Tanned Leather & White Lace [+18]

5

As the first rays of dawn filtered through the windows of his bedroom, he was laying there, on his bed, above the sheets. Naked, probably still covered in blood, in come and spit. He knew it, he didn't care, he didn't even remember making the way to his bedroom as soon as Pol and Arm stopped the car in the underground parking. He didn't remember taking the elevator, walking the corridors, opening the door and entered what he used to call his sanctuary, the place where he used to feel at home, a home that felt so foreign now.

Pete never liked silence. And in that moment, everything was quiet, everything was still. Everything but Pete.

Pete watched the ceiling as the morning light cast a soft, golden rays of light upon the walls, the floor, upon his clothes staigned with blood, those clothes he threw there at the feet of his bed, when he undressed almost robotically a few minutes ago. That soft hue reflecting on the sheets, making shine the particles of dust floating in the air. Every fiber of his being throbbed with pain, every corner of his body pounded like an open wound.

Pete lifted up his hand above his head slowly to meet that ray of light there. He watched for a moment the shimmering reflection on his fingers, drawing abstract patterns on his skin, on the back of his hand, on his palm, wrapping around his fingers.

A warm, ethereal glow, like a glistening caress warming his skin. And Pete watched, and stared, mesmerized until the light dissipated and vanished leaving nothing but the cold and the emptiness that filled up his chest once more...and the voice of the man who had held him tight just a few hours ago echoing in his mind.

You're the reason I'm still here tonight.

When the night came to an end, his bones, his flesh, and all that was his returned to him, free from Vegas's touch, free from Vegas's hands that were no longer there. The air turned cold, freezing even. Everything was shaking, everything was resounding. His own bones felt like they're shattering, breaking in the now cold light of morning that pierced through him, in the lingering smell of Vegas' cologne, oud wood, black and white incense, cigarettes, leather, blood and sweat that dripped on his skin.

Vegas was everywhere, permeated every part of him, from the tip of his tongue to beneath his nails, under his skin, and to the deepest places inside of him. Vegas was imprinted on Pete's skin, and Pete should want to tear off that skin like it was a dirty and tainted costume. Yet, he couldn't and wouldn't for the world, because that skin carried the essence of Vegas—it tasted, smelled, and felt like Vegas himself.

In this soft light of morning, every shadow seemed to whisper Vegas name, teasing him with the ghostly memory of Vegas's touch. The imprints of Vegas' teeth and nails, bruises and scratches, the shape of his lips, and the soft touch of his fingertips ghosting along his throat. The touch of a hand in the small of his back, the tips of fingers on his chest, of fingers inside of him, or wrapping around his neck. Of a mouth on his lips, that kiss he knew he will never forget

Pete's body was a crime scene, Vegas' crime scene, the evidence engraved in his skin, the only proof of their night, of what they shared, what they gave to each other. What they took away from each other too.

The sheets, once a haven of warmth and comfort, felt like chains binding him to a reality he didn't want to come back to. That monochrome and dull landscape where Vegas painted his own oh so magnificent colors, those colors that remember Pete of a soft childhood summer night, where the sun was setting, where the air was a tender caress on his skin, where the hand of a young boy that reached for him for the first time in his life eventually disappear.

He reached out, fingers trembling, searching for a phantom presence that lingered only in the recesses of his mind. Vegas wasn't there, of course he wasn't. He never was in the first place...Never will be. Vegas was only present in his mind now, a memory, a fading bittersweet taste on the back of his tongue. The fading warmth of Vegas' scent still lingered in the air and he was not even there ever.