fleet_off
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There should be blood on the floor, Vegas thinks. He’d feel better for it—Vegas has tidied the consequences of arguments countless times, knows how to put his pieces back in presentable order almost by rote.
This limbo can’t last. Something is coming. Something has to break, to punctuate all that anger. Shattered dishes, ringing ears, bruised skin.
Life was miserably simpler, when Ba was around.
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Vegas over-reacts following an argument about the dishwasher. -
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Because sometimes a family is a teenager, his gunshot-riddled older brother, the brother’s human-pet-turned-boyfriend…three rats, a poison dart frog, a ball python, a leopard gecko, a fuzzy tarantula, several pigeons, and a cat.
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“You should hit me,” Vegas says.
Even blind he knows he’s struck something, because the words hang like blood in the air. They snake back down his throat and settle in his lungs with a wet, heavy rightness that Vegas hasn’t felt all night. It would all be okay, he thinks, if Pete hit him. It wouldn’t remove him from his body; it would center him. And Pete’s fists can remold him better, punish him, free him from the filthy guilt-ridden jumble of what he is. They have before.
Vegas lifts his cheek and braces his jaw to take the blow.
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In which Vegas comes home drunk and speedruns setting off emotional landmines. -
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It’s been a month since Vegas surrendered his world and was remade in the confessions of a new one.
Pete doesn’t say “I love you.”
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Vegas and Pete build what they can in the after. -
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Vegas lays him on a patch of firm ground. From his cocoon, Pete hears the rhythmic thud of a shovel sinking into loose earth.
Vegas is digging him a grave.
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In which Pete finds playing dead relaxing, and Vegas decidedly does not.