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Pete's half-asleep when the door opens. He rolls over drowsily, relaxing as he registers the silhouette of Macau in the doorway. He turns back to curl against Vegas, whose breath has already gone even into sleep.
The bed dips behind him. He makes a questioning noise.
"My room is cold," Macau mumbles. "Scoot over."
It’s only once Macau has wriggled his way under the covers that Pete remembers neither he nor Vegas are wearing clothes. Macau doesn’t seem to mind; he snuggles up behind Pete, tucking his knees behind Pete’s legs and wrapping an arm around his side. Soon his breathing has grown sluggish against Pete’s back, warm puffs of air that make Pete shiver in the dark.
The next morning, Pete wakes up to find Vegas already sitting up, regarding a still sleeping Macau with bemusement.
"Did you let him in?" Vegas asks, once he sees Pete is awake. "He's going to get spoiled."
"You’re one to talk," Pete mumbles. "Come back to bed."
Vegas does.
--
Pete will never get used to the sight of the notorious scion of the Theerapanyakun minor family snuggling with his little brother on the couch. Maybe he should have anticipated Vegas's cuddly side; it isn't as though Vegas hasn't cuddled Pete plenty of times. That always seemed like a post-coital thing, though, and then later a narrowly-escaping-death thing. It's only once the three of them started living together that Pete learned Vegas and Macau are just extremely tactile in general.
It's sweet as it is surreal, seeing Vegas kiss Macau on the forehead before he leaves for school; Macau sneaking in under Vegas's arm for a hug, or demanding Vegas massage his shoulders and Vegas actually acquiescing. In all his years in the major family’s service Pete never realized how close they were, but it's apparent now in every casual gesture, every easy touch. It's good for Vegas, and he has to imagine for Macau as well; the both of them need something easy, after everything.
Before Pete can slip into the kitchen and leave them in peace, Macau spots him.
"Oh hey, you're home! Come on, we're watching Batman." He scoots toward the armrest of the couch, making a spot between him and Vegas.
It's a bit of a squeeze fitting between them. When Pete's finally settled, they're all a little tangled, Macau leaned up against his shoulder and Vegas's hand resting protectively on his thigh.
--
It's sticky hot outside, the air thick with the promise of rain. Pete should probably shower, but he's comfortable where he is on the floor. For the past several minutes, Vegas has been idly massaging his shoulders, but he must finally be getting bored, because now he starts to kiss the back of Pete's neck.
His breath is ticklish; Pete shivers, then tries not to laugh at the wet press of Vegas's tongue. A few feet away, Macau glances back at them. He rolls his eyes when he sees what they're up to, then turns back to the video game he's playing.
Vegas keeps on working his way down his neck, kisses and nips interspersed with the occasional bracing bite. His hands wander; when one creeps down beneath Pete's waistband, Pete pinches him, glancing pointedly at Macau.
"Don't tell me you're shy," Vegas chuckles.
Macau has admittedly seen them get up to worse. When Vegas was recovering in the main family compound, Pete and Macau spent almost every night by his bedside. Pete can hazily recall more than one occasion when Vegas managed to coax him into bed with him, late-night whispers turning to necking turning to a furtive handjob under the sheets, Vegas biting down on Pete's shoulder as Pete came undone. But that felt like a dream world, outside of space or time. Here, in broad daylight, in the home the three of them share, Pete probably shouldn't find it so tempting to sit back and let Vegas do whatever he likes.
He's sure the hunger shows on his face; nevertheless, Vegas withdraws his hand. He goes back to sucking bruises onto Pete's neck, up towards his mouth. They make out on the floor for a long, lazy stretch of minutes, and by the time Macau beats the level he's on, they're both hard and short of breath.
Eventually Pete musters up enough energy to drag Vegas into their bedroom. Vegas jerks him off against the closed door, and Pete tries to focus on the filthy things he's saying but a part of him keeps thinking that Macau can probably hear them through the wall.
--
"Kinn’s been giving me golf lessons," Porsche says, with a dreamy faraway look that tells Pete how little golfing has likely taken place. "How about you? You look good."
"I’m all right," Pete says. He takes a sip of the drink Porsche insisted on mixing for him. It’s got a pleasantly spicy kick, and hardly tastes of alcohol despite the volume of tequila that Pete personally witnessed going into it. If he were here with Vegas and Macau, he’d pace himself, but he’s been given the night off and half the people on Hum Bar’s dance floor are barely incognito bodyguards.
"Yeah? How are things with Vegas?"
"They’re good."
"You should bring him to the minor family compound sometime. I swear some of the staff think I’m keeping him locked in a dungeon."
"I’ll tell him," Pete says; Vegas won’t say yes, but he’ll appreciate the sentiment. Hopefully.
"I’m worried about Chay," Porsche admits, once they’re at the bottom of their glasses. "You know, my brother? He won’t say what’s wrong, but he’s so moody lately."
"He’s at that age," Pete says; he hasn’t interacted much with Porsche’s brother, but it’s not hard to imagine how living in a mafia compound could make a teenage civilian moody. "You have to let him work it out."
"I guess so," Porsche sighs. Then his gaze turns thoughtful. "Hey, Vegas’s bro is around his age, isn’t he? You must have it even worse than me."
"Macau’s not a bad kid."
"Yeah, I guess he can be polite when he wants to," Porsche concedes, begrudgingly. "But he’s got the soul of a troublemaker. I know how to spot them. As his honorary big brother, you’ve got to keep him in line."
Pete tries and fails not to think about dinner last week, when Vegas and Macau had taken turns feeding tender pieces of Moo Hong to their honorary big brother by hand. He’d started the meal off mortified and ended it licking the last of the sauce from Macau’s fingers. Then Vegas told him he had a spot of sauce on his lip and kissed it clean, and kept on kissing and scraping the tender flesh until Pete’s lips buzzed.
It’s a good thing Hum Bar is so dimly lit, Pete thinks distantly, as his cheeks burn. "Hey," he says, "can you make me another one of these?"
--
Pete's no longer a bodyguard in any official capacity, but he doesn't entirely trust Vegas's and Macau's security detail, so he does what he can to stay in shape. It's a comfortingly familiar routine after all this time, a bit of order in a life that is now anything but.
He's stripped off his shirt and is stretching his hamstrings in the living room when Macau strolls in.
"Do those hurt?" Macau asks, after watching him for a few minutes.
Pete glances up from the floor. Macau taps his back in the same spot where Pete suddenly remembers he must evidence some pretty spectacular bruises from the workover Vegas gave him last night. He can feel his face heating up as he says, "Not much, now. A little sore."
"But you like that." Macau says it like a question.
Pete grins sheepishly instead of answering. He doesn't know how much Vegas has told Macau about what he and Pete do in private. Presumably Macau has intuited something of their tastes -- at least, Pete can't imagine he would be nearly so happy about them dating if he thought Vegas was abusing Pete -- but he's never brought it up in front of Pete before now.
"You want an assist?" Macau asks after a few beats, perfectly casual. "I do it for my bro when he works out."
"Sure. Thanks."
He returns to the stretch as Macau gets behind him. He puts his palms on Pete's back, gently pushing him deeper into the stretch until his torso is flush with his leg. Pete's tendons burn. He forces himself to hold the stretch and keep his breathing slow and even, drawing air from deep within his chest, letting his muscles loosen by degrees.
-
The hardwood is going to bruise Pete's knees. It's the good kind of ache. The backs of his thighs quiver from the strain of holding himself upright. His jaw is sore, but he knows from experience that Vegas can hold off from coming for at least another ten minutes if he really wants to drive Pete crazy.
The sound of footsteps makes Pete's eyes fly open, but Vegas doesn't let go of his grip on the back of Pete's head, restricting his field of view to Vegas's spit-slicked cock and the kitchen cabinet he’s leaning against.
The footsteps pad closer, only stopping when whoever it is -- who is he kidding, he knows exactly who it is -- is right behind Pete.
Vegas nudges Pete's head forward - not hard. Pete goes back to sucking him off. The wet, slurping sounds he makes sound obscenely sloppy to his own ears. He's acutely aware of the flush of his cheeks, the smear of drool on his chin. Vegas's fingers press into the back of his neck, the nails digging knife-sharp into his skin.
It feels like he's floating. How is this his life? He's so hard it feels like he's going to pass out.
He wonders how much Macau can even see from this angle. Probably not much; the back of Pete's head, plus whatever facial expression Vegas is making right now. Vegas hasn't even taken off his slacks, just unzipped them.
By the time Pete has brought Vegas to orgasm and Vegas finally lets go of his hair, it's just the two of them in the kitchen again, Macau gone off to do who knows what. Beat off, probably, Pete's mind supplies automatically, making him flush.
They should talk about it. He's on the verge of opening his mouth when Vegas ruffles his hair and says, "I think my puppy deserves a reward, don't you?"
He rests the sole of his foot lightly on Pete's rock-hard dick, and Pete swallows the thought.
-
Being stuck in the house isn't good for Vegas, but he's too prideful to beg Porsche to let him work. He's been scowling around the apartment all morning, chopping vegetables with murderous single-mindedness. When Pete asked if he wanted help, Vegas pretended he couldn't hear him over the sound of the spice grinder.
"Want to go to the exotic pet store?" Pete asks.
Macau looks up from his phone. "Hell yeah."
"We'll be back in an hour," Pete tells Vegas, who sniffs and says, "Do what you want."
--
"Sick. That thing is, like, the size of my fist." Macau presses his nose to the glass. Untroubled by the scrutiny, the African land snail inches placidly across its tank. "What do they even eat?"
"Boiled eggs," Pete reads off the placard. "Raw vegetables. And … bones?"
"Metal. Here, take my picture with it."
Pete accepts Macau's smartphone and snaps a photo of him beside the tank. When he shows it to Macau, Macau nods his approval, then promptly sends the photo to Vegas. Less than a minute later, he flashes Vegas’s return text: If you bring one of those home, I'm going to murder it.
"He probably will murder it," Pete tells Macau.
Macau rolls his eyes. "He'll want to for, like, a day. Then he'll fall in love with it."
Pete gives the snail a dubious glance. "You might be better off sticking with mammals."
They wander through the rodent section next, where Macau spends several minutes enraptured by the flying squirrels, and then the reptile aisle, where he takes selfies with a chameleon, a ball python, and a sleeping monitor lizard the size of a small dog. Vegas's response to the last one just reads, Absolutely not.
Pete's own phone vibrates twice as they're walking out the door. The first text reads: Come home before lunch gets cold. The second: And tell Macau we already have a pet.
"Vegas says we already have a pet," Pete faithfully relays, not getting it, until he sees the grin unfurling on Macau's face.
-
Someone really should have trained Macau in basic combat before now; his grip is barely tight enough to restrain Pete, let alone choke him.
Vegas says, "You're leaving too much space. You've got to take away your enemy's range of motion, or else they're just going to escape." He nods at Pete. Pete jerks out of the hold, using the arm Macau is grabbing to pull him off-balance. Macau stumbles forward; from here Pete could easily knock him to the floor, but he doesn't know if Vegas has taught Macau controlled falling yet.
Vegas takes Macau's place in front of Pete, glancing over to make sure Macau is watching before he grabs Pete's wrist. "When you have someone in an arm lock, you have to use that leverage to knock them off-balance. Don't let them pull away." He wrenches Pete's arm back; Pete grunts at the pain, instinctively trying to twist out of his grip, but Vegas already has his legs between Pete's, his chest tight against Pete's back, leaving him no room to maneuver. His elbow juts into the soft flesh of Pete's neck with an electrifying sharpness.
Then, just as sudden, he lets him go. "You try," Vegas says to Macau.
Macau grabs Pete's arm again. His palm is warm and sweaty, his grip more solid this time. He pulls Pete's hand back towards his own body, twisting his torso until he can get an arm wrapped around Pete's throat.
Vegas reaches in between them; adjusts the angle of Macau's grip on Pete's wrist, the position of his feet, closing the distance between their bodies. He encourages Macau to pull until the ligaments in Pete's shoulder feel like they're about to snap.
When they've practiced the hold enough times that Vegas is finally satisfied and Pete's body is singing from the strain, they break for lunch. Macau's intense concentration dissolves immediately into a grin; he gives Pete a cheerful, sweaty high-five as he goes to set the table.
After they've eaten an objectively delicious meal that Pete is too heady with adrenaline to taste, Vegas follows Pete into the bathroom and pins him against the mirror.
"Next time I'll teach him about restraints," he murmurs in Pete's ear. "I'll show him everything you like."
Vegas likes it too, if the rasp in his voice and the pressure against Pete's ass is any indication. Pete can't bring himself to mind.
--
Restraint training goes well; Macau takes eagerly to the instruction. The next morning, Pete's wrists feel hot and inflamed. The rope was rougher than the kind Vegas normally uses for their scenes, which in the moment Pete had appreciated. But now the wonderfully fuzzed out ache that enveloped him all last night has flatlined, and he just feels sore in the normal unglamorous way, like an oyster shell scraped clean.
Still, no one else in this house can be bothered to do laundry, so he puts on a long-sleeved t-shirt and a cheerful face. It gets him through to lunch, when he's washing dishes in the kitchen and Macau walks in. Macau's eyes dart to the friction marks before Pete can tug his sleeves back down; he looks like he wants to ask about them, but seems to lose his nerve and goes back out into the hallway.
A few minutes later, he’s back with a tube of ointment and a roll of bandages.
"This stuff is the best for burns, I swear," he explains, unscrewing the cap and squeezing a line of gel out onto his palm. "Way better than other brands. You can only get it imported."
The gel smells like mint and lime, and tingles on Pete's skin as Macau applies it carefully all around his wrists. After bandaging him up, Macau pulls Pete's arms up to inspect his work; when he's satisfied, he presses a quick kiss to the inside of Pete's wrists, surprising a chuckle out of him.
Macau drops Pete's hands; his eyes dart toward the corner of the room. Embarrassed, he looks just like Vegas. "Uh -- sorry," he mutters.
For the first time that day, the smile Pete's wearing feels real. He hands Macau a dish cloth. "Help me dry?"
--
It's dark. Sleep-fogged, it takes Pete several bleary seconds to realize the other side of the bed is empty. It must be past midnight; the street outside is a rare degree of quiet, nothing out and about except for a handful of alley cats and, apparently, Vegas.
Pete’s always been able to change gears quickly -- it was essential as a bodyguard, and even before that -- and within moments he’s wide awake. He gets out of bed and pads into the living room.
Vegas isn't in the kitchen or on the couch. His bike keys lie undisturbed on the counter by the door. But there's a stripe of light under the door to Macau's room, and as he walks closer Pete can hear the muffled sound of conversation coming from within.
If Vegas is with Macau, he's all right. Pete could go back to bed, but ends up opening the door, slowly, so that the hinges don't squeak.
He sees the two of them sitting on the edge of Macau's bed, Vegas’s arm around Macau’s hunched shoulders. They both look up as Pete walks over. Macau sniffs. His eyes shine wetly in the dark, but he manages a stoic nod in Pete's direction.
Pete sits down on Macau's other side, and all it takes is a suggestion of a touch for Macau to turn his face into Pete's chest. Pete rubs his back absently as Macau's arms slowly creep around to encircle him. He meets Vegas’s eyes over Macau's shoulder; in the same breath, he feels Vegas's palm cover the hand he has braced on the bed.
It’s not so different from tending to Tankhun after his night terrors. But Tankhun never curled into Pete’s chest like this, relying on him utterly. Pete strokes him until the strength goes out of Macau's grip; when he yawns, Vegas murmurs, "You should sleep. School tomorrow."
"Ugh." Macau makes a face. But he ducks out from under their arms and gets under the covers, before giving the both of them an expectant look.
Macau's bed is not nearly big enough to accommodate three people comfortably. But despite the squeeze of bodies, the jut of Macau's elbow against his stomach and Macau's knee hooked around his thigh and the tickle of Vegas's breath on his neck in the humid night air, Pete finds himself nodding off in hardly any time at all.
--
Macau's alarm goes off far too early in the morning.
"Stay," Vegas says in Pete's ear. "I'll help him get ready."
Pete means to get up anyway, but his body makes the choice for him, blacking out in seconds. It's late in the morning when he wakes up again with a warm body at his back and a hand caressing his skin beneath his shirt.
Muddled by arousal, awareness is slow to dawn. He recognizes the hand as Vegas's just before remembering whose bed they’re in.
"Mnh. Vegas." He groggily attempts to tug his shirt back down. "Not here."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"Macau? He won’t mind." Vegas trails a finger up Pete's chest, slow and teasing; the sensation is dreamlike. "You should see the way he looks at you when you're not looking."
"Wonder where he got that from?" Pete mutters. He can feel Vegas's grin against his neck.
"You know you like it."
Pete can’t find the words to refute him. Evidently sensing opportunity, Vegas leans forward, his breath hot enough to make Pete shiver as he whispers, "It’d probably turn him on. He may look like a good kid, but he's a little perv. I'm pretty sure you're top billing in his spank bank at this point."
Pete grimaces. "God, Vegas."
"It's the truth. I was the same way at his age. Weren't you?"
Pete remembers himself being nothing but simmering rage at sixteen: toward his father, toward the unfairness of the world, before he learned to accept that was just the way life worked. He doesn’t know how to explain just how little he desired anything, before Vegas. But Vegas doesn’t make him tell; whatever he sees on Pete’s face is enough to make him smirk.
"Oh? Were you a late bloomer? I never would have guessed, with how insatiable you are now."
"Vegas," Pete says again, ostensibly in protest, but it's too breathless to sound like real refusal. He can feel his face flushing, his pulse responding to Vegas's tone in spite of his personal reservations. What if Macau forgot something and came back to get it, and saw them like this?
"So eager," Vegas whispers throatily into his ear. "Aren’t you, Pete? You’d have to be, to let me do you in my little brother’s bed."
He delivers a vicious pinch to Pete’s nipple. Pete hisses, squirming halfheartedly, not enough to dislodge Vegas.
"I bet you’d love to spend all day warming our sheets. You wouldn't have to worry about anything. Just lie here, keeping yourself open for us whenever we want to use you."
Pete tries to disguise the way his body shivers at the us, but from the way Vegas’s fingers dig into his skin, he thinks he can tell anyway.
"Macau could probably go five, six times easy," Vegas says, casually circling the other nipple. "He wouldn't want to push you at first, but he'd change his tune once he saw how much you like it. We wouldn't even need to tie you up, would we? You're so well-behaved, you’d just stay put."
"Mm," Pete says, lightheaded from how little blood is left in his brain at this point. The embers of Vegas’s touch are the only thing keeping him from floating away.
"I could go first, get you ready for him. Would you like that?" Vegas scrapes a nail against the bud of his nipple. "Or maybe we should use you from both ends. You'd look so good between us. That hungry little hole of yours would finally be satisfied."
It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought. Not that Pete has any ground to stand on, when he’s on the precipice of coming untouched from the mental image alone. God, every single thing in this bed will have to be washed before Macau gets home.
--
The living room is yellow with late afternoon light. Pete had vague aspirations of weight training before dinner, but he’s wound up instead with his head in Vegas’s lap as Vegas reads some English book on the couch. Now he dozes, having been lulled into complacency by Vegas’s fingers combing through his hair, and by this point he’s so far under that he barely registers Macau coming in and wedging himself under Pete’s legs.
The petting stops; Pete makes a dissatisfied noise, until Vegas’s hand starts moving through his hair again. Pleased, he shifts his legs in Macau’s lap, and hears Macau swallow and go very still as the sole of Pete’s foot brushes his crotch.
Comfortable as he is, it takes Pete a moment to remember that this is untrod territory for them. He turns to Vegas for guidance. Vegas glances between him and Macau for a second, then returns to his book with a smirk.
Feeling a little lightheaded, Pete presses forward until the ball of his foot is flush with the fly of Macau’s jeans. The swell of Macau’s arousal is palpable, even with the rest of his muscles locked tight. Just when Pete is starting to wonder if he should maybe check in verbally, Macau’s hand wraps around his ankle, pinning him there.
By all rights he ought to be embarrassed at how hard the touch makes him, but all Pete feels is warm.
He lets Macau show him how he wants to be touched. There’s a terrible intimacy to the erratic way Macau’s fingers clench against Pete’s skin, the squeak of the couch springs and the panting gulps of unsteady teenage breath as he rocks into Pete’s touch. Beneath his head, Pete can feel Vegas starting to get affected too, and he contemplates rolling over and putting his mouth on him. But it seems like too much effort when his thoughts are slow and syrupy, like he’s a cat napping in the sun; and it seems like Vegas knows it, the way he keeps stroking Pete’s hair.
It’s a quiet thing, in the end: Macau gasps, his fingers twitching; he presses Pete’s foot close; then the exhale comes, slow and deep, Macau’s grip loosening. Pete feels the fabric beneath his toes grow tacky.
Wordlessly, Macau wriggles out from underneath him and heads toward his own room. A few minutes later, he’s back in a fresh pair of shorts, nothing but a flush on his cheeks to show that anything out of the usual just occurred. He maneuvers Pete’s lower body into his lap again, wrapping an arm around Pete’s chest for good measure, then leans against Vegas’s shoulder. Vegas huffs but doesn’t dislodge him.
Pete does nod off, after that.