Tanned Leather & White Lace [+18]

9

[‼️Warning: This chapter contains a scene where Pete becomes sexually intimate with a man other than Vegas.]
____

This night will haunt him forever. The intense agony that felt like a knife twisting in his gut, slumped against the door of his childhood bedroom, surrounded by the lingering scents of ginger, cumin, and cinnamon that filled the air. The gentle breeze from the open window stirred the thin white curtains, dancing lightly in the air, while his tears streamed down his face, soaking his sleeves. Each drop of his soul escaping, leaving salty trails on his delicate skin, fragile rivers carving through his baby cheeks.

She wasn't there.

Pete would never forget this night. How he cried until he couldn't breathe, his small body contorted, bend and broke by sobs and spasms. How he pressed his hand painfully against his mouth, desperate to silence the noise, fingers digging into his cheeks. How terrified to his core he was, afraid to make even the slightest sound.

How this quiet pain, folding in on himself, how the storm raging inside caused his other hand to clutch at the fabric of his shirt, the one with the San Goku drawing on the front. He was the only kid with that shirt, and among his school friends, everyone was in awe. He was the talk of the playground, known as Pete, the boy with the Dragon Ball Z shirt that nobody else had, the one that was only available in Japan.

She got it for him. She went to one of her seller friends to pre-ordered it on a Monday morning just for Pete. She did it because she wanted him to have it because she loved seeing the joy in her son's eyes as he watched those characters transform into Super Saiyans. She'd smile fondly looking at him imitate them as his whole face was turning red, eyes squinted, teeth gritted, like he was about to burst in the cozy confines of their modest living room, in front of that TV that needed a firm nudge on the top to work properly.

That morning, she woke up at six, hopping on her bike and wearing that flowery dress Pete adored so much. She did it so she wouldn't miss the moment when she could return home with that shirt, for her son, her pride and joy, her everything, and see the look on his face.

She'll never be there again.

What would she do? What would she say? Would she gather Pete into her arms, holding him tight, whispering that everything will be okay? Even though Pete was thirty-three, even though he was a man now, not a child anymore, even though the monsters that once lurked under his bed were now surrounding him, in flesh and bones?

Because in the end, it will. It will be all okay. Time has a way of healing. But you never truly forget; you just learn to live with the scars, whether they're etched on your skin or buried deep in your mind. Their words echo, becoming your own: "No mercy, no expectations." "You'll never be enough." "Your mother should've never had you." She's gone, she's dead! So get up and be a fucking man!"

Pete was only eight.

Pete was a child who cried out into the night, his sobs piercing the silence. Too loud for the ears of that man who was supposed to love and protect and reassure him, who, in the end, blamed Pete for it all. From the day he was born to the final breath of the only person who truly saw him.

The one who carried him in the warmth and protection of her womb, inside herself, the one who gave him life, who gave him everything. The person who used her hands to wipe away his tears, her arms to cradle him to sleep, her warmth to warm Pete's cold fingers, blowing on them gently, both of her hands cradling his tenderly. Her voice to whisper words of love. But that night, Pete heard nothing but his own cries, his father's shouts, and the deafening silence of his mother.

"You're just a dog."

A dog. Pete was just a dog, just a fool, his own naivety crashing down on him like a ton of bricks as he stormed out of the meeting room as fast as his legs could carry him. He pushed through the crowd of people blocking his path, his bare feet hitting the ground silently as he started to run.