Our Liminal Space [+18]

Liminal

Pete hesitated for a moment, his grip still tight on the pickle jar, his heart still racing erratically like it was trying to run away from all those months of silent agony. He looked at Vegas, soaked, sad, beautiful in his own mess up way, standing in front of him and somehow looking different but also like nothing had changed, like he belonged. Like he never really left, eating that pickle, crunching on it like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

But Pete knew it wasn't true. Because Vegas hated pickles, just like Pete used to.

Without a word, Pete stepped aside, letting the door swing open a little wider. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing—whether this was the stupidest decision of his life or just the inevitable one—but he couldn't bring himself to close that door for good, to shut Vegas out. Not now. Not when he was standing there, looking at Pete like he was something worth staying for.

Vegas stepped in, cautiously, like he wasn't sure if he could or if Pete might change his mind at the last second. The air between them felt heavy, thick with everything they hadn't said in months. Pete could still smell the rain clinging to Vegas, could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, even though there was still space left between them.

The apartment felt smaller suddenly, with Vegas in it. Or maybe it was just that Pete's heart felt too big for his chest, his emotions scratching like an enraged cat at the walls he had built to protect himself. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the tension, but his voice came out shakier than he intended.

"You can... you can sit," Pete mumbled, gesturing awkwardly toward the couch, though his eyes flicked to the half-packed suitcase sitting in the middle of the room. It was still there, and it just remembered Pete what he was doing a few minutes ago and what it meant. "If you want."

Vegas didn't move right away. His gaze swept over the room, lingering on the packed boxes, the empty bed, the suitcase, the half-empty Nutella jar. His own shirts and old underwears crumpled, abandoned on the floor. It was like he was seeing all the ways Pete had been trying to move on, all the things Pete had been telling himself he could do without him.

Vegas walked over to the couch but didn't sit. Instead, he turned back to Pete, his eyes locking onto him with that intensity that had always made Pete feel both terrified and completely safe at the same time.

"I'm sorry," Vegas said, his voice rough around the edges like he had been rehearsing the words in his head, but they still came out raw. "I tried... I tried to reach you. Porsche said you needed space, that you needed time, but I—"

"Porsche," Pete sighed, rolling his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Yeah, I bet he did. Snitch." He muttered under his breath, making a mental note to kill his best friend later.

Vegas looked like he wanted to say more, but Pete just raised a hand, silencing him again. He wasn't ready for the full apology tour. Not yet. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he balanced the jar on his knees, staring down at it like it held all the answers.

He might've stayed silent for a minute or an hour—he couldn't tell anymore. But when he finally spoke again, nothing was clearer, but somehow it felt lighter. The only thing he noticed was that the storm outside had calmed, the thunder no longer crashing as loudly. Like they were both caught in the eye of the storm.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Vegas," Pete admitted finally, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know if I can trust you again." He chuckled bitterly "I don't know if I even want to."

Vegas's face softened but Pete kept his gaze down. He couldn't look up—not now. Because if he did, if he met Vegas's eyes and saw the warmth, the longing, he knew he might crumble. He might give in completely, and this fragile truce between them would turn into something more.