Author's Note: This story will include a portrayal of BDSM relationship, it'll also include abuse from father to son (Kan to Vegas), and allusions to abuse from father to son (Pete's dad to Pete). If any of that bothers you, please click out. :) If I add anything that may be triggering in the future, I will make sure to make an announcement about that when I post the chapter! Updates will be made as I finish writing the chapters, so no schedule. I hope you enjoy!
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PETE
Was it Steel Blue? But it seemed darker than that. Perhaps Yale Blue? It was difficult matching colors when all he had was some google images with names of colors pulled up and all the charts had the names of the colors matching different sorts of blues. It had him letting out a sigh as his eyes flicked from his phone to his boss' shirt, trying as hard as he could to match the color.
At least the small flowers that dotted the shirt were clearly Baby Pink. The leaves? Pete would just settle on green. The blue though—there was something about that color that captured his attention. According to the internet, blue was a calming and serene color that could represent intelligence and responsibility. It could also signify depth and power.
These were all things Pete saw when he looked at Vegas Theerapanyakun.
Other things he saw when he looked at Vegas Theerapanyakun was a confidence unlike Pete had ever seen before, and he'd seen confidence. But there was something about the way the man held himself, back straight, head tilted up, eyes staring directly into a person's face, as if he were looking down at you from his tall height—except Mr. Vegas was about the same as Pete. In fact, he was a little shorter, a bit more slender, leaner than Pete was.
Not that Pete paid attention or anything, it was just—it's hard not to look at Vegas Theerapanyakun. Especially when he was his direct boss, the leader of the sales division of Theerapanyakun Pharmaceuticals.
Pete had worked for T.K.P. since before he had even graduated college. He'd managed to score an internship for his first semester of his final year and had impressed the then CEO (who had retired in the last couple of years and passed the reins over to his son Kinn) so much that he'd been offered a full-time job to start as soon as he graduated. Pete would've been an idiot to pass up on the opportunity. So it'd been nearly five years that he'd been at this desk, and Pete was good at his job. Generally, he didn't get distracted from his work.
It was only recently that it changed with the arrival of Vegas as the new lead of the sales division, and that's when Pete found his concentration starting to wane somewhat.
The office was hot. It was one of the hottest days of the year and Pete's little fan on his desk was barely working. It sputtered, mostly churning the hot air that surrounded him to create a slight movement, but it didn't cool Pete off any.
He shifted at his desk, looking towards his monitor where sales plans for the upcoming new drug the company was going to be pushing taunted him and his inability to focus. Pete's eyes fell back to his phone screen and the color chart before lifting towards Vegas as he stood talking to another employee, going over some papers in a folder that he held.
The shirt was definitely Yale Blue.
Hands grabbed at his shoulders, jolting Pete from his thoughts. He jumped, his phone nearly tumbling from his hands and to the floor beneath his desk.
"What are you looking at?" His friend Porsche asked from over his shoulder, reaching to grab his phone. Pete quickly closed out of the browser and dropped his phone on his desk. His cheeks felt warm for some reason and his heart pounded in his chest. "I can't see? Were you looking at porn or something?"
"Ha, funny," Pete shifted in his seat, pulling himself closer to his desk. "I'm not you." He glanced behind him towards Porsche who cleared his throat with an embarrassed grin, clearly remembering the time that he'd gotten caught doing exactly that—looking at porn on a work computer.
"Then why can't I see what you were looking at?" Porsche leaned against his desk, grabbing a red stress ball that Pete had sitting off to the side, squeezing it in his hand.
Pete tossed a furtive glance towards Mr. Vegas, but the man had walked off and disappeared. He let out a slight sigh and turned back towards his computer, clicking aimlessly at the screen.
"It wasn't anything. Just... thinking of repainting something at home." Pete excused off the top of his head.
Porsche made a slight face, looking down at him in puzzlement. "Don't you live in an apartment? Are you allowed to paint?"
Pete blinked, inwardly cursing Porsche for being so smart with some things and so dumb with others.
He smiled, giving a small laugh. "I mean my grandparents' house. Last time I visited, the place was looking a little run-down. I was thinking of giving it a redecoration."
"That's nice—maybe I should do the same at home. Wonder if Chay would want to paint his room. We've always had white. That's kind of boring, right?"
"Right, boring." Pete agreed, catching sight of the time and saving his work. "Lunch. What're you doing?"
"I was going to go down to the caf—" Porsche's phone buzzed in his pocket and he stopped himself, reaching in to grab it. Pete watched as he stared at his screen for a moment before straightening up and dropping the stress ball back onto Pete's desk. "Actually, I have to go. K—Mr. Kinn said he has to talk to me about something. Don't want to keep him waiting or anything. Maybe tomorrow we can eat at the cafeteria together? Catch up? It's been a bit."
Pete blinked and nodded, agreeing. Porsche clapped him on the shoulder and then hurried off. Pete shook his head and reached into his bag tossed beneath his desk, pulling out a packet of smokes and his lighter. He stood, shoving them in his pocket and then headed up towards the roof.
His mind was still full of that Yale Blue, slender wrists peeking out from the shirt, a simple chain-link necklace sitting against exposed flesh of the chest. He didn't understand why Mr. Vegas' fashion sense was the only thing he could think about currently.
Pete shook his head, feeling slightly dizzy from the heat. It was hot outside, but at least there would be air movement, so he pushed the door to the roof open and stepped outside—only to come to an automatic pause as the door slammed shut behind him.
His heart lurched in his chest as Mr. Vegas turned to stare at him, his phone pressed against his ear, a cigarette held between his fingers on his left hand. Pete's grip tightened slightly around his own pack of cigarettes and he took a small step back, meaning to quickly leave and get out of his boss' hair, but the man held up a hand, signaling him to wait.
Pete froze on the spot like a man captured by Medusa's snakes. The heat of the sun blazed down on him, causing his shirt to stick to his skin. He could practically feel the sweat spots forming, trying to cool him down.
Perhaps coming outside was a mistake. He wanted nothing more than to turn heel and run back to the safety of his desk. Being near Mr. Vegas sent panicked alarms blaring through his head, but he couldn't move—not when Mr. Vegas basically ordered him not to.
So he stayed still, neither moving closer or leaving, feeling almost as if he were forming roots to the roof beneath his feet.
Finally, after what could've been a minute or an hour, Mr. Vegas hung up his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket, turning towards him as he took a drag of his cigarette.
"Going to just stand there and waste your break?"
Mr. Vegas' voice snapped Pete out of his trance. He shuffled in place a little, wanting to still leave, but Mr. Vegas' dark eyes on him seemed to pull him forward instead, until he was standing a few feet away from Mr. Vegas at the railing of the roof, a cigarette ashtray standing between them acting as a barrier.
"Sorry for interrupting your phone call, Mr. Vegas." Pete bowed his head in apology and then looked down to his hands where the pack of cigarettes crumpled a little in his vice-like grip. He let it loose automatically and opened it up, sighing as he pulled one out to see that it'd broken in two. "Shit..." He cursed before catching himself, jumping and bowing to Mr. Vegas again. "Sorry for cursing!"
He held still, his face hot. It could be the sun or it could be the humiliation he felt coursing through his spine like a raging river, but he felt unable to straighten, not wanting to see whatever look Mr. Vegas must be giving him.
A cigarette was held into view and Pete blinked, lifting his head to see Mr. Vegas holding one out to him, his face unreadable.
Pete straightened up and lightly took the cigarette, even though a part of him wanted to turn it down out of embarrassment—he knew he couldn't do that. That would be rude.
"Thank you, Mr. Vegas..." He murmured, taking his cigarette between his lips, shoving his ruined pack into his pocket before bringing his lighter up to his smoke.
It flickered and then died.
His skin warmed somehow even further. Pete hadn't realized that was possible. He tried again. The lighter did the same thing. Once more—the flame lasted for a moment longer and Pete brought it to his cigarette, only for it to die again.
Before he could even work up the courage to turn to his boss and ask, an arm reached out, fingers flicking a flame to life. Pete's eyes trailed from the graceful hand, up the length of the arm covered in a Yale Blue satin shirt dotted with Baby Pink flowers, towards a slightly exposed chest wearing a chain necklace, up a neck dotted with light perspiration, towards a face that Pete truly believed had to have been perfected in some laboratory somewhere because there was no way an actual person could just look like that.
Mr. Vegas raised his brows—Pete didn't fail to notice the scar breaking through his right eyebrow—and nodded towards the lighter. Pete jumped, leaning forward and lighting his cigarette. The lighter disappeared as quickly as it had come and Pete finally relaxed as he inhaled his first breath of nicotine all day.
"Thank you," he murmured, keeping his eyes firmly on the railing of the roof to avoid looking at his boss, even though he could feel his eyes sliding to him every once in a while.
He'd never been this close to him—well, not like this. Pete had been in meetings with him, only a few feet away. Mr. Vegas had talked to him about some of his work, but he'd never been close to him in this way. On a roof. Smoking. Together.
It felt different. It had him feeling heated. Although, that could just be the actual heat.
The silence felt stiff. Pete wanted to break it, but questioned whether or not he should. Did he have a right to break it? Would Mr. Vegas prefer to just stand here in silence until he finished his cigarette and left? Pete got chatty when he was nervous and he could feel the words on the tip of his tongue. He tried to swallow them back, but it just wasn't working.
"I'm almost done with the sales numbers, I'll have them on your desk before—"
"—Do you like to spend your breaks talking about work?" Mr. Vegas asked, blowing out a line of smoke that seemed to swirl through the air, hypnotizing Pete.
"W-what?" Pete asked, not having expected to suddenly be asked a question like that.
Mr. Vegas' lips twitched and he leaned against the railing, pressing his cigarette into the tray between the two of them. "Your breaks? Do you like spending them talking about work? Are you a work-a-holic?"
Pete blinked. Honestly, no, he didn't like spending his breaks talking about work. He supposed he could be considered a bit of a work-a-holic. He liked doing his job well and he took it seriously, but he was also the sort to take his scheduled breaks exactly when he was supposed to be taking them and not a minute too soon or too late.
"Uh, no..." he cleared his throat, pushing away his embarrassment to try and hold some semblance of an actual conversation. Mr. Vegas was done smoking, but it didn't appear that he wanted to move away, so Pete knew he needed to get over the anxiety he was feeling being near him. "No, actually I don't. I just—didn't know what to say." He cleared his throat, taking another drag of his cigarette.
"You've worked here for a while, right?" Mr. Vegas' voice was soft. It was something that had shocked Pete to his core the first time Pete had heard him speak in his introduction. From the look of him, Pete had expected a commanding, arrogant voice, but it was actually quite the opposite. There was confidence in his words, of course, but it only made him more intriguing.
"Since I got out of college," Pete replied, feeling his shoulders relax as he leaned forward against the railing. "I interned in my final year. Went around each department. Mr. Korn liked me so he gave me a job once I graduated."
"That's impressive. My uncle doesn't usually feel that way about people. You must have skills."
Pete cleared his throat and bowed his head slightly, hair falling in front of his face to hide the pink that no doubt now tinged his cheeks. He took another drag of his cigarette and wiped his forehead, watching the view below as people entered and exited the building.
"I just did my job well, I guess. And I got lucky, since there was an opening—"
"You sell yourself short," Mr. Vegas interrupted, sliding a little closer so that they were only two feet away instead of the four they had been at the start. "If you got a job here after just an internship, then you clearly had something about you that other people didn't."
The cigarette burned down to its end as Pete searched for a way to respond. He put it out in the tray, but didn't make to leave, and looked up at Mr. Vegas who stared at him expectantly. Pete's eyes fell down to the Yale Blue shirt. Had he opened up another button? He supposed he couldn't blame him—it was quite hot out.
Pete pushed a smile on his face, trying to brush away the compliment because it was the only thing he could think to do, the only thing that would get his mind off that damn shirt and exposed chest. "I don't know about that."
"What did I just say about selling yourself short?" Mr. Vegas asked, his brows raising.
The question was rhetorical, Pete knew it was rhetorical. Questions like this usually were—however, Pete felt the undeniable urge to answer, as if he was supposed to reply to everything Mr. Vegas asked him without hesitation, as if he were a student replying to their teacher.
"You..." Pete hesitated for a moment, the words teetering on the edge of his tongue. "You said that I sell myself short."
A spark lit up in Mr. Vegas' eyes. Pete couldn't tell what the spark meant, but the spark was followed by Mr. Vegas' gaze trailing down his body slowly, looking at him appraisingly. The dizzy feeling from the heat came back and Pete had to grasp the roof's railing to keep from swaying.
"You should stop doing it." Mr. Vegas placed his hand on the railing, mere inches away from Pete's. Pete thought he was ridiculous to think he could feel his body heat from that distance, but he could. Then Mr. Vegas leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he were about to speak a secret. "Consider that an assignment—stop selling yourself short, Pete."
And God did Pete want to fulfill this assignment to his utmost ability.
"I—yes, Mr. Vegas."
Mr. Vegas quickly moved back and Pete inhaled deeply, wondering when he had even stopped breathing.
"Good, then next time I see you and compliment you, I expect you to say thank you instead of denying your own abilities." Mr. Vegas looked at him for a moment and then grabbed his shoulder. Pete jumped, his stomach lurching into his chest. Mr. Vegas' grip was firm, almost firm enough to hurt, but Pete found that he didn't mind it. "Keep up the good work, Pete."
Mr. Vegas walked off and the moment the rooftop door was closed behind him, Pete's knees went weak and he had to lean against the railing to keep himself from sliding to the ground. He could feel his heart pounding in his head, his hands trembling even as he tightened his grip. Pete wondered if he was getting some sort of heat exhaustion and knew he needed to head inside where there was air conditioning, even if his desk wasn't the greatest for it.
After taking a moment to collect himself, Pete pushed away from the railing and headed back inside, his mind stuck only on Yale Blue and the firm grip of Mr. Vegas' hand on his shoulder.
VEGAS
"FUCK!" Vegas yelled, leaping from his chair as the hot coffee spilled over his chest. He flung his arm out, smacking the woman's arm that had just barely managed to steady the cup before it spilled completely, knocking it onto the floor beneath them. "You idiot! You can't even carry coffee without managing to spill it?!"
The scalding liquid burned at his chest and he hissed, glancing down at his ruined shirt and then at the tearful secretary who had dropped to the floor beneath him, hands clamped together as she apologized over and over.
Vegas had the urge to strike out and he trembled as he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he tried to calm himself to keep from hitting this woman. The last thing he needed was charges brought up against him for assaulting some woman, even if that woman was an idiot.
When he no longer felt he was in danger of sending himself to prison, he opened his eyes and sneered down at the woman, jerking his head towards the door. "Get out."
The woman leapt to her feet, grabbing the cup and little plate that somehow miraculously hadn't shattered, and hurried out of Vegas' office. He could feel eyes trying to peer through the frosted glass, trying to see what happened, no doubt having heard the yell, but he ignored them, merely waiting for the door to close behind her before he started with the buttons on his shirt.
He sighed as he tugged it off, holding it in front of his face. The shirt was ruined, there was no saving it, no real point in trying. Vegas had quite liked this shirt as well. The blue of it was quite beautiful and while he wasn't a person who generally wore flowers, these ones were small and more tasteful than gaudy.
Vegas tossed the shirt onto his desk, looking around for something to clean himself up with, silently thanking whatever deity there was that the idiot woman had somehow managed to not spill anything on his pants as well.
He turned sharply as his phone rang out, the particular classical song playing as a ringtone assigned to only one person, so he rushed over to his desk and lowered himself back into his chair, answering the phone as quickly as he could and bringing it to his ear.
"Yes, papa?"
"What took you so long to answer?"
Vegas swallowed tightly, fighting back the urge to point out that his phone had barely rang for ten seconds. He knew that didn't matter. He knew his father didn't care.
"I'm sorry, papa. I had a spill—"
"I'm calling to remind you about how important tonight is, Vegas."
Vegas inhaled, his hand clenching over his knee as he tried to keep his voice steady and calm. "I know, papa. Don't worry, I have the perfect ni—"
"Do you know what happens if you mess this up, Vegas?" Vegas must've stayed silent for a moment too long, because his father's voice sharpened in the next instance. "I asked you a question, Vegas. Do you know what happens if you mess this up?"
"Y-yes," he inwardly cursed himself for the small tremble in his voice. His father scoffed on the other end of the line, clearly hearing it.
"If you mess this up, then everything we've been working towards can be kissed goodbye and it will be all your fault. You'll be even more worthless than you already are. You know that, don't you?"
Vegas clenched his eyes shut, his heart thudding harshly against his ribcage. His fingers squeezed around his phone and his nails dug through his slacks and cut into the flesh of his knee.
"I won't mess it up. I promise."
His father scoffed again. "Don't make promises you aren't sure you can keep. Just do it and do it well, Vegas." The phone call ended and Vegas slowly opened his eyes and set his phone down on his desk.
A knot slowly in his throat. His blood flowed hot in his veins. He lifted his arm, ready to slam it onto his desk, to knock everything off of it and onto the floor, knowing that the pain would help, that the sound of breaking and crashing would soothe his frustrations.
There was a knock on the door.
Vegas paused, arm lifted, and turned a glare to the door. He wanted to ring the neck of whoever the fuck it was that was interrupting him.
He pushed his hand down against the desk and released the other from his knee, sliding his fingers through his hair as he forced himself to calm down. He was at work. He didn't need the workers opening their idiotic gossiping mouths and start spewing shit.
He breathed and then called out, "Come in."
The door opened and in walked his employee he'd seen on the roof earlier in the day—Pete. The man kept his head bowed, not even looking at him as he shut the door behind him and then turned, holding a folder against his chest.
"Sorry for interrupting sir, I have the sales—" Pete looked up, his words dying on his lips at once, a red flush creeping up his neck and to his ears.
Vegas raised his brows at the sudden silence and bashfulness, about to ask what his problem was when he remembered and glanced down at himself, his lips twitching into a small smirk. He leaned back into his chair and pointed at his shirt which was tossed over his desk.
"Had a bit of an incident. Sorry for my, ah, indecency, Pete."
His words seemed to snap the man back into action. Pete quickly lifted his eyes to somewhere over his head. Vegas didn't fail to notice the way his fingers were clenched around the folder, knuckles almost white from their grip.
How amusing.
"I have the—uhm, sales, sales sheets for the uh, the newest... I have the sales sheets." Pete finished lamely, holding out the folder in his hand even though he was about twenty feet away and nowhere near Vegas.
Vegas wanted to laugh, but he held back the desire and tapped his desk instead. "You can set it here."
Pete hesitated and so Vegas stood, walking over to a bag he had in the corner. When he turned away, he heard Pete's footsteps heading for his desk.
"I always make sure to carry around extra shirts. For instances like these." Vegas said, tugging out a simple black, button-up shirt from his bag. He turned as he pulled it on, looking at Pete just as Pete turned his head, pretending that he hadn't just been looking at him.
Vegas' smirk grew even wider as he slowly began to button up the shirt.
Pete's eyes fell to the puddle of coffee on the ground. "Would you like me to clean this for you, Mr. Vegas?"
"If you don't mind, thank you." Vegas watched as Pete turned, heading for Vegas' private bathroom. He came back a moment later with some paper towels, both dry and wet, and knelt on the floor next to the spilled coffee.
Vegas slowly walked around, tilting his head as he watched the man clean. He paused when he was directly behind him, eyes scanning his ass. He knew Pete likely realized what was happening as he paused, bowed his head, and then cleaned faster. Vegas allowed himself a small chuckle and then walked back around to his chair, lowering himself into it just as Pete finished cleaning.
Pete pushed himself up, tossed the dirty paper towels in the trash and then grabbed the trash bag, tying it up. "I'll bring this out and get someone to come in here to clean this up properly, Mr. Vegas."
"It's too bad you're in sales or else I'd make you my secretary and get rid of the one who ruined my shirt." Vegas crossed his legs, staring up at Pete, watching as his face warmed a little, but he seemed to have a better handle on himself than he did when he first walked into his office.
Perhaps it was the added shirt that Vegas was wearing.
"Would that be all, Mr. Vegas?"
"Yes—well, actually," Vegas reached out, grabbing his shirt and holding it out to Pete. "Toss that out as well. It's unfortunate, but it's ruined."
Pete blinked at it and then slowly reached out for it.
Vegas lifted his brows. "It's a shirt. It's not going to bite." Pete quickly grabbed it and folded it, holding it in his arm. He then bowed his head and turned, taking his leave.
Once the door was closed and Vegas was once again alone, he glanced down at his phone. The smile fell from his lips, replaced by a thoughtful frown. Only minutes ago, he'd been angry, ready to destroy this entire office, but now he felt strangely calm. Was that due to the distraction that his employee had offered?
He shook his head, deciding it wasn't wise to dwell on it too much, knowing that if he did, the anger might flare up again, and this time, there would be no distraction.
PETE
"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." Pete entered his apartment cursing, shame creeping along his spine. He slammed his door shut behind him and leaned against it, clutching his bag to his chest as he tried to calm himself. "What the hell am I doing...?"
He sighed and looked down at his bag, slowly opening it to pull out the Yale Blue shirt he was supposed to throw out, but had instead stuffed in his bag when no one was looking.
"Why did I do that?" He asked the empty apartment. Unfortunately, no spirit or deity deigned to answer him and he was left staring at the stained fabric no closer to a reason than he had been moments before.
Pete shook his head and dropped his bag at his feet, taking the shirt in both of his hands and running his fingers along the stain. It had mostly dried, leaving a brown imprint against the blue and pink, but it wasn't too huge; perhaps the fabric could be used for something else—
No, he firmly interrupted his own thoughts. A shirt like this, what would he use it for at all? He supposed his grandmother might be able to make something out of it, but...
He rather liked the shirt. It was soft to the touch, softer than he had even expected and...
Pete held the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply. Past the strong smell of coffee, he got the hint of sandalwood and mint and felt a fluttering in his chest. The scent was pleasant.
He blinked and quickly dropped the shirt to the ground.
Had he just smelled Mr. Vegas' shirt? What had gotten into him?!
Pete slid out of his shoes, kicking them aside and left both his bag and the shirt on the floor as he stepped over it, thinking that he must get away from it in order to clear his head. Clearly the scent of sandalwood, mint, and coffee was getting to him and affecting his brain somehow, because that was the only thing that made sense in this situation.
He walked into his kitchen and opened his fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. He uncapped it, lifting it to his lips as his eyes flickered back towards his front door which was in perfect view from his kitchen. The shirt lay there in a silky, blue puddle, almost calling to him to pick it up, telling him that a shirt so expensive, no matter how stained, didn't deserve to be left on the dirty floor.
He did need to sweep, actually.
Pete closed his eyes and took a long drink of the cold water until his head throbbed with the threat of a brain freeze. Only then did he set the half-empty bottle of water down on his counter and walk back over to the door. He picked up the shirt and ignored his shoes and bag as he headed for the sink. Although the coffee had probably set too long to try and remove the stain, he could at least wash it and try to get the smell of coffee out.
He plugged the sink and turned the faucet on cold. Pete was about to drop the shirt in the water when he paused, hand hovering over the surface of the water.
If he washed the shirt, wouldn't that remove the smell of sandalwood and mint as well? Pete rather liked that smell. And it wasn't like he had any plans for this shirt anyway. He could put it away somewhere and the smell of coffee wouldn't bother him. It wasn't even like coffee had a bad smell.
He turned off the water and set the shirt to the side to hold his head in his hands. "What am I even doing?" He asked himself again and once more didn't receive an answer.
Pete sighed and closed his eyes. The scent of the shirt lingered in his nostrils. The image of Mr. Vegas shirtless, leaning back in his chair flashed to the front of his mind and his heart lurched, a shiver trailing down his spine.
When he'd walked into his office, he hadn't expected to see his boss like that. But why would he? Why would he have ever expected to see his boss half-naked? And why couldn't he stop thinking about it?
Objectively speaking, Mr. Vegas was a very good looking man. Pete would be blind not to notice that. And maybe he had a curiosity towards other men—but that's all it was, curiosity.
God, why was he lying to himself? It was certainly more than just a simple bout of curiosity. His mind was full of images, sinful ones he was sure his father would tell him he'd rot in hell for. But his father was already rotting there himself, and Pete had stopped caring long ago what his father thought of him.
So what if he imagined Mr. Vegas stepping up behind him, putting his hand on his lower back, and bending him over his sink? It was all imagination, all harmless, nothing that would ever be uttered outside of his mind because it would get him in trouble in countless ways.
But no one was around. He was free to... ponder.
He'd been trying so hard to deny that there was an attraction to Mr. Vegas on his part, but the moment he'd seen the man shirtless, his eyes wandering over Pete, he knew he couldn't deny it anymore—Pete was utterly, terribly, horribly attracted to Mr. Vegas.
He swallowed, shuddering as he remembered the feel of Mr. Vegas' eyes on his backside. He'd felt so hot—his head spinning in disbelief as he cleaned up the floor. He'd heard rumors that Mr. Vegas preferred men to women, but Pete had never been one to pay attention to rumors, so he hadn't quite believed them.
After today though? Maybe there had been something to him.
Pete inhaled deeply, calming himself down before pushing himself away from the sink and grabbing the shirt. He looked around, trying to think of a good place to put it before it suddenly clicked in his mind. He went into his bedroom and then into his closet and knelt on the ground. Behind suitcases he used for travel and bags of clothes he'd gotten as gifts but didn't like, he pulled out a box, somewhat heavy, and opened it up.
He tried to not look at the stuff inside and instead folded the shirt as neatly as he could and laid it on top of the items. Pete stared at it for a moment, letting his finger brush along a coffee stained pink flower, and then quickly put the lid back on the box and pushed it beneath the pile of stuff. He made sure it was completely covered and hidden before standing and leaving his closet.
"Pete?" A voice called out as he re-entered his bedroom. "Why is your stuff all in front of your door? I thought we talked about this." Pete closed his eyes for a minute, having to take a moment to steady himself. He then gave one last look towards his closet before heading back to the front of his apartment.
"Maprang," Pete smiled as he walked over to his girlfriend, leaning down to press a small kiss to her lips. "I had to put something away. I'll clean up." Inside, Pete wondered why he had to clean up when it was his apartment, but he shook that thought from his head as he picked up his bag and shoes to put away.
"If you do this too often, you'll get back into the habit of just leaving your stuff everywhere." Maprang lightly scolded, closing the door behind her and sliding her key back onto the necklace she wore it on. "Remember when we first started dating? You hardly let me come over because your place was such a mess and then you finally gave in, and I got it right into shape."
Pete fought the urge to say he hardly considered a few open blu-rays and a dish or two in the sink to be a mess and instead silently put his shoes where they belonged, along with his bag.
"I remember," he said instead and then smiled, reaching out his hand for the bags that she was carrying. "What did you get?"
Maprang handed them over with a thankful smile and the two of them walked to the kitchen. Pete began to pull out ingredients, blinking at Maprang when he realized what all the ingredients were for.
She smiled a little bashfully, taking a package of meat to turn and put in the fridge. "I may have called your grandmother and gotten the recipes for some of your favorite meals. I know you can't go back home a lot, and I know you miss her cooking, and I know mine won't exactly be the same, but I can at least try, right?"
"It's enough that you want to try."
"Mm, well, how was your day at work? Anything interesting happen among all those numbers? I don't know what goes into sales."
Pete set some vegetables in one of the fridge's doors, his back facing Maprang as she was back at the counter. He bit down on his lip, mind going back to the way Mr. Vegas' eyes had made him feel, and the shirt tucked away in his box. A sick feeling settled in his stomach for a moment and then he pushed it away, smile even wider on his face than before.
"Just a day like any other. How about you? How was your day?"
VEGAS
Vegas sat in his parked car outside of the posh apartment complex. His hands stayed firm on the wheel, tempted to start the car back up, drive away, never to return. But he was quick to squash those urges, knowing there was no point—no way he could ever do something like that. He had a job to do, a goal to attain.
A father to please.
He grabbed his phone from next to him and sent a quick text to announce his arrival before glancing in the rearview mirror. He fixed a strand of hair that seemed to not to want to lay flat and then unbuttoned a third button on his zebra print shirt. Once satisfied with how he looked, he climbed out of his car and headed for the foyer of the complex.
Unlike early in the day, the heat had calmed down. It was still warm, but a breeze blew through the air, offering a respite. Vegas' brows furrowed as he nearly stepped in a puddle and quickly dodged it, careful of his expensive Italian shoes. The apartments were posh, but the surrounding area could use some work.
Or perhaps Vegas just hated coming down here. He didn't think anyone could blame him—it wasn't his choice to be here, but his father's, and every time he was here, there was a bitter taste on his tongue. But despite all else that he was, Vegas was a good son, a devoted son. He did what his father told him and he didn't ask questions beyond what he needed to know.
He'd barely stepped into the foyer when the elevator dinged, opening up to a tall man who smiled widely upon seeing him. Vegas inhaled and then pushed his own smile on his face, a soft one, one that he'd seen often on people in love.
"Tawan—you came down to meet me?" Vegas wanted to cringe at the tone of his own voice, but he held it back, and instead offered his hand. Tawan ignored the hand however and instead wrapped his arms around him, kissing him deeply, hands sliding along his waist.
Vegas let the kiss last for a moment before gently pulling away, pressing the palm of his hand to Tawan's cheek. "I was planning on coming up."
"Of course Tawan came down to meet you." It was with much practice that Vegas' eyes no longer twitched at the third person way of speaking. "Tawan doesn't want to let a second more pass by than it needs to. Especially since Tawan has to go on a business trip." Tawan rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"Then aren't I the lucky one?" Vegas laughed and grabbed Tawan's hand, interlocking their fingers. "Shall we go then? The restaurant isn't far. We'll be a bit early for our reservation, but considering who I am, that shouldn't matter much."
"Tawan loves it when you speak like that." Tawan grabbed hold of his arm, holding it tightly to him as they walked out of the complex back towards his car.
"Careful, there's a puddle here." Vegas tugged Tawan closer to him, stepping around the puddle.
"You take care of Tawan so much." Tawan leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek as they reached Vegas' car. Vegas just smiled and pulled away, opening Tawan's door and waiting for him to get in before carefully shutting it and going around to the driver's seat. "Did you have a good day at work?"
"It was mostly okay. An idiot spilled coffee on one of my shirts, but other than that, the day was fairly good."
"And now the day is better since you're with Tawan, right?"
Vegas breathed in and then turned to Tawan with a smile. He grasped his hand, stroking his thumb over his knuckles, and then lightly pressed a kiss atop his hand. "Much better now that I'm with you, Tawan."
Vegas sat quietly as Tawan rambled on and on. He'd found that the best way to get people to not ask too much about him was to keep them talking about themselves. Once in a while, Vegas would chime in with an opinion or a fact about himself, just enough to keep the person on hook, to keep them thinking he was interested in some sort of relationship.
He was good at it to begin with, but he had mastered this ability with Tawan however. Vegas had elevated it to a near art form, if he said so himself.
The waiter, a slender man with a mischievous smile, walked over holding a bottle of wine. Vegas nodded and watched as he refilled his glass. The man's eyes were locked to his as he did, flirty, a secret message "I'm interested if you are" passing from him to Vegas.
Vegas, however, merely picked up his glass of wine and sipped at it, turning to look at Tawan across from as he talked about what he was going to do in all the countries he would be traveling to for the next month while on business.
The reason why Vegas didn't bite wasn't that the waiter wasn't tempting—but he was here on a job, and if it was one thing that Vegas took seriously, it was his job.
"Shall we make a toast then?" Vegas interrupted suddenly, grabbing Tawan's glass to hold out to him. "To your success and fun adventure. And for you to come back to me as safe and healthy as you are now—no, healthier."
Tawan's smile softened and he took the glass, fingers brushing against Vegas'. Vegas grabbed his own once more, lightly clinking it against Tawan's and the two of them drank.
They were outside on a pier. A small, exclusive restaurant situated next to the water. Vegas had made sure to get the best view for himself and Tawan—one that looked out over both the water and towards the sparkling city lights behind them.
He set his wine glass down, lowering his hand to his lap to brush his fingers against his pocket before sliding his hand into his pocket. With the hand that was on the table, he reached forward, grasping Tawan's fingers gently in his own.
"Tawan, there was something I wanted to talk to you about."
A flash of worry crossed Tawan's face. "Talk to Tawan? It's nothing bad, is it? You're not leaving Tawan, are you, Vegas?"
"No, no," Vegas said quickly, tightening his grip on Tawan's hand, shooting him a smile as he shook his head. "That would be silly. I'm never leaving you Tawan. In fact... that's what I wanted to talk about."
Tawan's eyes widened slightly and he nodded, staying silent so that Vegas could continue.
"It's been eight months," Vegas began. "It may not seem like a lot to most people, but these past eight months have felt like a lifetime to me in the best way possible." The rehearsed words fell from Vegas' lips with ease and he watched Tawan's closely to make sure of his reaction, that he could feel the false sincerity in his words. "It's made me realize a lot of things, one of those things being that I don't want to be without you. You're about to leave me for a month. A month out of nine months together—it's a long time to be apart. So when you get back, I want to make sure that you never leave me again."
"Vegas..." Tawan spoke softly, tears welling up in his eyes. "Vegas, what you're saying..."
Vegas tightened his hand around the box in his pocket and then slowly pulled it out. He let go of Tawan's hand, slowly opening the box to show off a gold band. Tawan gasped, a tear automatically slipping from his eye, down his cheek. Vegas felt nothing.
"Tawan, will you marry me?"