but Red is mine [vegaspete]

Who break their toys

"Pete."

...

"Hey."

...

"Pete."

...

"Get up."

***

When Pete opened his eyes, Porsche was kneeling by Pete's bed with a broken piece of a fridge tray in his hands.

"What is it?"

Porsche cringed.

"I need your help."

When Porsche first arrived, he was a constant source of exasperation, and sometimes anger, for a lot of the other bodyguards. Pete could understand why he was that way. He was out of his element, taking a job he obviously didn't like, for a man he despised, for whatever reason. His soft assistance and helpful words endeared him to Porsche, granting him the chance to get to know the real Porsche, the innocent, the Porsche who complained about things he didn't really care about, but stayed quiet about the things that actually caused him pain.

It was hard not to pity him.

Except, this also meant that when Porsche fucked up, Pete was forced to wake up in the middle of the night to help his roommate quietly find spare pieces to whatever furniture he'd wrecked.

Like the fridge in the common room.

"Oh, Porsche."

"Hey," Porsche said defensively. "This could have happened to anyone."

Sitting up, wiping his eyes as he looked down at the broken tray.

"Is that soup on your pants?"

"The pot was hot when I put it in."

Pete put his hand to his temple and closed his eyes so he wouldn't pass out from frustration.

When he opened his eyes, Porsche's voice wobbled and sparked as his face distorted like a TV about to go out. Confused, Pete blinked so that his head would clear up as Vegas appeared above him.

Slowly, the past few days came rushing back.

Pete wanted to close his eyes again, pray the day away, go back to the good old times when his biggest problem was a huge, naughty newbie.

***

"You've never gone through what I have."

***

Pete's pain didn't matter.

Even as a child, his father's beatings seemed... less, in comparison to the ones he'd grown to expect, every Thursday. They weren't predictable. He didn't get beaten after every match, so he couldn't always tell. But when he lost a match, Pete knew for sure what was going to happen.

He'd steal a bunch of his grandmother's herbs, soak them and inhale, numbing his body long before his father got home and the beating began. Because it wasn't just about him. There was someone else who was beholden to whatever pain Pete felt and it hurt him to imagine what his pain caused for her.

Which was why he wished he could die so that she wouldn't have to go through all this with Vegas. It would hurt for a second. Losing a soulmate always cost a person a piece of their soul. But it would be better than this. Every hit, every touch, every time a shock of electricity ran through his body, Pete could swear she was far away, rolling on the ground, unable to know that her soulmate had dragged her into something she never bargained for.