The sharp crack of the slap pierced through the air, shattering the fragile stillness of the room. At that moment, time seemed to stand still, suspended in the gravity of the act. His hand hung in the air, the stinging sensation pulsing through his fingers, a testament to the force behind the blow.
Before him, the figure he had struck recoiled, stumbling backward. Emotions flickered across their face, a mixture of shock, hurt, and a profound vulnerability. They were already weakened, both emotionally and physically, and the impact of the slap seemed to reverberate through their entire being.
Vegas felt a surge of guilt wash over him, a torrent of remorse for allowing his anger to override his better judgment. He had again become the source of further pain for Pete.
Pete looked back at him tears still hanging in his eyes.
"You are just like your father..."
In that swift, charged moment, any remnants of guilt that lingered were obliterated by the sting of the bitter reply. It struck him like a lash, igniting a surge of raw, unchecked anger.
Without thinking, he lunged forward, fingers curling around Pete's collar in a vice-like grip. The air crackled with tension, the room seeming to shrink around them. His breath came in ragged bursts, each inhaling a seething testament to the tempest raging within him.
They locked gazes, trapped in a silent struggle of wills.
"Say that again...If you dare.."
With a voice laced with controlled intensity, he tightened his grip on Pete's collar, giving a harsh ultimatum. "Take it back. Now. And maybe, just maybe, you'll get a chance to make this right."
Pete's response, however, was not what he had expected. It was a sharp, mocking laughter that cut through the charged atmosphere like a blade. The sound echoed off the walls, a bitter retort that reverberated with defiance. Vegas put a folding knife on Pete's neck threatening to take action.
"Why don't you just kill me at once....."
Pete held the sharp blade in a tight grip. Pete's desperate grip on the knife mirrored the stark intensity of his internal turmoil.
The room seemed to hold its breath as the crimson droplets traced a macabre path down Pete's trembling hands.
At this moment Pete found peace. For a moment he actually felt he could end it all. Free from this ill-fated relationship. He pressed the blade closer to his neck, each movement deliberate, as if seeking solace in the finality of his decision.
As Vegas desperately reached for the knife.
Pete, however, moved with a strange grace, angling the knife in a way that deterred any swift retrieval. His eyes, pools of anguish, locked onto Vegas's with a familiarity that cut through the air like a jagged blade.
The chilling familiarity of the scene played out before Vegas. It was a haunting déjà vu, a cruel repetition of a past they both thought they had escaped. The echoes of Pete's screams and the memories of shared pain reverberated in the air.
"I am a human... you have made me lose my humanity," the haunting echoes of Pete's words reverberated in Vegas's mind.
Vegas recalled Pete's screams, the raw desperation in his voice, and the clink of handcuffs as they became a metaphorical shackle in their tumultuous relationship. His body moved on his own repeating the same actions as that in the past.
In a voice cracked with emotion, Vegas begged, "Please, Pete, let go of the knife. I surrender. I'll do whatever you want. Just... just stay with me."
Pete's gaze, momentarily distracted by Vegas's desperate plea, returned with an unsettling intensity. The knife pressed deeper.
"Vegas, you don't love me... No. Actually, you don't know how to love."
Pete raised his knife high enough to end this suffering once and for all. Macau who has been waiting for this opportunity quickly held Pete's arm up in the air and knocked him out.
Pete, now subdued by the effects of the sedation, lay in repose.
Vegas's hand traced the lines of Pete's face. He put his ear on Pete's chest. Pete's chest rose and fell rhythmically, the soft hum of machines providing a backdrop to the quiet tableau.
Macau stood alone, a solitary figure facing the window, his gaze lost in the cityscape beyond. He took a slow drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled upwards. His eyes, veiled by the tendrils of smoke, held a distant contemplation. As he exhaled a plume of smoke, his attention shifted to his bandaged hand. It was not the first scare he had. As Macau gazed at it, a mosaic of emotions played across his face. The doctor's assurances of healing and fading scars held little weight in the face of the significance this mark held.
This scar wasn't just a blemish on his skin; it was a testament to a connection, a tangible proof that Pete had noticed him.
Macau embraced the scar as a symbol of love, and the complexities of their relationship were imprinted on his very skin. He harbored no desire for it to fade away. Instead, he wanted it to linger.
Vegas' voice brought Macau out of his thoughts.
"Why can't you just be with me?"
Vegas looked at the unconscious Pete.
"Why do you need someone else...When I only need you.....Are those Kids really that important to you?"
Macau looked at his brother and he felt he was just a bad brother.
He consoled Vegas as he felt guilty.
In the hushed stillness of the hospital at 2 in the night, Macau moved like a shadow, slipping toward Pete's room with a quiet determination. He wanted to touch Pete. He wanted to feel the warmth from his body.
