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Therapy was weird.
At least that's what Vegas concluded after about a month of it.
It was Pete's idea, obviously. Pete had brought it up one morning during breakfast, in the quiet of the summer dawn, one of the rare undisturbed moments for the two of them now that Venice became an especially fast growing member of their family.
Pete had been hesitant at first, it was difficult for him as well. Vegas could admit, he got angry at the suggenstion st first, though ,after long discussions, he managed to accept it was for the best.
It wasn't easy for either of them. Pete was too proud to admit he needed therapy at first, trying to hide everything behind a smile, while Vegas considered it a weakness, something that would ruin his image. It took a lot out of them. It took broken glass, tears, yelling, punched in walls but they had managed to make it far.
The cracks were still visible. After all, you can fix a broken mirror, you can even fill the cracks with gold, but they will still be there. And maybe with time you'll stop paying attention to them, maybe they'll make the mirror special, unique to you, but they'll never disappear.
Just like that, one spring night, with the slight breeze carrying the smell of flowers through the window, Vegas felt unsettled as he put Venice to sleep. It was something he took to doing pretty quickly, using it as a way to bond with his brother(??)/ son(??) ( He was still figuring that one out). Venice seemed to pick up on that, taking quite a bit longer to fall asleep.
He roamed the hallways for a bit after. It felt like mere hours had passed since the last time he got out of his father's office after another one of his lectures. Vegas wondered back there again. Hesitant steps, quiet against carpeted floors. A stark contrast to his usual attitude.The estate was mostly empty other than the guards outside at this hour. Shadows on the walls played with the light and his mind as he got closer. He knew his father was dead. He did. Yet he still had to check for himself tonight.
He reached the office doors. Knock. He had to knock. His hand was numb by his side. Breaths made their way out of his lungs faster and faster. God, not again. Finally, after moments that felt like centuries, he managed to pick up his heavy arm and knock. He waited a bit for a response that never came.
With movements that weren't his, he walked in. Why was he so terrified? The desk was empty, the window closed. The air felt stale in hus lungs, like it was the same as it was back then, waiting for him to return once again. And he did. He always did. Even though he refused to use his father's office, Vegas had come here a few times. His therapist even recommended it, as a way for him to realize his father didn't hold him anymore, didn't have any power over him. It didn't feel like that tonight.
He inched closer to the huge wood desk. It was still littered with paperwork. By looking at them, he could recognize some. He should probably clear them out. That, he knew how to do. And then what? He had a whole family now. What wss he supposed to say to them? Granted, they knew he had done some unsavory things, he still did, it was part of the job, but it still felt wrong for them to be part of it. And what would he say to Venice when he grew up? Would Vegas have to tell him about his father? Would he have to make him sound better than he was? His blood boiled. A sneer made it's way to his face. He hated this. He hated everything.
Without even thinking about it, his arms found themselves on the desk where they threw the contents on top of it around. Vegas took a few moments to realize that the screaming was coming from him. Paying it no mind, he continued making a mess of the office. Shouldn't this be cathartic? Why wasn't it working?
Soon enough, banging his hands on the polished wood wasn't enough. His bloodshot eyes caught the vase on the coffee table. His father loved that vase. He had payed good money for it. Next thing he knew, he was smashing that cursed thing on the table. It broke with a loud sound that made his ears ring.
Red. He noticed red drops trickling down his wrist, racing each other to the crook of his elbow. The metallic scend didn't quite reach him, maybe he was too used to it. He squeezed his palm around the blue, white and now red shard, adding more competitors to his little race.
"-gas!" Funny, the fog in his head felt a bit lighter.
"Vegas" a voice laced in worry. Vegas couldn't take his eyes off his arm. The red drops were still racng.
Two cool hands gently cupped hus face. He recognized them, had mapped those little bumps and lines with his lips and fingers countless times. Pete.
His name felt like clouds clearing after summer rain. His voice smelled like petichor.
The hands gently moved his face until he was looking into Pete's eyes. The fog dissolved faster.
"Vegas look at me. It's okay, everything is fine. I need to take a look at your hand, hm?" He gently smiled. His voice was quiet, covered in pretense calm, as if he was trying not to scare a cornered animal.
Moving again, the hands left his face -he almost tried to follow them. They trailed down his shoulder towards the hand holding the shard. He never took his eyes off Pete. He didn't think he could. If he did, he would float away.
Soft fingers pried his own rough ones open. He felt the sting, that was good.
"We're going to have to move to the bathroom, can you do that for me?" Pete asked. Going two rooms over. What a hurdle to jump. Vegas got mad at himself again. He brought his hand through his hair and tugged. Hard. Pete caught on immediately, though, and tried to stop him.
"We're not going to do that. Remember what you told me from therapy? Harming yourself or others is not going to make your feelings go away." Pete was kind but stern. Vegas needed that. He tried to be useful, to get up. Pete was at his side, giving him space to do this in his own terms while being close enough to help if he needed it.
They moved to the bathroom where Pete sat him down, only taking his hands off him to retrieve the first aid kit. Pete sat down next to him on the bathtub's edge. He took Vegas' palm in his and started cleaning it.
Vegas was a realist. He was under no illusion that things would magically be fixed after he settled some of the affairs between the families, after he got a hold of his own life. But this. This wasn't what he wanted. It made him want to scratch his skin off, to run from everything. His eyes stayed trained on the wound. The red lessened with every swipe, just like that.
Pete would tell him it was okay, it wasn't his fault. Vegas knew better.
All in all it took less than ten minutes. They still felt like centuries. Pete set the kit beside him and got up, gently pulling Vegas along with him.
" I think we should go lay down. Would you like that?" A geniuine yet tiny smile made it's way onto Pete's lips. Vegas wanted to answer but words didn't seem to come to him. He resigned to nodding.
How many times would this happen again? He had lost his words before, a few times. His therapist said it was a normal reaction under this kind of stress, though that didn't mean he had to like it. Just get through it. Pete was always an angel when it happened. They had even developed a system for communication. One squeeze of Pete's hand was yes, two was no.
Vegas blinked and he was standing in front of their bed, Pete slipping his palm in Vegas' own.
"Can I help you take your clothes off for bed?" One squeeze. God, Vegas felt absoloutely helpless.
Skilled, callused fingers moved down his chest unbuttoning, reaching his pants. Pete found his eyes again. Vegas tried to convey he was okay with this, and Pete semeed to get the point. He still was carefully slow. Vegas loved this man.
As soon as both their clothes were off, Vegas felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders. Pete pulled him down to the bed and got him under the covers. It wasn't until he was lying down that ge realized how exhausted he felt. Pete laid down in front of him, pulling close, hugging his waist and tangling their legs together. Patient, trusting, amazing Pete.
Pete took his uninjured hand into his.
"Is there anything you need right now? Be honest with me, please." Two squeezes. Vegas couldn't think of anything, and even if he did, he didn't know if he could bring himself to ask for it. Guilt and pride were eating him up.
"Alright then. We should talk about this tomorrow, okay? For now, if you need anything just tap my hand" Pete almost whispered into the quiet. It broke Vegas. Pete's sincere eyes and voice. It felt like they pried his heart open, went through his ribs, clawed at his throat, tearing his words apart.
He closed his eyes to avoid that stare and let himself plunge into his thoughts. Strangely enough, his brain was mostly quiet after everything. It felt a bit fuzzy, filled with wool. Vegas couldn't tell wether he preferred this over the constant attacks his own mind could unleash. This silence seemed weird, as if his thoughts were forcibly removed, leaving him something, but not himself.
Vegas wasn't okay. But he would be better tomorrow. Even if he wasn't, the people he loved would still stick with him. He only had to believe it himself, to try his best, to take everything one day at a time.