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Summary
“Don’t worry, there’s no one here to see you,” Vegas says, reaching down to fondle Pete, liking the soft feather-weight of him limp in his palm. “And I already know what you are.”
Pete makes another small, wounded noise. That’s not what he hates about being stripped and strung up by his wrists in the living room, and they both know it. In their room, in the dark, he can let himself sublimate into mist. The cocoon of the familiar and the specific. Out here, where it’s bright and open, the parts of the house where he is his most human—he doesn’t want that. Vegas can see it in his eyes.
That’s okay. Vegas wants it enough for them both.
(Pete and Vegas negotiate, with mixed results)