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The music was blasting, the lights were bright, and the laughter in the room was so contagious it felt like the whole house was alive. Vegas stood at the corner of the living room, glass of wine in hand, watching the scene unfold before him. It was a rare moment—family together, the warmth of people he loved filling the space. His husband Pete was at the center of it all, his easy smile and infectious laughter making him the heart of the celebration.
The party wasn’t just for Venice, their son, who was turning 18 today. It was a celebration of life itself—of surviving the storms, of overcoming battles, and finally finding a moment of peace. Vegas knew how rare that felt. So, he’d been trying hard to savor it, even if he was still carrying that weight of a million things he couldn’t quite escape. But tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was about them.
Pete, ever the host, was bouncing around, making sure everyone had a drink, cracking jokes, and keeping everyone entertained. Venice, his son—well, he was a little harder to pin down. The boy had inherited Pete’s sense of humor and charisma, but he also had that restless energy from Vegas. It made him unpredictable, wild, and always one step ahead in any game of wit.
"Hey, old man!" Venice called, his grin stretching ear to ear as he approached his father. "You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up. You sure you're not getting too old for this?"
Vegas rolled his eyes, playfully nudging his son’s shoulder. "You’ve been saying that since you were twelve. But then, you’ve always had that ability to make me feel ancient."
Venice laughed, his voice full of that mischievous spark that always kept Vegas on edge. "It’s true. I’m just getting better at it. But you’ve still got some fight left in you, right?" He grinned wider. "Don’t tell me you’re already worn out after one glass of wine."
"I’m not worn out. Just... evaluating the situation," Vegas said with mock seriousness, raising his glass. "I’m doing important work here. Like making sure none of these idiots end up in the pool after too much tequila."
Pete, overhearing, spun around from where he was talking to some of their friends. "I heard that! No one’s getting pushed in the pool tonight, Vegas. You’ve ruined that tradition. It’s your turn to babysit, remember?"
Vegas chuckled. "I’ll happily babysit as long as it means I don’t end up in there with them." He glanced toward the pool, where a couple of Pete’s friends were already eyeing it with mischief in their eyes. "I’ll leave the shenanigans to you. But you know what? It’s your son I’m worried about, not your friends." He shot Venice a teasing glance.
Venice crossed his arms, an exaggerated pout on his face. "Oh, I’m the one you’re worried about? Are you sure it’s not because I can out-drink you now?"
Vegas’s eyes widened dramatically. "Don’t you dare think you’re allowed to out-drink me on my watch, kid. Not in my house."
"Ha! You never could stop me," Venice said, raising an eyebrow, as if daring his father to challenge him.
The two of them stood there, locked in that playful father-son standoff that only seemed to grow more intense as Venice got older. Pete came over, laughing, and wrapped an arm around both of their shoulders.
"Alright, alright," Pete said, his voice light but firm. "Vegas, stop being a party pooper. You know how Venice is when he gets a little fire in him. Venice, stop trying to one-up your dad. This is supposed to be fun."
Vegas sighed, though he was still smiling. "I’m just trying to keep him out of trouble. I’ve seen where that rebellious streak of his can lead."
Venice grinned wider, winking at his dad. "You can’t control me forever, old man."
"You’re right. But I can try," Vegas said, his tone filled with mock authority. "And you know what? You might want to slow down on the drinking. I’ve seen how you get when you’re tipsy."
Pete laughed. "Vegas, you’re the last person who should be giving out advice on drinking. You’re the one who sneaks away to the backyard and pretends to drink water, then comes back and acts like you’re sober." He raised an eyebrow at Vegas. "And we both know what happens when you try to act too cool for school."
Vegas gave a playful groan. "That was one time, Pete! And I did drink water, it was a strategic move." He raised his glass and gestured to Pete and Venice. "I’m just here for moral support and to keep you two in line."
"Oh, sure," Pete said, his eyes twinkling. "That’s why you always disappear when it's time to clean up."
Vegas grinned, turning to leave. "I have very important meetings to attend to. Business calls, gentlemen."
Pete rolled his eyes, but it was all good-natured. "Fine. Go make your ‘business calls.’ We’ll keep the party going without you."
Vegas took one last look at his husband and son, trying to commit the moment to memory. The joy, the laughter, the togetherness. This was the life he had fought for, the life he didn’t deserve but had somehow found. It was perfect. For a few hours, at least, he could forget about the other things. The shadows that always seemed to follow him, the burdens that he carried like chains, none of that mattered tonight.
"Vegas," Pete called just as Vegas was walking out the door. "Where are you going?"
Vegas turned back, feeling the warmth of the moment like a blanket over his shoulders. "I’ll be back soon, I promise. Just have to meet with Kinn. You know how it is."
Pete frowned slightly, that worry in his eyes again. "I hate it when you deal with him. That guy… Vegas, you don’t need him. Stay with us tonight."
Vegas gave a small sigh, walking over to kiss Pete’s cheek. "I know, I know. But it’ll be quick. You’ll be fine without me. Have fun. I’ll be back before you know it."
Venice, who had been teasing someone in the kitchen, suddenly popped his head in. "Dad, you can’t go. You promised me you’d stick around for the rest of the night. C’mon, we’re having fun! It’s my birthday!"
Vegas ruffled his son’s hair. "Alright, alright. But this is important. We’ll finish the party when I get back."
Pete smiled, his hand brushing Vegas’s arm affectionately. "Take care, alright? And don’t let Kinn get under your skin."
Vegas gave a playful roll of his eyes. "I’ll try not to, but you know how he is. Take care of Venice, okay? I’ll be back soon."
"Love you, old man," Venice called, his grin wide and teasing.
"I love you too, kid," Vegas said, his voice warm with affection. "Both of you."
As Vegas walked out the door, the music and the chatter faded behind him. The air outside was crisp, the sound of the party lost to the distance. He could still feel the weight of his family’s love and the joy they shared, but the call of duty was always there, pulling him away, even on nights like this.
Vegas had barely pulled away from the quiet street where his house sat when he heard the first ding from his phone—a text message. He glanced down, his grip tightening around the wheel as the bright screen of his phone flashed Kinn’s name. But before he could read it, another ding came through. And then another. Vegas knew what was waiting for him in those messages, but a strange feeling, the kind that crawls under your skin and tightens your chest, made him hesitate before responding. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe tonight, of all nights, things would just go smoothly.
I should be with them. Right now, I should be with them, he thought as he clicked his phone off, shoving it into his pocket. But that gnawing feeling lingered as he turned the corner, heading toward Kinn’s place.
The last text he’d gotten from Kinn before he'd driven off had been curt and businesslike, and Vegas was already mentally preparing himself for another drawn-out, uncomfortable conversation with his cousin—someone who had always managed to get under his skin.
“Just get it over with, Vegas,” he muttered to himself. He’d convinced himself that it was just a meeting. That was all.
But then came the second text. And the third.
And then his phone rang.
Vegas shot a quick glance at the name on the screen. Macau. His stomach dropped.
He hesitated for a second—he shouldn’t answer, not while he was driving—but the urgency in Macau’s voice when he’d called earlier was still fresh in his mind. He swiped to pick up the call, the familiar hum of Macau’s voice filling his ear before he could even speak.
“Hia... it’s bad. Really bad.” Macau’s voice was strained, his words tumbling out in a rush.
Vegas’s heart skipped. "What the hell are you talking about, Macau?" he snapped, the unease in his chest growing heavier with every second. "I’m on my way to Kinn’s. What’s going on?"
“Pete and Venice,” Macau said, each word slicing through the air like a blade. “There’s been an accident. Pete… Pete’s in critical condition, Vegas. And Venice... Venice is hurt too. I’m at the hospital right now. You need to get here. Now. ”
Vegas’s body froze, every muscle in his frame locking up. His foot slammed down harder on the accelerator without thinking. He didn’t even register the sudden increase in speed, the swerving as he took a turn too fast, or the flashing lights of a police car that passed him in the opposite direction.
“Accident?” Vegas’s voice was barely above a whisper, his brain trying to process the words even as his hands gripped the wheel tighter. His eyes were wide, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. He wanted to say something, anything, but all he could hear was Macau’s voice telling him how bad it was.
“Where?” Vegas’s voice was shaking now, the world around him turning into a blur.
“The highway on the way to the showroom,” Macau replied, his voice breaking. “You need to hurry.”
Vegas’s vision narrowed, the distance between him and his family shrinking to nothing. His thoughts spiraled into a vortex of panic. Pete. Venice. Oh God, Pete and Venice. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he knew was that everything in his world—the world that had been perfect just hours ago—was slipping through his fingers.
“I’m coming!” Vegas shouted as he slammed the phone down. The road ahead blurred into a haze. His foot hit the gas harder, pushing his car to speeds he knew he shouldn’t be going, but he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered.
When Vegas finally reached the scene, everything around him felt like it was moving in slow motion. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles reflected off the rain-slick streets, making the night feel colder, darker. The crushed remains of Pete’s car were nearly unrecognizable, the once-pristine vehicle now twisted and mangled in a way that defied logic.
Vegas didn’t even park. He slammed the car into a half-assed stop by the curb and threw the door open before the engine had even died. He could barely register the officers standing by, the paramedics moving in and out, the police tape blocking the wreckage off from the rest of the world. His mind only registered one thing: the car. That twisted, broken metal. His heart was already in his throat.
No. No. No…
Vegas’s breath came out in shallow gasps, panic clouding his every step. He pushed past the officers, shoving one of them roughly out of the way when they tried to stop him.
“Hey! You can’t—” the officer started, but Vegas was already through the barrier, ignoring the shout.
Vegas’s mind screamed at him to stop, to think, but all he could hear was the roaring in his ears—the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and insistent. Pete. Pete needs me. Venice needs me. His legs felt like lead as he stumbled forward, eyes scanning frantically, looking for any sign of life among the wreckage.
And then he saw them.
Pete’s lifeless body was already being pulled from the car by the paramedics. His head was hanging at an unnatural angle, blood staining the front of his shirt. His face was pale—too pale—and Vegas’s stomach churned. He barely noticed the paramedics as they worked on Pete, their words a blur as they shouted instructions to one another, but all Vegas could focus on was Pete’s stillness.
Venice’s body was being carried on a stretcher, his face bruised, the side of his head swollen. The sight of his son, unconscious and battered, shattered something deep inside of him. The scream that tore out of Vegas’s chest was raw, animalistic, but he couldn’t find the strength to move. It was like his legs wouldn’t work, like he was trapped in a nightmare.
“Venice! Venice! ” Vegas shouted, his voice breaking as he stumbled toward the stretcher. He wanted to rush forward, to touch his son, but the paramedics wouldn’t let him near. One of them placed a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back.
“We’re doing everything we can,” the medic said, but Vegas didn’t hear him. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart, the sensation of everything slipping out of his grasp.
Vegas’s phone buzzed again. This time, it was a call from Kinn.
Without thinking, Vegas yanked the phone from his pocket and threw it to the ground in a fit of rage. He couldn’t— wouldn’t —deal with Kinn now. Not like this. He barely remembered lifting his middle finger, but he knew it was pointed toward the sky, directed at Kinn and everything he represented in Vegas’s life.
His blood was boiling, fury and fear mixing in an unbearable cocktail. The urge to rip Kinn apart, to call him every name under the sun for not being the family Vegas needed, was overwhelming. What the hell was Kinn doing while his family was dying?
Ignoring the ringing phone, Vegas pulled out of the wreckage and made his way toward the emergency vehicles, walking like a man on autopilot, every step an effort. He needed to get to Venice, to make sure he was alive. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t —let them take him, too.
Reaching for the phone again, his hands shaking, Vegas ran towards Macau's direction without thinking.
“Macau,” Vegas hissed, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. "I need to know everything. Now. What’s going on with Venice? Is he…?”
“I don’t know, hia” Macau cried as he informed Vegas. “I was coming from the showroom on my way back when I saw this accident… I don’t know how long they were out. I immediately called them but I-” he loudly sobbed as Vegas grabbed his shoulders, pulling him in a tight hug.
As the paramedics laid Pete on a stretcher to take him in, Vegas and Macau rushed towards them, entering their vehicle to the closest hospital.
The sterile white walls of the hospital room felt suffocating as the doctor’s words hung heavy in the air, cutting through the silence like a knife.
"Only one of them can be saved. We don’t have more of the blood type stored. Either your husband or your son." His voice was cold, clinical. It should have been a comfort, the promise of a decision being made with precision, but it only made everything worse.
Vegas stood frozen in place, his heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear anything else. He looked between the two figures lying unconscious before him—Pete, his husband, the love of his life, and their son, a boy barely out of his teens, with so much life ahead of him. The blood that connected them both, the blood that had somehow put them in this nightmare.
The doctor’s eyes were serious, waiting for an answer.
Vegas could feel his world crumbling, but he didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t.
"Save my husband, Pete," he said, his voice trembling, but firm. It was the only decision he could make, and yet it felt like his very soul was being torn apart in the process.
The doctor nodded and turned to leave, as if it was just another routine, another case. But for Vegas, it was the moment his world shifted forever. He barely registered the footsteps as the doctor walked away, his mind already lost in a swirl of emotions too complex, too suffocating to describe.
It wasn’t until Macau stepped into the room that Vegas snapped back to reality. Macau’s expression was one of disbelief, shock, and something darker, something that felt like betrayal.
"Hia," Macau’s voice was strained, almost a whisper, as he stood just inside the door, eyes scanning Vegas’s face for some sign of reassurance. "Are you sure?"
Vegas didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. If he did, he knew it would break him completely.
"Pete wouldn’t want that," Macau said, stepping closer, his voice rising with desperation. “You know he wouldn’t want you to choose him over your son, your blood. You can’t .”
Vegas closed his eyes. His heart was beating faster now, faster than it had before. A sickening mixture of guilt and love twisted in his chest. The room seemed to spin around him. He felt cold, like he was suffocating under the weight of the decision he had just made. But it was too late. It had already been made. And Pete’s life depended on it.
The words came out before he even knew he was saying them. “We can get another son, Cau,” Vegas’s voice cracked, hoarse, breaking under the weight of the emotion he was trying to hold back. “I can’t get him back if he dies.” His breath hitched. “If Pete dies, I die with him. You don’t understand.”
Macau took a step forward, his face crumpling with grief and confusion. "Hia—"
“I’ll be selfish,” Vegas interrupted, his voice trembling now, raw, and completely undone. “I’ve always been selfish when it comes to Pete. I can’t live without him. I can’t let him go.”
There was a long silence between them, filled with the sharp sting of regret, of love and loss and choices that could never be undone.
Macau looked at him with something like pity, his own chest tight with emotion. “But your son, our brother—” His voice faltered. “He’s still so young.”
Vegas clenched his fists by his sides, his whole body shaking. His thoughts were a mess, a blur of pain, but one thing remained crystal clear. "I know. But this is... this is who I am. And I’m not sorry for it."
Macau stood there for a moment longer, as if trying to figure out how to fix this, how to make it right. But there was no fixing it. There was no way out. The decision had been made.
"I’m sorry, Macau," Vegas whispered, tears finally welling in his eyes. "I’m so sorry."
Macau didn’t answer. He just turned away, the door clicking softly behind him.
Vegas stood there, alone again. The minutes stretched out into eternity as he waited for the inevitable, for the doctor to return and carry out what was now a terrible reality. His hand hovered over Pete’s, resting on the bed beside him, a silent promise that he would keep holding on for as long as he could. His mind kept going back to that last smile Pete had given him, that last touch, and the way their son had been there, laughing just a few hours ago.
The weight of the decision crushed him, but in the end, there was no choice. Not really.
He loved Pete. He couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not ever.
The door opened again. Vegas didn’t look up, didn’t move. He just kept holding Pete’s hand, clinging to the one thing in his life that still felt real.
The room felt colder now, though the hospital air conditioning had been set to a steady, regulated temperature. Every breath Vegas took felt like it was stretching a little farther, as though the air itself was too thin to hold the weight of his decisions. Pete lay there, so still, so pale, the machines around him the only signs that he was still with them. Beeps and soft whirring were all Vegas could hear, drowning out the steady drip of time that seemed to pass in heavy, painful moments.
He couldn't look at their son. The boy was still unconscious in the bed across the room, a breathing tube in place, tubes running through his body like veins. Vegas wanted to scream. He shouldn't have to make this choice.
But there was no going back.
The doctor returned, quiet and somber, his face unreadable. He had already prepared the paperwork, had already drawn blood from Pete, had already begun the procedures to save his life. There was no more time for second guesses, for what-ifs. Pete’s body would have to take the blood, would have to fight for survival, while their son lay there— alive —but only barely.
"Khun Vegas," the doctor’s voice broke through the silence. "We're starting now. We'll do our best."
Vegas nodded mutely, unable to form words. He couldn’t make a sound; his throat had closed up, the tears now blurring his vision. The doctor didn’t wait for further instructions, didn’t need to. He turned, signaling the nurses to begin, and the small, clinical hum of the room picked up again. The machine that monitored Pete’s vitals beeped faster, then steadied as the blood was transferred.
The steady motion of the nurses, the sterile smells of antiseptic and rubber gloves, felt so alien in the midst of the raw, aching human tragedy unfolding before him. Vegas felt the darkness inside him creeping closer, wrapping around his heart, threatening to suffocate him, and yet his body wouldn’t allow him to look away from Pete. From the man who had once kissed him under the stars, who had held his hand through every storm, who had promised forever.
He closed his eyes, remembering how it felt to kiss him—how it felt to love him. God, how had it come to this?
Vegas felt a tug at his sleeve. Macau stood beside him, eyes red-rimmed, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. "Vegas," he said softly, his voice betraying a tenderness that Vegas wasn’t sure how to handle. "Are you sure this is what he’d want? I know he loves you, but I know him, too. He wouldn’t want this... wouldn’t want you to have to carry this burden."
Vegas clenched his jaw. "It doesn’t matter what he would want. I’ve made the choice."
Macau sighed, looking down at Pete. "You’re really sure, huh?"
"I don’t know how to not be sure," Vegas said, the crack in his voice betraying the rawness of everything he was feeling. "He’s everything to me, Macau. Everything. If I lose him... I lose myself."
The words hung between them, impossible to ignore. Macau, perhaps out of mercy or sheer helplessness, didn’t respond. Instead, he sat down beside him, the silence between them thick with the weight of grief, regret, and unspoken understanding.
For a while, there was nothing but the beeping of the machines, the soft shuffle of nurses, and the distant sounds of the hospital. Time stretched on, then the door opened again.
A new doctor stepped in, this one wearing a concerned frown, his eyes flickering between the two beds.
"Khun Vegas," he began, his voice strained. "I’m afraid there’s been a complication."
Vegas’s blood ran cold. "What do you mean, complication?"
"The blood... It’s not taking well. Pete’s body is rejecting it." The doctor’s eyes darted to Macau, then back to Vegas. "His vitals are stabilizing for now, but we’re not sure how long that will last. There’s a chance—"
"Stop." Vegas’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper, more of a command than a plea. He couldn’t hear it. Not now. Not after everything.
Macau’s face paled. "What... what are you saying?"
"I’m saying," the doctor continued slowly, "that we may need to make another decision. If Pete doesn’t respond to this treatment, we might have to make the same choice again. And this time..." His words trailed off, but the meaning was clear enough.
Vegas felt his knees buckle under him, his grip on the edge of Pete's bed the only thing keeping him upright. “No... no,” he whispered. He could feel the room closing in on him. The walls were closing in, the ceiling felt too low.
It couldn’t happen like this. Not again. Not after everything they had been through. Not after choosing Pete over their son.
The air felt suffocating, and his pulse began to race in his ears. His vision blurred as he tried to process it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The nightmare was supposed to end. But instead, it was spiraling out of control.
Macau reached out to steady him, his hand on Vegas’s shoulder, but Vegas shook him off. "No... I can’t... I can’t do this again. I can’t choose again. Please... please ."
The tears were falling now, faster than he could stop them, the weight of everything— everything —crushing him. He looked down at Pete’s unconscious face, praying, wishing for some miracle that would make everything right again. But there was no miracle.
There was only a cold, clinical room full of desperate decisions and the wreckage of a life that Vegas had thought he understood.
Macau knelt beside him. His voice cracked, a rough whisper. "Vegas... you have to be strong for both of them. Don’t forget that. Pete—he would want you to fight, to not give up, not just on him, but on everything ."
Vegas’s body shuddered, and for a moment, he thought he might break down completely. How was he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to keep making impossible choices?
The doctor stepped back, giving Vegas space, but not leaving. It was clear that there were no easy answers here. Only pain. Only loss. Only the suffocating weight of two people who meant the world to him—and the thought of having to lose one of them... He couldn’t breathe.
"I—I can’t lose Pete. I can’t..." Vegas choked out. "Please don’t make me choose again."
And then, through the haze of despair, Pete’s hand stirred. It twitched, just a little. Vegas froze. His heart stopped. Then again, Pete’s fingers moved slightly.
"Pete?" Vegas whispered urgently, his voice trembling as he leaned closer. His hand found Pete’s, gently stroking it. Please, Pete. Please fight. I need you.
The doctor’s eyes softened, but there was no denying the fear in his voice. "We are doing everything we can, Mr. Vegas. But I need you to understand—we can’t make any promises."
The world around Vegas seemed to tilt and fade. He couldn’t breathe. His heart was a war drum in his chest, thundering too loud, too fast. No. This isn’t how it ends. This can’t be how it ends.
Without thinking, he stood up from his chair, his hand shaking as he pointed at the doctor, his voice rising in a snarl. "Don’t you dare tell me that you can’t do anything! You brought him back once, didn’t you? You brought him back from the brink! You think I’m going to sit here and let him die? You think I’m going to just... let him die? If you let him die, I swear to God, I will make sure you never work in another hospital again. I will end every one of your careers. I’ll make sure none of you can ever walk into another OR without looking over your shoulder, wondering if you’ll ever be able to help anyone again. You hear me?"
The threat hung in the air like a live wire, crackling with the weight of Vegas’s desperation. His entire body was trembling with rage, with fear, with heartbreak. He didn’t care. He needed Pete back. He didn’t care if he had to threaten everyone in this goddamn hospital—he would do it.
The doctor’s eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he took a deep breath, adjusting his glasses, his voice steady as she answered him. "Mr. Vegas, I understand how you feel. We all do. But we can only work with what we’ve been given. If he’s going to survive this, it will be up to him. You’ll have to be patient."
Vegas’s hands were shaking now, his breath ragged. He had never been this angry, this desperate. The idea of Pete slipping away, of losing him like he had lost Venice—it felt like a hole had opened up in his chest, a chasm so wide and dark that he couldn’t see the bottom. Please, Pete, please come back to me. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the doctor or to himself, but he couldn’t stop.
He turned away from him, his face hard, but his heart breaking.
"I swear to you, if he dies, I’ll make sure none of you ever work again. But if you bring him back... I will do anything— anything —to make sure you get what you need to save him."
The hours stretched into days. Pete’s body remained unconscious, his life hanging by the thinnest of threads. Vegas never left his side. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. His mind kept looping in circles, replaying the moment of the crash, his own selfishness in leaving the party, and his failure to keep his family safe. He had failed them. He had failed Pete. He had failed Venice.
Venice...
The thought of his son—the sound of his laughter, the way Venice used to tease him, Dad, stop worrying! I’m fine, I’m not going anywhere! —all of it felt like a cruel joke now. I can’t protect anyone, can I? He had been so sure that he could. So sure that he could keep his family safe. But in the end, they were all just fragile human beings, breaking under the weight of life’s cruel randomness.
For the next three days, Vegas stayed in the room with Pete, his eyes never leaving his husband’s form. He barely noticed the nurses and doctors coming in and out, checking Pete’s vitals, adjusting the tubes. It all blurred together into a series of empty motions. What mattered was Pete. Pete was still breathing. Pete was still here.
But then, there was Venice. Venice was gone. Vegas couldn’t remember the last time he had let himself cry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to feel anything other than that gnawing, soul-deep pain. But every time he thought of Venice, every time he thought of how the world would never again hear his son’s voice or feel his warmth, it was like the world was slipping through his fingers.
The days passed in a haze, each one blending into the next. Vegas didn’t remember much about the time following Pete’s awakening. It was as if time itself had slowed down, every minute stretching to feel like an eternity. His entire world had narrowed down to Pete—keeping him alive, making sure he breathed, making sure he ate, making sure he was here, and trying not to think about what they had lost.
Every day, Vegas would sit beside Pete’s bed, his eyes never leaving the steady rise and fall of his chest. There were no words exchanged between them, not for a long time. The silence between them felt heavier than anything else, more suffocating than the noise of the machines that monitored Pete’s health. Vegas couldn’t bring himself to tell Pete the truth—the truth about the choice he’d made, the impossible decision between his husband and his son. The guilt of that choice was something that was eating him alive from the inside, and Pete had no idea. How could he?
Vegas couldn’t even tell Pete about the hours leading up to the crash, couldn’t even explain how he had been with Kinn, of all people, at that damn meeting—the meeting that had kept him away from the party, away from his family, away from his son. If he had been there, maybe things would have been different. If he had been there, Venice would still be alive . The thought of it was unbearable. It was easier to stay silent.
For days, Pete slept. He would wake up now and then, his eyes fluttering open, searching for Vegas with confusion and pain. He would ask about Venice, but Vegas couldn’t bring himself to tell him. He just shook his head, eyes filled with sorrow, and Pete seemed to understand. The grief in Pete’s eyes was enough to break Vegas all over again.
It was on the third day of Pete’s slumber that Macau came to visit. It had been hours since Vegas last left the room. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t spoken to anyone. He had been in the same spot, perched beside Pete’s bed, one hand clutching his husband’s limp fingers, the other absently wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
Macau entered quietly, as if to give Vegas space. But the silence in the room was suffocating, and Macau knew that Vegas needed something more than space. He needed... something .
"You’re taking care of him," Macau said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
Vegas didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed on Pete, watching him with the same intensity he’d had when Pete had first slipped into that coma. He had to make sure Pete was still here, still breathing. He had to be here for him, even if it felt like the world was collapsing around him.
"I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago," Vegas replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He hadn’t even noticed how hoarse it had become, how broken. It was a voice that no longer held any strength. "I should have been here. I should have been here for both of them." His voice cracked on the last word, and Macau didn’t push. They both knew who Vegas meant. They both knew what he had lost.
Macau took a step closer, and for a moment, the two men just stood there, staring at the floor. The weight of the silence was unbearable.
"You made the right choice," Macau finally said. "You saved Pete. You kept him alive. That’s all that matters right now."
Vegas’s head snapped up, eyes wild with anger and grief. "The right choice? Do you even hear yourself?" His voice rose, sharp and jagged. "I had to choose . Between my husband and my son. There was no right choice. There was only the choice that would haunt me for the rest of my life."
Macau sighed, stepping forward. "Vegas, you did what you had to do. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right decision."
Vegas’s face twisted in pain. "I’m so fucking tired of hearing that," he muttered bitterly. "You think I don’t know what I did? You think I don’t know how wrong it feels? If I could’ve saved them both, I would have, Macau. But I couldn’t. And now Venice is gone." His voice cracked again, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to regain some semblance of control. "He’s gone. And Pete... he doesn’t even know . He doesn’t even know what I had to choose."
Macau placed a hand on Vegas’s shoulder, steady and solid. "I know you didn’t want this, Vegas. I know. But Pete’s alive. And Venice... Venice wouldn’t want you to keep punishing yourself. He wouldn’t want that. You have to stay with Pete. He needs you now more than ever."
Vegas didn’t answer. Instead, he looked down at Pete, his face softening, the anger draining from him, replaced by a quiet devastation. Macau’s words were true. He knew that. Pete did need him. And so did Vegas need Pete. In his own way, Pete was the one thing that still tethered him to the world. And if he lost Pete too, Vegas wasn’t sure what would be left of him.
Vegas didn’t leave the hospital room after that. He stayed with Pete. Every hour. Every day. He was there when Pete woke up, and he was there when Pete fell back asleep. The nights were the hardest—Pete’s breathing slow and uneven, the beeping of the machines almost like a countdown, a reminder of how fragile Pete’s life still was. But every day, there was a slight improvement. Pete’s vitals became more stable. The color slowly returned to his skin. And yet, Pete’s condition remained delicate. Vegas watched over him with the same intensity he had always had, but now it was different. This wasn’t a fight for control. This wasn’t about power or dominance. It was about saving the one person he still had left to love.
The nurse would occasionally stop by to check on Pete, adjusting his IV lines, making sure he was hydrated, making sure he wasn’t in pain. And Vegas would always be there, standing by Pete’s side, wiping away the sweat from his brow, brushing a lock of his hair back from his forehead. Sometimes, when Pete would stir, Vegas would softly whisper to him, hoping he could hear.
“It’s okay,” Vegas would murmur. “You’re going to be okay. I’m right here. Don’t go anywhere. Please. I can’t... I can’t lose you too.”
And though Pete didn’t answer, Vegas could almost swear he heard a faint, reassuring squeeze from Pete’s hand. And it was enough.
It was on the fourth day that Vegas found himself remembering. A memory from so long ago, one that seemed as vivid now as it had been all those years ago.
Eighteen years ago, Vegas had been lying in a hospital bed himself. He could still feel the sting of the bullet, the warmth of his blood soaking into his clothes. The sounds of gunfire still echoed in his head. He’d been shot, badly. His life had been hanging by a thread, his body failing to hold on as the doctors fought to keep him alive.
But there was someone else in that room with him then too. Pete had been there. His face—young and full of worry—was the last thing Vegas remembered before slipping into unconsciousness. Pete had been a kid back then, so much younger, his hand trembling as he gripped Vegas’s.
"I won’t leave you, Vegas," Pete had whispered to him, his voice shaking, his eyes desperate. "You can’t leave me. Please, stay with me. Don’t go. I need you. I love you."
Vegas remembered looking up at Pete, barely able to move, but somehow mustering enough strength to smile.
"You’ve got to be strong, Pete," he had whispered back. "You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine, little one. I’ll make it through. I promise."
And Pete had nodded, holding onto Vegas’s hand with everything he had, the fear in his eyes more than enough to remind Vegas of just how much he meant to him. Pete had stayed by his side, just like this, nursing him back to health, staying strong even when Vegas was too weak to hold on to anything.
Now, it was Vegas’s turn to keep that promise—to be strong for Pete, to make sure that he lived through this, no matter how hard it was, no matter how much it hurt.
The memory of Pete’s unwavering love and devotion was what kept Vegas going. And as he watched Pete sleeping peacefully now, so fragile, so vulnerable, he whispered to him softly, "I’m not going anywhere, Pete. I’ll stay right here. I promise. You’re not alone. I won’t leave you."
The silence in the room was almost unbearable, but it was the only thing Vegas could handle. The quiet moments between them now felt like a fragile promise of the future, of the life they still had ahead of them. And for the first time in days, Vegas allowed himself to believe that, maybe... just maybe... they could make it through this. Together.