I was, after all, just a bad dream [+18]

II

He can't remember the day. And if he is honest with himself, he can't even remember whether it was sunny or rainy, or what he was wearing. The day and time are a blur; all he remembers is that everything was...quiet.

He can't remember the day. What he remembers is the scent, that comforting blend of sweet orange and almond—the essence of morning. It's the scent of his morning in this bedroom, their bedroom.

He can't remember the day. He can't remember much more, just that it happened quietly. Quietly, like everything froze. Time, space, the spin of the Earth—all standing still. Even his breathing. Even his heart.

It happened quietly, even though he's aware he was screaming. Yelling until his lungs burned, until his throat was rough, raw, bleeding. Until his mouth went numb, dry. Until there was no sound left at all.

It happened quietly. Silence echoed in his soul, a silent plea, even though he screamed like a wild creature snared in a steel-jaw trap deep in the woods, in the heart of winter, in the dead of night. Where no one could hear him, because there's no one anymore, yet he screamed. He screamed because he clung to the hope, a vivid and agonizing hope, that the man he couldn't imagine living without would just turn around.

Pete fell apart. Pulverized. He fell apart, and he knew that no one could ever put back together the fragments—his own, the pieces of his dumb, now worthless heart. Scattered bits lay on the bedroom floor, the same room where they once loved each other, where it was just the two of them, where they fought and reconciled, where they laughed and cried, where they made love and waged war.

Where everything came to an end.

Vegas shut the door, leaving Pete on his knees, pleading for the ghost of the man who walked out of their bedroom, of his life. On this cold floor, somewhere where nothing would ever grow again.

Nothing could ever grow inside Pete. His ribcage empty because that man stole his bleeding and still-beating heart, tearing it off like just another piece of meat to feast on. He tossed it in his pocket, saving it for later or maybe just to throw it somewhere, where no one could ever find it.

Vegas left.

And Pete is convinced it happened quietly. Because now, the only sound echoing in that once-huge place they used to call home—where he's now alone, where there's no life left—is the footsteps of that other human Pete can't fathom living without.

Tiny steps approach, with a little hand and a small voice.

Papa

And the sound rushed back like a wave on a high-tide day, mercilessly colliding with the shores of Pete's brain. Devastating and unrelenting, sweeping everything in its path, sweeping through every recess, coursing through his veins, in his eyes, inside his nose and mouth, infiltrating his every breath. Pete can't breathe anymore; he can't breathe underwater and that's where he is now, caught in the depths where air is scarce.

Papa

Venice is there, his son, the essence of his existence. Vegas didn't take Venice. Vegas couldn't claim Venice. Now, Venice is kneeling beside Pete, and his tiny hand—oh, so soft and warm—is pressed against Pete's cheek now, and it's wet. Pete doesn't know if it's because of sweat, or tears, or because he's really underwater, or the submerged weight of their reality, but that hand is wiping the drops away.

Papa!

Pete doesn't know how, when, or even if it happened, but when he grabbed that hand, an inexplicable resurrection stirred within his ribcage, came to life again, bloom like the most beautiful flower. There, where there was nothing just two seconds before, where everything inside was dead and rotten. But now it beat, bleed, and move at the same rhythm as the words pouring out of Venice's mouth, like a litany, a pleading and tragic plea. "Papa, papa, papa."

Tears—it was just tears—and Pete fiercely swept them away with the back of his hand. He gasped, finally taking the breath he'd held since that door sealed shut, a breath suspended in a moment. Because Pete is sure he briefly died when Vegas closed that door. But now, his jaws clenched, fingers tightening around his son's wrist, as he pulled him close against what seemed to be the pulse of half his heart.

Like a wolf ensnared in a steel-jaw trap, gnawing on his own leg to free itself and protect his pup. An embrace— his arms encircling that tiny body, cradling the little being who held his entire soul.

His son, Venice—whose soft hair is now sticking to Pete's wet cheek. Venice, whose warmth is melting the ice that had enveloped Pete. Venice, who smells like sweet orange and almond. Papa. Papa is here. Papa isn't going anywhere.

Pete can't remember the day. And if Pete is honest with himself, he can't even remember if it was sunny or rainy outside. The day and time are a blur... But what he remembers is that he stayed on that floor for hours, hugging his son until his arms went numb, until his fingers ached from clutching that tiny shirt. Afraid that if he let go, Venice would slip away too.

Pete can't remember the day, but he remembers why he only grabbed what was necessary—a backpack and Venice's favorite plushie. He recalls rushing down the stairs, holding Venice tight, his little face buried in the crook of Pete's neck.

He remembers Lek trying to figure out what was happening, sees Lek's lips moving, and the panic and confusion written all over his face. Pete remembers he didn't answer because he didn't know. No, Pete didn't know why Vegas left. Pete didn't know why Vegas broke up. Pete didn't know why it felt so damn easy and simple for Vegas to just walk away. No, Pete has no answers.

Pete remembers putting Venice in his child seat, starting the car, and seeing Lek running behind. He remembers giving a last look in the rearview mirror. A last look to the house they shared, to the mansion where they built their imperfect, weird, insane but, he thought, happy life.

That day, Pete and Venice left Bangkok, left everything behind. When the plane touched down and the warm, protective arm of his grandmother enveloped him and his son, Pete knew that the moisture on his cheeks was tears. He knew he wasn't drowning. He knew that, for now, here on the island that saw him grow up, in the soft grip of his grandmother's arms, Pete was safe. Venice was safe.

Vegas left. Pete did too. Only the pain stayed.

And if Pete is honest with himself, he can actually remember the day. He'll probably remember it for the rest of his life. He just promised himself he wouldn't think about it anymore.

Pete can't remember much more, except that day never existed. Vegas closed the door. Vegas left.

It's over.