but Red is mine [vegaspete]

And unhappy memories

***

"You became a zombie?"

***

The trip down the river, into a cab that carried him back to the city where he took a bus, all the while receiving concerned looks from other road-users, was kind of a blur. One moment, he was leaning on a cabinet, realizing that Vegas was never going to let him go. The next moment, Pete was being engulfed in a tight hug, from all sides, to the background music of Khun Tankhun screaming in his ear.

If he'd been dazed before, Pete was definitely back on planet earth. Because if there was one thing Khun Tankhun's screams could do, it was awaken the soul and keep it alert. Whether it wanted to be, or not.

Sitting in the bathtub, Pete wrapped his arms around his knees, trembling. He was home. He was home. He was home. He'd made it through the gates and he was finally home. He'd slept eight nights at Vegas' safehouse, but he'd had a million dreams about being back home.

Pete prayed that this was real, and not just another dream.

"Who did this to you?" Porsche asked. "Tell me and I'll go handle it."

This wasn't his friend anymore.

Maybe when Pete left, a tiny part of Porsche could have been just a friend. Right now, the man talking to Pete was not his friend. This wasn't Porsche. This was an institute.

His friend would comfort him, say horrible things about Vegas to make Pete feel better. His friend would let him cry, take him to a wrestling ring and let Pete punch it out till he felt nothing. A friend would give Pete an outlet.

But this man in front of Pete would hurt Vegas.

Because there was nothing holding Porsche back. It wasn't like before when Porsche had been accused of hurting Khun Macau and Khun Kinn had had to exact punishment. This Porsche could march right up to Vegas, put a bullet in his head and walk away. Because, not only did Porsche have Khun Kinn's ear, Vegas was on the run. Vegas could get hurt.

Try as he might, that was the last thing Pete wanted.

"Pete," Porsche said, sternly.

Pete jerked, lifting his head up, not quite able to look Porsche in the eye.

"Please believe me." He forced himself to look up. "I'm asking you," Pete said, his voice breaking. Regaining his composure, he grinned at Porsche. "Could you fix me up?"

Pete was beyond relieved when Porsche let it go.

He disinfected the wounds on Pete's shoulder, moving around to get to Pete's back. As he worked, slowly and quietly, Pete kept pinching himself to wake up. He needed this to be real. He needed to be here. Because he'd made the right decision. Pete wasn't a pet. He wasn't the new hedgehog on two feet that Vegas could fuck whenever he wanted.

"Shit," Porsche said, dropping the cotton bud as he reached for the drugs.

"What is it?" Pete asked.

"I forgot about your mark." He poured out two tablets of pain meds. "Take these. They should ease some of the pain so she doesn't feel it."

"He won't feel anything," Pete said, ignoring the meds.

You're my soulmate.

Pete closed his eyes and turned away as if Vegas was standing before him, opening his shirt to show Pete the silver mark. As if Pete wanted to see it. As if that was supposed to mean anything. He'd lured Pete back with his sadness, then locked him up again. But because that wasn't working, Vegas chose that moment to pull the soulmate card?