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When Pete steps back into the living room, Macau and Vegas are sitting on the sofa exactly where he left them, identical blank expressions on their faces. Pete sighs. They’ve just spent the day at the minor family’s compound, tearing through lifetimes of accumulated stuff in the scant ten hours they were allotted, boxing up and moving what personal effects Korn’s men had deemed acceptable for them to keep. Pete had hoped a drink or two might help a little, after a day like that, but while the bottle on the table has been slowly emptying over the past hour, so have his hopes of making them feel better.
Macau turns as he approaches. “Hey, sorry I spilled my drink on…you…” He trails off, staring at Pete like he’s seen a ghost.
“What?”
“…That’s not your shirt.”
Since when does Macau care what he wears? Pete frowns, plucks at the polo shirt he’s wearing. He’d assumed it was Vegas' shirt, since he'd pulled it out of one of the open boxes in their room. But Vegas is staring at him too, looking strangely rattled instead of with his usual possessive satisfaction. So maybe the shirt’s not his? Maybe it’s…Tawan’s? “Should I change again…?”
Macau picks up his glass and hides his face in it. “Nah, whatever,” he says, trying to sound casual, “it’s just a shirt.”
“It’s just a fucking shirt.” Vegas knocks back another glass himself, doing an even poorer job of acting casual.
“…Alright.” Pete drops back down on the sofa between them. He picks up his own drink and takes a sip. Vegas and Macau don’t take their eyes off him for even a second.
“Guess you can’t help dressing like an old man, eh Dad?” Macau says with fake cheer, and then winces, uncharacteristically. Vegas also winces, which is more characteristic—Pete suspects Macau now makes the ‘Dad’ joke mostly to needle Vegas, since Pete has become more immune. But instead of grinning at Vegas’ reaction, Macau abruptly shoots to his feet and announces, “Kay I’m tired, night.”
“Night, Macau,” they reply automatically as Macau stomps out towards his bedroom.
“What’s that about?” Pete wonders, turning to Vegas—who hauls him in for a bruising kiss instead of answering. Okay, Pete thinks, opening his mouth for Vegas’ tongue and letting himself get shoved down onto the sofa. Hopefully this will help more than alcohol.
But Vegas remains disconcertingly quiet, even as he pins Pete’s wrists above his head and scatters bites across his skin. And maybe it’s the drink loosening Pete’s tongue, or maybe the two of them will always balance each other out somehow, but Pete soon hears his own voice filling the silence. Just noises at first, pleased gasps and approving groans as Vegas moves down his body with teeth and nails. Then, when Vegas shoves a hand roughly down his pants, Pete finds words spilling out, yes and please and Vegas, Vegas—
Vegas pulls away abruptly. “Bed,” he pants as he rocks to his feet, “we should….”
“Yeah,” Pete says, standing up himself, “yes.” And then, when Vegas only stares at him, Pete leans back in to kiss him messily, chest aching. They shuffle out the living room like that, tangled in each other, with Pete leading the way.
The rest of the house is dark, as is the study they stagger into by mistake. Pete makes out the silhouette of a desk and some boxes, one of which Vegas promptly stubs his toe on. “Ow, fuck,” he hisses, turning away from Pete to glare at the box.
No, Pete thinks muzzily, they’ve had enough of glaring at boxes for the day. “Come here,” he demands, reaching out to yank Vegas in by the front of his shirt as he backs up towards the desk. They don’t need a bed, really, any surface will do.
But instead of bending him over the desk, Vegas stumbles, glances up at him in passing, and flinches back.
He doesn’t get far—Pete still has one hand in the front of his shirt. He can’t quite make out Vegas’ shadowed expression. But there’s nothing in this room except the two of them and all they’ve been doing is making out, nothing complicated; something easy on a day that’s difficult enough, Pete thinks as he lifts his other hand up to Vegas’ cheek. Vegas closes his eyes as Pete strokes a thumb along the taut lines of his face. Maybe Vegas saw a spider. Pete will kill them all for him in the morning.
He tugs at Vegas’ shirt again and says, voice hoarse, “Come on, come here.”
Vegas comes—he comes easier than expected, and their lips crash together, hard and clumsy. Even that impact feels good; feeling Vegas moving with him, finally, feels good. But Vegas doesn’t do more than that, meeting kiss for kiss, oddly passive. Eventually, Pete wraps a hand around the back of Vegas’ neck, guiding him down to Pete’s bared throat. There’s a scrape of teeth, and Pete hums in pleasure as Vegas moves down towards the sensitive skin over Pete’s collarbone—and then Vegas stops.
After a moment, Pete leans a little further back and looks down. “What?”
Vegas belatedly tears his eyes away from the collar of Pete’s shirt to look back up at his face. This close, Pete can see how unsettled he looks. Pete squeezes the back of his neck instinctively, trying to give comfort, but it only makes Vegas inhale sharply, the whites of his eyes becoming more visible in the dark.
“What?” Pete repeats. “Are you okay—”
Vegas drops his gaze, and drops to his knees. Pete opens his mouth, not sure if he’s about to object, then groans when Vegas makes quick work of his fly and gets his mouth around Pete’s cock. It’s just a regular blowjob, wet and sloppy, but good enough that pleasure quickly washes the uneasiness from Pete’s mind. Pete can’t help moaning aloud, and then words are spilling out again, about how good it is, fuck, Vegas, do that again, your mouth, fuck yeah, you’re so good, you’re so good—
Pete thrusts up a little too hard by accident, and Vegas chokes around Pete’s cock. Instead of pulling off or pinning Pete’s hips down, however, Vegas just whines, high and soft, throat spasming around the head of Pete’s cock. And when the rush of heat receeds, Pete sees that Vegas' eyes are half-open, unfocused.
A flicker of worry eels its way into Pete’s brain. Unsure what to do, he shifts his hand from the back of Vegas neck up to his hair, to slowly pull him off his cock. Vegas follows, strangely pliant—until there’s just the head of Pete’s cock resting on his lips, and then Vegas squeezes his eyes shut and lets his mouth fall open, something pained and almost devout in his waiting face.
“Vegas…” Pete says, voice coming out low and wary, and Vegas flinches a little under his hands.
“Pa,” he breathes.
Oh, fuck. Pete’s fingers clench in Vegas’ hair in alarm, and Vegas gasps, sharp and frantic. It’s the shirt, it's his shirt, oh fuck the dad joke wasn’t just a joke this time. Vegas is mouthing at the head of his cock now, as if trying to give him pleasure without moving under his hand. Vegas laps at his slit with timid flicks of tongue, and Pete’s cock twitches despite himself, despite the nauseating wave of horror and rage and pity that roars through him as he watches Vegas’ brows draw together like he’s bracing to take a hit.
“Vegas, hey,” Pete says, louder, and tries to tug Vegas off his cock entirely—but Vegas makes a distraught whimper, and Pete freezes.
“Please,” Vegas says, high and pleading, nothing like how he usually talks to Pete. “I’m sorry, let me…”
“Hey, no, hey…” Pete tries for soothing, but ends up sounding a little distraught himself, especially when he feels Vegas recoiling under his hands at the word ‘no’. Vegas is so much better at this, he thinks frantically, what does he usually say, damn it. “It’s okay,” he tries again, “it’s good, you’re good, you’re okay…”
Little by little, word by word, Vegas settles. He still cringes when Pete tries to take his hand away, but when Pete puts his hand back, starts carefully combing through his hair instead of holding him, Vegas lets out a hum that could almost be satisfaction.
Except Pete’s not sure what to do now. He supposes he could keep petting Vegas all night—it’s quite calming honestly—but Vegas’ knees will absolutely kill him in the morning. Maybe if they both somehow manage to sit on the floor…? But the moment he shifts his weight, Vegas stirs, leans forward, and has his mouth around Pete’s half-hard cock before Pete can stop him.
“Vegas—” Pete yelps, then hurriedly moderates his voice to something more gentle. “Vegas, hey, maybe let’s just…”
Vegas gives his cock a particularly hard suck, and Pete lets out a reflexive whine. Vegas hums in satisfaction again, and Pete has to bite down on any further encouraging noises as he tries to squirm away instead of pulling Vegas off (which…didn’t go so well the last time).
Vegas finally opens his eyes again. “Please.”
“Vegas…”
“Pete,” Vegas whispers. And though there’s a brittle, half-starved glint in his eyes, it’s still his Vegas, looking up at him. “Let me. Please.”
“Okay, okay,” Pete whispers back helplessly. With shaking hands, he strokes Vegas’ hair as he works his way back onto Pete’s cock, and lets himself drink in the way Vegas’ brows finally unfurrow. “That’s good,” he chokes out, when Vegas starts moving on his cock in earnest, and Vegas makes a muffled, grateful noise in response. “Yeah, that’s so good, you’re so good, Vegas…”
He soon loses track of the words he says in between his moans. Visible tremors begin running across Vegas’ back, as if every word from Pete’s lips is a shock wave, as if Pete is the epicenter of his very own earthquake. Vegas bobs his head faster the more Pete praises him, sucking harder and messier, and Pete soon has to close his eyes against the sight; there are tears spilling down Vegas’ cheeks, and drool trailing down his chin, but he looks reverent, ecstatic. “Fuck, you’re, ah, Vegas, that’s good, that’s amazing, you’re amazing, I’m gonna— I’m—” Pete tugs at Vegas’ hair in warning, feeling the rising edge of climax, but Vegas just whines around his cock, and Pete can’t— He’s going to— “Ah, fuck— Vegas, I need— I need you—”
Vegas jolts, back arching and hips bucking, mouth open to inhale noisily before letting out a raw, broken keen. Fuck, he’s coming, Pete thinks wildly, I haven’t even touched him and— Pete’s knees give out as orgasm slams through him in a shock of tenderness and heat. And then he’s falling, they’re both falling to the ground, clutching at each other, shaking apart in each other’s arms.
And they don’t let go, not for the rest of the night; not until dawn slips in through the curtains, and Vegas finally stops sobbing in Pete’s embrace.