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“Oh, for fuck's sake, don't you ever just shut the fuck up?” Kim seethes, his scowl deepening when the outburst only earns him a dark chuckle from across the room.
Vegas is sitting comfortably in one of the ornate armchairs in Kim's father's parlour, a hand-cut crystal glass in his hand, obnoxiously filled to the brim with expensive whisky.
“I'm not wrong — you left yourself completely open to attack,” Vegas continues, doing the only thing he knows how to do: push other people's buttons. Namely Kim's.
Kim throws him a dirty look from where he's perched on one of the bar stools, noting the deep creases through Vegas's silk shirt and the blood smeared across his stark jawline.
He bites the inside of his cheek, acrid copper blooming on his tongue, turning his gaze away before he says or does something he can't take back.
There's blood on his t-shirt, he realises, but it's not his own, and sticky sweat is dried uncomfortably on his skin, his hair still damp at the nape of his neck where it's pulled into a ponytail.
They'd been sent out to complete a mission: eliminate the targets and retrieve the briefcase the men were guarding. They'd been expected to work together, just the two of them, for the first time, for a common goal, to prove themselves capable, to please their respective fathers and finally earn a little freedom.
The problem is, neither of them had ever quite learnt the meaning of team work.
Swallowing hard, he looks down at his knuckles, battered and bruised, smarting now the adrenaline's worn off, his blood no longer humming with the need to maim.
Though the feeling rallies when Vegas speaks again.
“You should take some more lessons with Chan,” he tells him, “he could beat that habit out of you, I'm sure”.
Quick as a shot, Kim reaches for the set of darts that sits on the bar top, fully intending to fling each one at Vegas's head, stilling when he hears Vegas cock his gun behind him, his heeled boots clacking on the hardwood floor as he approaches languidly, pressing in close.
“Come on now cousin. Play nice,” he purrs, sending a shiver down Kim's spine and goosebumps rising along his skin.
“Didn't we try that once already?” Kim asks from behind clenched teeth, the reminder entirely unnecessary with how clear the memory is: Vegas inside of him, the humid heat between them, the fervent want.
Vegas hums, an amused smirk obvious in the sound of it, "it wasn't so long ago that you could forget, surely?”
Kim rolls his eyes, moving to step away from him, freezing when Vegas wraps his arm around his slim waist, his gun hanging loosely in his other hand, down by his thigh.
“And we were so good at it…” Vegas teases, his lips brushing the back of Kim's neck.
He can feel the warmth of Vegas's body against his own, can smell the sweat on him, and it should sicken him, but it doesn't. Instead, it sends heat pulsing in his gut.
“A mistake,” Kim bites out. And he wonders if it's a lie.
“A big one,” Vegas agrees, the crude innuendo clear with the way he's pressing his hardening cock to Kim's ass.
Kim wishes he could push him away, wishes he could grab that gun from his hand and beat him across the face with it, wishes he could shove it in his mouth and pull the trigger.
He squeezes his eyes shut when his mind supplies him with the honest image of his desire: his cock replacing the steel barrel, desperate to fuck into the wet heat of Vegas's mouth.
Taking a deep breath, willing his voice not to crack, he suggests, “let's just have another drink”.
Vegas's smile curves against his skin, “and then?” he asks, coy and suggestive, his nose trailing along Kim's neck, breathing him in.
Kim hesitates slightly, biting at his lower lip before finally responding, “and then you can take me to bed”.
He screws up his nose at Vegas's answering grin, a mixture of bitter regret and burning want flooding his veins as Vegas crosses the room to grab the decanter from the top of the cellarette, clinking it on the rim of Kim's glass as he tops it up.
The pour is less heavy-handed than the way he'd previously filled his own, a perfect single shot sitting in the bottom of Kim's lowball.
Then Vegas looks at him, smirking as he inches the glass closer, sliding it along the top of the bar with his pointer finger.
“Bottom's up, dear cousin”.