. His entire life was in this room, waiting and waiting and waiting for Vegas to wake up.

Arm (and Pol, by default) was the only one he spoke to outside Macau and the hospital staff. He messaged Pete sometimes, asking if he was okay and if he needed anything. He was grateful for the concern but could not give him more than a one-word reply. There was no room for much else when Vegas took up so much space in his mind, heart, and body.

No one else had contacted him.

No Porsche. No Kinn. No Tankhun.

There was a part of him that knew he should care, that did care, but his mind was too preoccupied to think too deeply about it. It would have to wait.

And so he stared at Vegas’s face, willing him to open his eyes as he wished so desperately that he could close his own.

***

Day thirty:

June had just finished giving him a bed bath when Vegas finally decided to open his eyes. Macau was asleep in the armchair, blanket across his legs courtesy of Pete. He petulantly thought Macau didn’t deserve such kindness as he had been horrible to him for the entirety of the previous day. But Pete didn’t have the heart to hold it against him.

He was hurting, after all.

A groan made June pause as she tucked the blankets around him; Pete froze where he sat in his godforsaken chair. Moving his neck so fast it twinged painfully, he turned to find Vegas, eyes half-lidded, face screwed up in displeasure.

“Khun Vegas,” June crooned as she checked his vitals, “are you awake? Can you hear me?”

Vegas groaned in reply, voice weak and gravelly. He suddenly started to cough, face screwing up again, hands flying to his abdomen which must have been in immense amounts of pain.

“Okay, don’t worry, we’ll get you some stronger painkillers, Khun Vegas.” The doctors came into the room before Pete could even think about what was happening, immediately pushing him out of the way as they once again poked and prodded at him.

He walked over to Macau, who had yet to wake up despite the noises in the room, and stood in disbelief as the realisation that Vegas was awake began to sink in.

It seemed like an age before the doctors stopped prodding him, leaving the room after administering more potent painkillers, which, ironically, knocked him out. June stayed behind to explain that even though he had opened his eyes, he wasn’t entirely out of it yet and to expect him to be groggy and confused for the foreseeable future.

“Don’t look so dejected, Pete,” June consoled him, putting a hand on his shoulder, “this is good progress. Baby steps, not leaps and bounds, okay?”

Pete nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She then left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Vegas twitched in his sleep, and all Pete could do was sit by his bedside and hold his hand.

All the while trying not to scream.

***

Day thirty-three:

It took three days for Vegas to be coherent enough to talk. Opening his eyes to groan for short periods, while a step in the right direction, it wasn’t quite the same as being conscious enough to speak.

Macau was furious to learn he’d slept through the first time he’d regained consciousness but was shortly placated when he realised that Vegas could hardly open his eyes, never mind hold a conversation.

Every time Vegas opened his eyes, Pete’s heart filled with hope. The desolate feelings weighing him down were slowly lifting now that Vegas wasn’t on the verge of dying every waking moment. He was still lightyears away from a full recovery, though. June had taken the time to sit him and Macau down to explain that it would be a long, hard and painful recuperation for him. And that they should prepare themselves for it to be devastatingly difficult.

Macau took it the hardest; the true extent of Vegas’s injuries finally sinking in. Pete, however, took it in his stride. He could handle difficult. He could handle long and hard and painful; he was alive. And that was all that mattered.

Being awake in the early hours of the morning was beginning to become a bad habit for Pete, whose sleep schedule was fucked at the best of times. It was like he was so in tune with Vegas that his body would know when he was awake, the slightest sound or movement pulling him into alertness.

He had fallen asleep on the cot Nurse June had pulled in for him when she learned he had been sleeping in the chair. Her wrath was too great to refuse, and he reluctantly accepted it. Macau slept in his bedroom, and Pete had been forced to send him back to school (Korn’s order, according to Arm). Sleeping in an armchair wasn’t good for him. And so, he very unwillingly left the hospital every night with his bodyguard Kla, making Pete promise to call him immediately if anything happened.

Now he was back on the stupid plastic chair, watching as Vegas roused from his sleep. His eyes fluttered open, and his face went from relaxed to taught, the pain making itself a home there.

“Pete,” he croaked, eyes barely open.

“Hey,” he near whispered, uncomfortably aware that this was the first time they were speaking.

“Hi,” Vegas whispered back, turning his head to face him properly.

Pete had thought about—had dreamed about this moment for so long that it felt almost surreal. There was no fanfare, no big moment, just a whispered hello in the quiet of the night.

Tears welled in Vegas’s eyes, and Pete frowned, sitting up and moving the chair closer to the bed.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Pete asked softly, reaching over to hold his hand.

“It hurts,” he whimpered, childlike and sad.

“Where, where does it hurt?” He smoothed his thumb back and forth across the back of his hand, wishing he could do more to provide some comfort.

“Everywhere,” he gripped Pete’s hand as hard as he could, with no strength at all. Tears run down his cheeks, and Pete carefully wipes them away, trying not to disturb the tubes on his face.

“Here, I’ll get you more medication,” he pressed the button on Vegas’s PCA pump, which allowed him to self-administer his own pain relief, “you can just press this button when you need to.” Vegas looked at him blankly, and Pete didn’t think he’d listened or likely understood anything he’d said.

“Go back to sleep,” Pete told him, though he didn’t want him to. He really, really didn’t want him to.

But he does.

And Pete stares at his resting face, unblinking, until his eyes sting.

***

Day forty:

Macau bursts into the room, arms laden with bags, startling Vegas from where he was dozing. Pete glares at him; Vegas had been up all night, unable to rest as the doctors decided it was time to cut back his morphine.

“I brought the stuff you wanted,” he kicks the door shut without a care in the world; Pete sighs. Teenagers.

“What stuff?” Vegas asks, voice still weird and gravelly from where he hadn’t used his vocal cords in so long.

“Stuff for you, Hia,” he dropped the stuff on the floor unceremoniously, a mixture of his belongings from his room at home and new things that Pete thought he would need, reaching into one of the large bags and pulling out…a hedgehog?

“What the fuck is that?” Vegas spat. Pete had to hold back a laugh; it was the most Vegas he had sounded since he’d woken up.

“It’s for you when you move or cough or sneeze or whatever,” Macau said in a rush as if he was embarrassed. Vegas looked at him like he was speaking in a language he couldn’t understand, and Pete took pity on him.

“You said the pillow nurse June gave you wasn’t working, remember?” Pete gently reminded him, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

The bullets had done so much damage to Vegas’s insides that any kind of strain on his muscles hurt him to the point he wouldn’t dare move. When Pete brought it up with one of the doctors, the most they could suggest was pressing a pillow against himself when he needed to do anything. Pete honestly thought it was bullshit. They were in a hospital with some of the best medical professionals in the country, yet all they can recommend to someone with intense bullet injuries is hugging a fucking pillow.

“It’s super soft and squidgy, Hia,” Macau ripped the tag off the side and thrust it gently into Vegas’s arms, “Meet Hans, the hedgehog,” he read off the label, snorting and chucking it into the trash.

“Hans?” Pete chuckled, looking at the round-shaped thing sitting on Vegas’s lap and touching it to see what it felt like, “Oh,” he exclaimed, pleasantly surprised, “It is squishy.”

Vegas flopped his head back onto his pillow and sighed in exasperation, notably not letting go of the cushion.

***

Day forty-three:

Vegas didn’t like that his body was now fragile and weak. He was held together in places with stitches and mesh, parts missing and unable to do things for himself. Pete could understand. The loss of independence must be hard, annoying at its best, gut-wrenching at its worst.

But Pete failed to understand why it seemed to be his fault.

A team of nurses was dedicated to caring for his general needs. They helped him walk to the toilet now that his catheter was out, got him into a chair when he was tired of lying down, and made sure he stood up and walked a few steps daily to help his legs get used to holding his weight.

But after just one day, they all refused to work with him again.

Vegas was his usual nasty self. And though Pete was glad that he was beginning to feel better enough to act more like himself, it wasn’t ideal that he was driving people away when he needed them the most.

And that included Pete.

“For fucks sake, Pete, I don’t need your help,” Vegas hissed as he offered to help him into the shower, “I’ll get a nurse to do it.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Nurse June has gone home for the day, and no one else wants to do it.”

“Then I’ll wait until tomorrow,” he stubbornly crossed his arms over Hans, the hedgehog. He looked tired and slight as he lay on the bed with the covers pulled to the side. He was still in a hospital gown, and the parts of his body on show were skinny and pale.

“You said that yesterday,” Pete protested, watching as Vegas glared at him in contempt, “and the day before, and the day before that, and the day before–”

“Fine, I get it,” he harshly cut in, gazing at the window.

“You know you’ll feel better after a shower; the doctor said you can wash your hair and everything,” he coaxed, injecting fake positivity into his voice, “I don’t mind helping you; I want to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Well, I’m the only one willing to. So, what do you want to do about that?”

Macau had offered, but Vegas had shot him down immediately; he didn’t want his younger brother to have to look after him in that way, and although Macau was more than willing, he was ultimately not strong enough to lift Vegas if he needed to.

“I’ve seen you naked; there’s nothing to be awkward about,” Pete sighed, tiredness causing his skin to feel too tight and his bones to feel too heavy.

“That’s not what I’m concerned about,” Vegas grumbled, refusing to look at him.

“Then what are you afraid of?” Pete couldn’t tell what Vegas was thinking. Whether he was afraid of looking weak, whether he was afraid of being vulnerable, or whether he was simply resentful at his own body for not allowing him to be independent for the time being. Or possibly all of those things put together in one colossal fuck you to add to the already massive pile of fuck yous that Vegas has been dealt with in his life.

“I’m not afraid!” Vegas yelled, startling Pete where he was standing at the end of his bed.

“Then stop being a child and let me get you into the fucking shower, Vegas,” he yelled back, his patience running so low he wasn’t sure he had any left.

“Jesus Christ, fine,” he gritted after a moment’s pause, clearly shocked that Pete had yelled at him. Maybe he should do that more often.

Helping him off the bed and into the spacious ensuite took much longer than Vegas liked. The frustration was written all over his face as he got winded from less than a few feet of walking. Pete didn’t bother to say anything; he knew his words would be little consolation to how Vegas felt. He was purely there as strength and steady support.

Pete tried to be as clinical as possible, but that was difficult when his feelings for Vegas were so far from clinical that it was a joke. He sat Vegas down on the plastic chair under the shower, positioning the head so that it wasn’t shooting water directly over his head but over his shoulder so he could still see and talk without getting cold.

Pete was wearing shorts and a ratty T-shirt. He would have worn nothing; it would kill two birds with one stone if he could shower himself at the same time, but if anything were to happen, it would be better (and less embarrassing) if he wasn’t completely naked.

“Is that warm enough?” Pete asked, making sure everything he needed was within reach. After he nodded in confirmation, he let Vegas wash his body. He could just about reach his torso and thighs while sitting down, but Pete knew he couldn’t raise his arms to do his hair or bend all the way down to get the bottom of his legs.

Pete tried not to stare as the water made his skin shine; the awful white light in the bathroom made Vegas look even more skinny and bruised than usual. His left side was littered with large yellowing discolourations where his ribs were fractured, the scars on his abdomen looking red and raw. An amalgamation of damage on his once smooth and unmarked skin.

Pete knelt down and scrubbed his legs, trying not to think about the last time he had seen Vegas naked. It was funny how long ago that time felt. A distant memory from mere months ago. Pete had to refocus himself on what he was doing, the memory of Vegas’s confession in the underground carpark in the middle of the shootout too painful to bear.

Not wanting Vegas to be under the water for too long, he began to wash his hair, the limp and greasy strands in desperate need of a clean. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was all-encompassing, making Pete want the ground to swallow him whole.

Vegas shut his eyes as Pete massaged the shampoo into his hair. Leaning back into his hands, he relaxed in a way that Pete had only seen while asleep. Sliding his fingers around the delicate bones of his ears, smoothing them over his temples, Pete revelled in how Vegas shivered.

No words were spoken until they were back in the room, Vegas’s bed fitted with fresh sheets in their absence. “Which clothes did Macau bring me?” He asked as Pete sat him on the chair at his bedside, wrapped in a robe, his hair dripping slowly down his neck, and nothing else but a fresh pair of boxers.

“Oh, I don’t know; I told him to bring comfortable things.” He grabbed the bag and placed it on his lap. “Do you want me to help you dress now, or can you wait a minute while I shower?” His t-shirt was damp and uncomfortable, and his shorts were stuck to the back of his legs. The sensory overload was enough to make him want them off as soon as possible.

“You can shower; I’ll be fine,” he said incredulously, still searching through the bag.

“I won’t be long.”

Pete’s shower took approximately ten minutes. Freshly washed, teeth cleaned, and dressed in an oversized t-shirt and soft sweats (which he’d panic-bought when he realised he had no clothes to wear), he found Vegas winded and panting, robe half off and t-shirt half on.

He’d tried to get dressed without him.

Pete wanted to scream.

***

Day forty-nine:

It wasn’t until seven weeks after the shooting that Pete struggled to contain the emotions that begged to escape the tightly closed box inside his chest. He’d spent so long focusing on Vegas, Macau, anything and everything that wasn’t himself that one day, late in the evening, it hit him like a high-speed freight train.

He’d gone out to fetch Vegas some dinner. The tube in his nose was removed earlier in the week, and the food at the hospital was apparently not to his liking, even though Pete was confident it was prepared by a Michelin-star chef. And so, sick of Vegas’s foul mood permeating every molecule in the air, Pete offered to get him something else.

And when he got back, Vegas was gone.

The room was empty, and his belongings were no longer there.

Of course, there was a reasonable explanation. All week, there had been talk of moving him out of the hospital room he was currently in and into something more comfortable, and that didn’t scream intensive care. And while Pete had been out, that had been precisely what they’d done.

But all he could think about as he stood, alone with the ghost of melancholy, was that he felt sad.

Dismal.

The nightmare of Vegas dying was suddenly playing in front of him. His blood-ridden torso pitiful on the ground. His own voice wailing.

If Vegas were to die, then who in the world would see him? Who in the world that wasn’t his seventy-year-old grandma would care about him, would remember that he existed?

That night, after finding Vegas in his new room with his much bigger bed and a forced smile large on his face, he walked calmly into the bathroom and shut the door. Sinking to the ground, haunting emotion crushed him, and he had to use his arm to cover his mouth for fear of the sound he would let out. He could not breathe, and he could not scream. And he could not get a grip of himself.

Crouched against the wall, his legs pulled to his chest, he tried hopelessly to be quiet. Tears were tickling his cheeks as he tried to hold himself together.

The seams of his being were starting to break.

And Pete didn’t know how to sew.

***

Day fifty-three:

“I think there’s something wrong with him,” a voice floated into his consciousness. His ears were muffled, and his mouth was full of fluff. Pete didn’t dare make a sound as he pretended he was still asleep.

“What do you mean?” Vegas asked where he lay propped up with a pile of pillows, Hans, the hedgehog, in his usual place on his lap.

Pete had fallen asleep on the far side of the bed. Now that there was room, Vegas insisted he sleep there instead of the creaky cot he’d taken to spending his nights on. It was…fine. Pete was fine.

“I don’t know; he just looks…odd,” Macau said, an edge of concern hidden in the casualness of his tone. He was sitting in the corner of the room in yet another plush armchair with a footrest. Macau hardly moved from it.

“He always looks odd,” Vegas probably had his usual scowl on his face; Pete wished he could look.

“Well, then he looks more odd than usual. That weird smile he does is creeping me out. It’s not real.” 

Pete didn’t hear Vegas’s reply; he was too busy being gripped with the depths of wretchedness at the realisation that he had been thoroughly rumbled. Macau had seen right through him—a skill that was clearly genetic.

He shouldn’t have taken a nap.

“He’s been by your side the entire time, you know,” Pete heard as his brain switched back on and his hearing re-activated, “when you said you had someone you cared about, I didn’t realise it would be him.”

Pete’s stomach swooped like it was falling at a great height. Vegas had talked about him, about how he cared…about him.

“Yeah,” Vegas murmured, his voice near a whisper. He didn’t elaborate further, and Pete wondered whether he should pretend to wake up.

“How did it even happen? Are you like…together?”

Pete decided that was the time he would reveal he was awake. Macau did not need to know the answer. He shifted, stretching where he lay, the atmosphere changing as he opened his eyes. Macau suddenly became interested in his game console, and Vegas looked at him with what could only be described as a highly intense expression.

“What’d I miss?” Pete asked, voice slightly croaky. The smile on his face was somewhat put on, but he resented the fact that it wasn’t ‘real’.

It was genuine when he wanted it to be.

“Are you okay?” Vegas asked, gaze piercing.

“I’m fine,” he smiled, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head.

“You don’t look fine.” Vegas continued to stare at him as if he was trying to look into the depths of his soul. Pete felt self-conscious. He hadn’t paid attention to mirrors in a while.

“I…,” he began before Nurse June entered the room, saving him from the conversation.

He didn’t think Vegas would let it go. But at least he wasn’t pushing.

Yet.

***

Day fifty-five:

Pete looked on as Vegas completed his daily walk. They made him go all the way down the corridor now, the length increasing every day. Vegas needed to start moving his muscles again. His healing journey included months of physical therapy, and Nurse June was not shy about making him start early.

Vegas hated it.

He hated that he couldn’t simply get up and walk outside without needing to lean on someone or be in immense pain. Pete didn’t feel sorry for him; pity was not what he needed. But he always offered his support, even when Vegas tried to pretend he didn’t want or need it.

Pete was wary that he was turning into some kind of emotional punching bag. They had strayed down this path before, and he didn’t want to repeat it. Even Macau had begun to do it, but Pete was unsure how to handle it when he was uncomfortably aware that they were becoming increasingly dependent on each other.

Nurse June had been a godsend. She was the one Vegas leaned on when he walked. She did not let him get away with being horrid all the time. And most important of all, she wasn’t scared of him.

Unlike the rest of the staff, who treated him as Khun Vegas, heir to the minor family empire, instead of Vegas, who wished he could start the day with an iced Americano and liked to watch reality TV before bed. She even handled Macau sometimes. Pete didn’t know what he’d do without her.

“Pete will have to start doing this with you soon,” Nurse June said as she helped Vegas back into bed. He was rosy-cheeked like he’d been on a run. Pete felt proud of him.

“Why, where are you going?” Vegas asked teasingly, but Pete could tell he was hesitant about the answer.

“Nowhere,” she chucked, “but if you want to get discharged within the next month, Pete has to start helping you, or the doctors won’t feel confident about letting you go home.”

For reasons unknown to Pete, Vegas did not like it when he tried to help him with---well, anything. He could hazard a guess at what those reasons were. Not that Pete had ever asked; he wasn’t mentally prepared for the argument it would likely cause. He wanted to help Vegas with anything he needed. Wasn’t that what you did for your partner?

However, their relationship status was also something they had yet to discuss. Now that Vegas was beginning to get better, Pete was ultra-aware that they had barely touched since he woke up. Nothing beyond what was necessary.

And though it wasn’t something Pete had ever thought about in the past, he found himself thinking about it all the goddamn time.

The click of the door as Nurse June left the room pulls him from his reverie. And then they were alone. He was so used to Vegas being comatose that sitting in the room with him now that he was awake made him feel uneasy.

What were they supposed to talk about? The weather? The death-bed confession that Pete wasn’t expecting? The fact that no one but Arm from the main family had been in contact with him and that there were probably a million decisions that needed to be made about Vegas’s future?

The words were stuck in Pete’s throat, trapped behind the lump of emotion that caused him to feel constantly on the verge of tears, even when he felt nothing. Or when he pretended to feel nothing, ignoring how his heart screamed at him at all hours of the day.

Vegas cleared his throat, and Pete turned to see him looking sheepish. “I need to shave,” he scratched the stubble that had begun to grow on his face. Pete had grown used to it, but he could see it made him uncomfortable.

“Let me help,” Pete offered, meaning it as a statement rather than a question.

And that’s how, fifteen minutes later, Pete was sitting on the edge of the bed rearranging towels over Vegas’s shoulders and gathering the stuff he would need. This felt good. A task he could focus on. But it wasn’t until he was smoothing the shaving foam over his face that he realised how distracting it was to be so… close. The soft drag of the blade and Vegas’s quiet breaths were all he could hear. Pete glanced up for a second and caught Vegas staring at him, eyes moving all over as if examining his features. As he got to the trickier crevices of his face, Pete had to use his other hand to hold him in place. It was the closest proximity they’d been in for a long time.

Once finished, he wiped his skin with a damp cloth, admiring the stubble-free look. He looked like Vegas—not the healing, weary Vegas, but the arrogant, larger-than-life Vegas—the one Pete knew.

The one he loved.

***

Day fifty-six:

It was midnight. Pete started to feel strange comfort in being awake when most people were asleep. A familiar friend was the night, the horizon from the hospital window calming, the lights in the darkness twinkling their greetings as he looked on.

The soft snores from the bed behind him were his soundtrack of the night; the consistent beeps from the heart monitor were long gone. Which should have been a reprieve for Pete, yet all he could think about was that he couldn’t hear his heart beating. He could not count the pumps of blood rushing around his body. He couldn’t hear the reassurance that Vegas was alive. And it sent him spiralling into a state of anxiety that he hadn’t anticipated. Cool and calm and pushing down any emotion that would hinder his ability to function was how he was used to operating. Rarely did he feel the need to let out what he was feeling, and rarely did he feel the need to share anything with anyone. Until Vegas, that is. Now, it was like the box in his stomach was bursting at the seams with emotions that felt too big to handle.

Vegas was recovering. Vegas was asleep. He couldn’t help Pete.

Pete didn’t know if he even wanted him to.

“Pete,” Vegas called, making him jump. He quickly turned around to find Vegas squinting at him in the room’s dim light. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Tears gathered in his eyes that he didn’t know were there. Subtly wiping them away, he turned and smiled, walking back over to the bed. “Nothing’s wrong; I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Vegas said as he got back into the bed, far enough away that Pete wouldn’t worry about accidentally hurting him.

Pete froze, not expecting to have to be so truthful at this hour. “I’m not lying; I really couldn’t sleep,” he laughed shakily. Macau shifted from where he was sleeping in the armchair in the back of the room, and Pete was wary of waking him up. He’d fallen asleep before he could return to his own bedroom, but Pete didn’t have the energy to wake him. It was the weekend, so he didn’t need to be at school in the morning.

“No,” Vegas snapped, “I mean you’re lying to me about nothing being wrong. I’m not blind, Pete. I can see something bothering you.”

“I’m fine,” he argued weakly, knowing his game was nearly up. His mask is not as effective as he needed it to be.

“Pete,” Vegas raised his voice, exasperated. My body may be injured, but my brain is not. Stop insulting my intelligence and tell me what’s wrong.”

The lump in his throat was so monumental it hurt. The seams that had been valiantly holding on were ripping violently apart, and Pete was helpless to stop it. It was like something in him had been unleashed, and all the sadness, anger and fear he’d been feeling for so long had finally crushed him into the ground.

Vegas leaned to the side, trying to grab Pete’s hand to pull him closer. “Careful,” he stuttered as Vegas’s expression tensed in pain. “Don’t do that.”

“Then listen to me, I’m asking you,” Vegas yelled heatedly, and Pete scrambled to get closer to him lest he make his injuries worse. Macau had probably woken up by now, but he was too preoccupied to turn around and have a look.

“I…I don’t—” He had to pause, the emotion getting caught in his chest.

“I’m not letting this go until you tell me, so you might as well just get it over with,” Vegas said, voice quieter than before.

It was like Pete had suddenly fallen into an abyss. His ears started to ring, his entire body becoming rigid with panic, and, lo and behold, he began to cry. It wasn’t the usual kind of cry either; it was the messy kind. The kind where it’s punched out of you with a force that could knock down a tree, and you can’t catch your breath no matter how hard you try. He was on his side, curled up into a ball, facing away from Vegas, and he couldn’t help but wonder how pathetic he seemed. Sobbing like a toddler, it was pitiful.

“Pete,” he heard Vegas say, “Hey, calm down,” he felt a touch on his back, a warm hand. The mattress dipped as Vegas moved his position behind him. Pete should be stopping him, telling him he shouldn’t be moving like that with his healing wounds, but he was frozen in place.

All he could do was sob miserably, hoping that Macau would sleep through it. Vegas grunted behind him, making him turn around, blindly grabbing the hedgehog cushion and pushing it into Vegas’s stomach. “Be—careful,” he hiccupped, lying back down and pressing his face into the cushion, wanting to hide away from the concerned gaze he’d caught a glimpse of.

“Okay, okay,” Vegas shushed him, wiggling closer and sliding one hand into Pete’s hair, the other on the nape of his neck, the tips of his fingers slipping into the back of his shirt. The feel of his hands felt heavenly, grounding him. Making him feel like he wasn’t about to float away or disappear.

But he still wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Movement brought him out of that particular daydream. Someone was getting into the bed behind him, putting their arm around his waist, and snuggling up against his back.

Macau. It was Macau.

Somehow, this made him feel worse.

“So you’ll cuddle Pete but won’t cuddle me anymore?” Vegas asked in a half-joking, half-serious manner. He was obviously trying to lighten the mood, but Pete suspected he was slightly offended.

“Shut up, Hia,” he grumbled, making Pete smile, even though he was still sniffling. “He deserves it more than you.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said slowly in English. They continued to talk over his head, but Pete, being as exhausted as he was, fell asleep.

They all slept in Vegas’s bed that night.

***

Day fifty-seven:

The next day was awkward for Pete. He felt wrung out, his head pounding, and Vegas’s gaze seemed to be permanently on him. They hadn’t had a chance to talk about his breakdown. Not even Macau had said anything, which spoke volumes to Pete, as he was not shy about speaking his mind.

They held hands and sat up next to each other in bed. It was a new development, one that Pete liked. A lot. He’d held his hand when he’d been unconscious, but it felt much better now that it wasn’t limp and lifeless. Macau had gone to school, and they were waiting for the doctor to come and do a blood test. He’d lost track of how many Vegas had had so far or what this one was even for; all he knew was that it was necessary.

As Nurse June had expertly slid the needle into one of his veins (Pete was genuinely in awe as most of his veins had collapsed at this point from being overflowed with medication for so long), the door was thrust open without so much as a knock.

Pete had his knees to his chest, his hand in Vegas’s lap as they were clasped together, and he tensed where he sat, feeling Vegas do the same. In walked two bodyguards that Pete recognised, followed by Kinn and then a sheepish-looking Porsche. Pete’s expression schooled itself into something hard and blank, not giving anything away to the people who indeed had ulterior motives. As he glanced to the side, Pete saw Vegas glaring toward them.

“Vegas,” Kinn forced from his mouth as if his name was something dirty, which he did not want to speak. “I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

Are you? Pete wanted to ask. This was entirely surprising, considering they hadn’t heard an ounce of communication from him since they’d been in the hospital. Pete had no respect for insincerity.

“If you could let me finish withdrawing blood from my patient before you speak, Khun Kinn, I would be very grateful,” Nurse June said firmly, shutting down the conversation before it could start. She had only just filled the first vial before moving on to the second. Pete watched the red liquid slowly fill the glass container, squeezing Vegas’s hand as their eyes met.

The conversation Nurse June had managed to stall was bound to be complicated.

“Okay, Khun Vegas, you’re all set,” she said softly as she pressed a small cotton pad to the crook of his arm. "I’ll be outside if you need me.” She was gone with a squeeze to his thigh, the door softly closing behind her.

“So, what do you want, cousin?” Vegas sneered, holding Pete’s hand tighter, “Come to see if I’m still alive?”

“We’ve come to deliver some news,” Kinn said smugly, gesturing for Porsche to move forward from where he was half-hiding behind him, “Pete, Vegas, meet the new head of the minor family,” he gestured to Porsche proudly, and suddenly, Pete couldn’t recognise either of them.

Vegas’s expression was blank, and the same glare was staying put. “How original. I had my money on you, but Porsche is a nice touch. Does he know what he’s doing, or will he be hanging onto your dick to get things done?”

As the two cousins went back and forth, Pete focused on Porsche, who had yet to speak. He tried to avoid his gaze, but Pete was insistent. He examines the sheepish look in his eyes and tries to search for something else, anything else that shows Pete that he cares. That he cares that Pete has been sitting here for months on end, barely holding himself together. That he cares that he's taking away the position from the man who had been all but bred for it.

That he cares that Pete has been sitting here, waiting for a phone call, a text message, anything, from someone he thought he could call a friend.

Porsche looks away, and it feels like a knife to his heart.

***

Day fifty-seven (later that day):

It was a tense and slow-moving day after Porsche and Kinn left the room. Vegas had opted to sleep instead of partaking in any kind of conversation, leaving Pete to stew in his newfound anxiety, and he didn’t wake up until after Macau had come home from school. The air was thick with unspoken words, and as he waltzed into the room, they practically smacked him in the face.

“What’s happened?” He demanded, coming to a stop in front of the hospital bed and dropping his bags to the floor with a hard thud.

Pete opens his mouth to answer, but Vegas beats him to it. “Our dear cousin Kinn came to visit,” he explains croakily, his voice dripping with an emotion Pete couldn’t name. He hadn’t long woken up, yet he looked like he needed hours more sleep.

“How nice of him,” Macau sighs with heavy sarcasm, “What did he have to say?”

Pete braced himself. He didn’t know how Macau would take the news, and he still didn’t honestly know how Vegas felt about it.

“He was informing us about who the new head of the minor family is,” Vegas spoke slowly and carefully, and Macau tilted his head ever so slightly as if poised to hear the news.

“And who is it?” The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Porsche,” Vegas told him straight, “Uncle Korn obviously has his roots so deep in Kinn he could have appointed Tankhun’s stupid bodyguards, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.”

Pete frowned. Those are his friends. They weren’t stupid.

“Porsche?” Macau spat, face twisted in pure rage, “Porsche, the guy he’s fucking?”

“Language,” Pete interjected weakly, but Macau either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him entirely (Pete strongly guesses the latter).

“The guy who pushed me in a pond and thought I was a maid's kid…that guy?”

“Yes,” Vegas sighs, long and fatigued, “that guy.”

“He can barely do his job as a bodyguard, and he’s being put in charge of our family?” Macau is practically steaming with anger, the words violently leaving his mouth, “I would have expected Kinn to have called himself the head, but Porsche. It should be you, Hia.”

“You really think they’d let me after everything that happened?” Vegas trailed off, looking more and more exhausted the longer Macau kept talking.

“How is it fair for that piece of shit to show up and get handed things on a silver platter when you’ve been all but raised for the title–”

“Okay, Macau–”

“It’s bullshit!” He said in English, one of the few things Pete could understand in his limited knowledge of the language.

“Macau!” Vegas yelled sharp and firm, face like thunder and bags under his eyes the size of Jupiter, “Stop swearing. And stop going on and on about it; it’s done now. And I’m in no fit state to question their choices.”

“It’s not fair,” he murmured, voice shaky.

“Life isn’t fair, Macau; you and I both know this to be a fact.”

Pete gazed upon the two brothers, feeling as if he was nothing but a tiny speck in a conversation the size of the earth. It was the first time he was willing to face the consequences of the actions that each and every one of them had taken—paused momentarily while they waited for Vegas to wake up. There were issues so deep Pete didn’t know where to start; they had discussions to have—things unanswered.

Pete knew nothing. For once, he was navigating blindly, and he sought no comfort from the fact that Vegas and Macau were running sightless with him.

***

Day sixty-one:

The hand running up and down his back was making him feel drowsy. Pete was curled up on Vegas’s bed (much to the dismay of all the medical personnel who weren’t Nurse June) with his back towards him. He was quietly lying there, assuming Vegas was still asleep, when his hand approached Pete’s back, slowly stroking up and down. When Vegas gets to the small of his back, his hand catches on his shirt as it trails back up its path, and he drags his nails over his skin just so, sending tingles up his spine.

The silence around them was warm, and Pete didn’t want to disturb it for fear that Vegas would stop touching him. Ever since Kinn had barged his way into their space, Vegas had pulled back on the tentative touches he had been giving Pete. If he could guess why, it would be that he was overthinking his future. Now that it was clear Vegas had little to no power over his life in the way he did before, it must be incredibly conflicting for him.

However, Pete wouldn’t know for sure, seeing as Vegas never talked to him.

He’d wanted to broach the conversation himself, but…he didn’t know how. It was strange; this type of situation was alien to him. His feelings usually stayed inside his chest, and trying to let them out was surprisingly hard. Pete knew it made him a hypocrite, but there wasn’t much he could do about it—apart from stew in his own thoughts and feelings, that is.

“So, when do you have to go back to work?” Vegas murmured, hand still grazing his back.

Pete startled. He didn’t realise Vegas was awake, nor did he realise that Vegas knew he was awake. He hadn’t moved in hours, a force of habit from being a bodyguard.

“Back to work?” Pete repeated. Confused, he turned around to see Vegas turn towards him on his side, hand poised in the air where Pete had interrupted it.

“I’m assuming now that Kinn has made his presence known, he’ll want you back to your duties,” he let his hand drop between them, and Pete couldn’t help but stare at it.

Ah. Vegas didn’t know.

“Oh, um, no, he won’t,” Pete faltered, watching as Vegas began to frown.

“Why not?” His hand twitches where it still sits between them.

“Because…” Pete pauses, finding it hard to say when Vegas stares at him with an intensity he hasn’t seen in so long, “Because I resigned. The night you were shot, before it happened, I resigned. I don’t work for the main family anymore.”

“Oh,” he says simply, the hardness of his gaze draining from his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t think to bring it up. I thought Macau would have told you by now,” he tries to smile but falls short. Vegas moves his hand to hold one of Pete’s, thumb caressing the dry skin.

“He did make some comments, but I was too out of it to ask what it meant,” he sighed, though it was not one of any negative emotion, “or I didn’t want to get my hopes up in case I’d mistook what he was saying.”

Pete smiled softly at the admission. He could see this being more truthful than the former.

“You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” he squeezed his hand and let his soft smile grow stronger. "You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Vegas smiled, though his eyes were empty, and something in Pete’s chest cracked.

***

Day sixty-seven:

Vegas was steadier on his feet more often these days. His strength was slowly returning, though he still had a long way to go. He was in a foul mood. And it was so foul, in fact, that it had driven Macau out of the hospital and away to do his homework somewhere else. That was when Pete knew it was terrible. Macau didn’t leave for anything.

“Just a few more steps, Khun Vegas,” Nurse June said chirpily as she supervised his walk, “and then you can sit down.”

Vegas was tense. Pete watched as he clenched his jaw from where he was walking with him, holding onto his elbow, “I’m tired of fucking sitting down,” he hissed, pausing where they were mere metres away from the door to his room.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” Pete encouraged, rubbing his back lightly.

“I trust Pete can get you safely back into the room without me,” Nurse June said as she likely realised Vegas was on the verge of exploding. "I’ll be back later to give you your medications.”

Pete smiled at her as she left, and the glare Vegas shot him was so reminiscent of who Pete knew him to be that he had to stop himself from laughing. God forbid Vegas caught him being happy when he was clearly miserable.

“I’m not a child,” Vegas said as soon as Nurse June was out of earshot, “would you stop holding me? I can walk on my own.” And he shoved Pete away from him with a force that, had he been well enough, would have knocked him to the floor.

Pete sighed as Vegas shuffled back into the dismal hospital room, following him a few steps behind; he closed the door softly behind him. “No one thinks you’re a child, Vegas. You’re recovering from major surgery; that’s not something you bounce back from overnight.”

“I know that! You think I don’t fucking know that!” He yelled, picking up the remote for the TV and throwing it across the room. It made Pete flinch as it clattered to the ground. “I spend every waking moment thinking about it, Pete. You don’t need to rub it in.”

“Okay,” he said carefully, walking over to pick up the remote and putting it out of his reach. “I was just reminding you.” He walked over to where Vegas stood by the bed, gripping the overbed table so hard his knuckles were white.

“You don’t need to remind me,” he said with an exhausted air of finality, “I’m well aware.”

“Do you want to get back into bed?” Pete asked cautiously, at a loss for how to help him. As Pete stood by him, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, like he was trying not to detonate.

“I don’t want to lie down,” he retorted, snatching up the glass on the table.

Pete grabs it before he can throw it. “Okay, fine. You don’t have to lie down,” he assures him, scanning the area for anything else Vegas can reach and injure himself or Pete with.

It was one of those days where it was impossible to pull Vegas out of his head. The darkness that Pete suspects is lurking in there weighs heavier on him than usual. It was hard to watch. It was also hard to be the target of the emotional darts Vegas launched at him, which seemed to hit the centre of Pete’s heart near perfectly every time.

Silence washed over them; the footsteps of people walking in the hall and the faint traffic coming in from the cracked open window were the only things loud enough to hear. Vegas stands robust, brittle, a fragile strength on the verge of breaking. The slight hunch in his back and the beads of sweat on his temple signal to Pete that he is hurting more than he will show.

But, god, Pete wishes he would show it.

He hovers awkwardly, aware that Vegas is on the edge but failing to know how to bring him back from it. It made him feel inadequate. If only because he didn’t know what it was that Vegas needed. And that felt worse than anything.

“Well, are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a fucking idiot?” Vegas sneered, not moving from his position, gripping the overbed table.

Pete looked away. “No,” he murmured, palms sweating. "Are you hungry? Shall I get us something to eat?” He asked, resigned.

“No, I’m not hungry,” Vegas roared, positively furious for reasons Pete could not explain. “Jesus Christ, Pete, do something useful for once and get out.”

Bullseye.

Pete froze, his ears filling with a sharp ringing as ice-cold dread flowed through his veins. Do something useful for once. Ah. That was it. Was that what he was, unuseful?

Useless.

Useless.

Useless.

Without a word, Pete got out. Ignoring the sound of Vegas screaming. Ignoring the sound of destruction as he inevitably found more objects to destroy in his fit of rage, Pete closed the door.

And he walked away.

***

Day sixty-seven (three hours and forty-seven minutes later):

It was dark as Pete finished his fourth cigarette. The wind had picked up, and he hoped a storm was brewing to aid as a much-needed distraction. An old man bummed a cigarette off him, smelling of alcohol and despair; Pete watched as he staggered away, wondering what his story was.

Macau had returned after finishing his homework. Obviously not wanting to spend much time away from his brother, he’d frowned when he saw Pete standing outside the front of the building. He said nothing, though, as he sauntered past with false confidence, his guard following closely behind. Pete sighed heavily, looking up as the first few raindrops started to fall, indicating an imminent downpour. He would have to go back inside and hope that his lack of presence, and the added one of Macau, had managed to calm Vegas down.

It stung to think of himself as useless. Unable to look after the one he cared about deeply, he couldn’t even voice it. Memories of the very same word being flung at him by his father surfaced, and he struggled to push them back down. He needed to get a grip. Becoming more useless than he already was didn’t bode well for him.

Walking the familiar path back to the hospital room was over much too quickly for his liking. He faced the door, unsure whether he should open it. Deeply uncertain of whether he would be wanted inside the room, should he step foot in it. However, his mind was made up for him when Nurse June suddenly opened the door, her faint lines of stress disappearing. She smiled when she realised Pete was standing there.

“Oh, Pete, there you are,” she said with a loud cheerfulness that sounded erroneous to his ears, “we were just wondering where you’d got to.”

He gulped, not knowing whether they were annoyed about why he’d been gone for so long or simply curious. Not knowing whether they included Vegas. “Just needed a breather,” he smiled shakily, hoping she wouldn’t notice its fakeness.

“Vegas has just gotten into the shower. He should be out in a bit. He promised me he wouldn’t wash his hair without your help.” Not knowing what to say, Pete nodded and walked into the room, saying a quiet goodbye as Nurse June left for the night.

Macau glared at him as soon as he shut the door, looking up from his game and throwing the console into his lap. “Why did you leave for so long?”

“I needed a smoke,” he lied, walking over to the bed and straightening out the sheets, picking Hans, the hedgehog, where he’d fallen to the floor.

“For almost four hours?” Macau questioned in disbelief, standing up from the chair, “Did you have an argument? He’s sulking and won’t tell me anything.”

“I think Vegas would have told you if he wanted you to know,” he said tiredly, facing him when he’d run out of things to fiddle with. “We’re fine, you don’t need to worry.”

Macau didn’t look like he believed him. “I’m not worried,” he pouted, and Pete couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s late. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Pete said gently, watching as his face dropped. “He’s going to have hard days. It’s normal, I promise. You can go home; he’ll be okay.”

“Fine,” he muttered after a moment's pause, staring at Pete’s face as if searching for a lie, satisfied when he couldn’t find one.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Pete reassured him, feeling guilty that he had to go home alone but knowing that spending all night in the hospital room wasn’t an option if things were to get ugly again.

He nodded. Moving to walk away but turning back at the last minute, striding over and hugging him. Pete stared down at him in bewilderment, his hands hovering nervously before he wrapped them around his smaller form, holding him tightly. He’d never walked up and hugged him like this before.

“You’ll call if anything happens?” He spoke into Pete’s shoulder, clinging tightly to his waist.

“Yes,” Pete promised, lightly pulling at his shoulders so he could look into his eyes. "I’ll call you if I need to.” He pulled away quickly after that as if embarrassed he needed a hug, loudly knocking on the bathroom door and shouting his goodbyes to Vegas.

Once he left, Pete sat on the edge of the bed, bracing himself for when Vegas would find him sitting there. Alone and hanging in the balance. He ends up zoning out as he waits, letting the sound of the rain smashing against the windows wash over him. The faint sounds of Vegas in the bathroom can barely be heard over the storm outside, and Pete lets his mind drift into nothing. He gets so caught up in his head that he doesn’t hear the shower stop or the door to the bathroom creak open.

“Pete?” Vegas rasps, standing in the doorway with a too-large t-shirt, plaid trousers and a sad frown. On closer inspection, Pete thinks the T-shirt might be his.

“Hey,” he said, blindsided by the softer look on his face and his bare shoulder on show where the t-shirt was hanging off it.

“You came back,” the questioning tone in his voice made Pete frown as he watched Vegas walk into the room, coming to stand in front of him.

“Of course I did,” Pete looked up at him, trying hard not to feel insulted, “you think I’d leave that easily?”

Vegas looked down at the floor, a sheepish expression flitting over his features, “I would have if I were you,” he admitted quietly, his demeanour sincere. Pete wanted to take his hands and wrap them around his neck. He wanted to throttle him, wanted to make him see that he wouldn’t abandon him when they’d hardly had time to live, hardly had time to…be together.

Pete stood up without warning, and they were almost nose to nose. Their slight height difference was evident; Pete was taller but did not feel it. From this angle, Vegas looked tired, the bags under his eyes permanent, and the flush in his cheeks a small delight. Instead of saying anything, he did what he’d wanted to do for a while.

Pete hugged him.

He slid his arms around Vegas’s waist and pulled him close, holding himself back from squeezing too tightly. Pete felt him inhale in what he could only assume was surprise, his breath catching in his throat. It only took a few seconds for Vegas to hug him back, winding his arms around his neck and burying his face in the crook of it.

A sudden desperation to be close crashed over him, and he found himself clutching at Vegas’s shoulder blades, burying his nose in the crook of his freshly washed, bare shoulder.

It wasn’t enough to be this close. He needed skin to skin, heart to heart, rib to rib. He needed to crawl inside Vegas’s chest cavity and make a home there.

Vegas leaned into his body like he trusted Pete to hold him up.

It felt like he could breathe for the first time in forever, and he smiled, wishing he could leave its imprint on Vegas’s skin. He clutched Pete tighter in response, and it felt like he could float with the hope of it.

***

Day seventy:

Vegas had been asleep when he woke that morning. It was earlier than he would usually wake, and the rumble of his stomach forced him out of bed. Macau was still snoring on the armchair; he’d ‘accidentally’ fallen asleep the night before, and Pete didn’t have the heart to send him home.

It wasn’t long before he returned from the market, takeout bag in hand and a newfound feeling of happiness lurking in his stomach. Things felt better. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on; nothing had changed. Vegas was still mean, and Macau was still hovering, but Pete felt lighter than he had in a long time.

As he walked back into the room, it was still dark. He left the takeout bag on the table before making a beeline for the curtains to let the morning sun warm the room. As he turned, he caught eye with Vegas, who was sitting up in bed with a soft, open expression.

Pete smiled, truthful.

“Are you up?”

“For a while now.”