It takes Macau a long time to get used to seeing his brother care so deeply for someone else.
It doesn’t hit Macau until after Vegas is discharged from the hospital. When he’s been home for a few months, and everything is strange, scary and new. It takes some getting used to, being in a new house and being in this new life, being away from the constant volatility and unpredictability that Pa brought them up with. He keeps waiting for the ball to drop. For someone to bang down the door and laugh in his face and tell him that he’s dreaming, tell him that his dad is not dead and his brother is dying, and Pete does not belong with them.
It doesn’t hit him until he watches Vegas struggle to recover from the physical injuries as well as the mental wounds that threaten to consume them all. It’s as he watches each bad day, each excruciating night, each smile slowly becoming a more permanent fixture on his brother’s face. It’s as he watches Pete, this man that he’s known for years but only known for a matter of months, be such an integral part of Vegas’s recovery that Macau doesn’t know what they’d do without him.
Then, something clicks into place, slots into a gap so unfamiliar in his mind that he doesn’t even know how to explain because, oh.
He’s..jealous.
Something ugly threatens to rear its head, and Macau does not know how to deal with it. Because seeing as Vegas smiles, bright and unrestrained, because of something Pete said only touches the surface.
It’s on a Friday evening when he gets home and catches them cooking together; well, Vegas is cooking; Pete is sitting on the counter and tasting every spoonful that Vegas brings to his mouth. They’re smiling and look happy, and Macau knows that if he were to join them, their smiles would stay intact, but something dark inside him panics about it anyway.
And then, one day, Pete returns from doing a job with Porsche, and he’s injured. Not seriously, but enough to leave him with a bloodstain on his white t-shirt that probably won’t come out in the wash. Macau sits outside, watching his brother pace back and forth in agitation as they wait for Pete to get his stitches. It reminds him of when he fell into Tankhun’s pond because Porsche is a jerk who has to insert himself into everything and how Vegas treated him afterwards. Angrily ordering the doctor to see him immediately, his rough manner and violent words were no match for the gentle way Vegas held his hand as his wound was cleaned.
And that night, as he comes downstairs to stay goodnight, his socked feet making virtually no noise as he slinks down the corridor, he watches as Vegas strokes his hand through Pete’s hair where they’re lying on the sofa. Pete is asleep, laid against Vegas’s shoulder, and Vegas looks down at him with tenderness, with a sheer and utter reverence, that Macau has never seen before.
The ugly thing threatens to escape, but he chokes it down and goes to bed without saying goodnight.
He starts to find it hard, after that, to ignore the voice in his head that tells him Vegas has Pete now; he has Pete to care about and to lean on, so why would he need Macau? The voice screams that Pete might be important to Vegas, but Macau is his brother; they’re family; why should Pete have all his attention when he is the one that needs it more.
And he knows, he knows it’s stupid and childish, but he can’t help it.
He doesn’t know how.
And it’s mortifying, feeling so needy when he’s never had to share Vegas before, never had to worry that he would get left behind because there was no one else.
He should be overjoyed that Vegas has finally found someone to love him in the way he deserves, wholeheartedly, and in exchange for nothing but love in return. And he is. Not a single thing makes him happier than to see Vegas look so content. But that does nothing to quell the beast inside of him.
And what makes it worse is that he likes Pete. He likes that Pete talks to him as an equal, that he knocks on his bedroom door and asks to come in. He likes that he doesn’t look at Vegas like a monster when he’s in one of his moods and doesn’t take any shit from either of them. It makes it worse because liking Pete makes him feel so guilty whenever the ugly thing wakes up inside him.
And it’s dumb; he knows it’s dumb, so he doesn’t let it out. He says nothing even when Vegas asks if he’s okay because he’s been quiet lately. He doesn’t say a word when Vegas reminds him that he’s there if he needs anything, and he doesn’t say anything when Pete tells him that he knows he’s not Vegas, but if Macau ever needs to talk, he’s always there to listen.
And then the voice inside him tells him that they know. They know about the ugly thing hiding deep inside his chest and how childish and needy he is for feeling this way.
And eventually, it gets too much, something lets loose, and the ugly thing inside him breaks out of its poorly-built cage before he can stop it.
It lashes out, and it’s mean, and he aims it all at Pete because Vegas isn’t home. Words that bear no truth pour out of his mouth, and the flicker of hurt that sweeps across Pete’s face before it hardens into something else makes him feel a hundred times worse. And then, like a coward, he storms away, locking himself into his room like a naughty child that had been sent there.
And it’s not until hours later, tears dried sticky on his face and he’s near convinced the voice in his head is telling the truth, that his door creeps open and light footsteps cross the room. He does not turn around. Just stubbornly faces the wall from where he’s curled on the sheets. The bed dips behind him, and a deep and heavy sigh is forced out of his brother’s chest.
And then the voice tells him, see? See what you’ve done? He’s tired of your behaviour; he’s tired of your existence-
But a warm hand on his back and a calm voice in his ear stop it in its tracks. Because Vegas is sorry, he’s sorry that Macau has been struggling, and he’s sorry if he’s been neglecting him, but yelling at Pete won’t solve anything.
And he knows, of course, he knows he hurt Pete, and he knows that nothing that came out of his mouth made sense because nothing in his head makes sense, either. And he cries, again, like a baby, but the warm hand doesn’t leave, and Vegas doesn’t leave, and telling him everything the nasty voice inside his head has been saying is so liberating, he feels like a weight has been wrenched from his body. Because he’s not dumb, and he’s not stupid and if that’s what you think needy is, then I’m so much worse than you, Mac-
And later on, when he forces himself to face Pete, cheeks red hot with shame, apologies tumbling out so fast he’s not even sure they’re eligible, he feels even lighter still.
And when they pay him extra attention, he makes sure to complain like a typical teenager would, but inside, he glows with tender joy. Because even though the voice is still there, this time, he knows it’s lying, and this time, he doesn’t listen, and it makes it significantly quieter.
And for all the gross and sappy moments that Vegas and Pete force him to witness, he doesn’t need to worry that he’s being forgotten or left behind because they always find a way to include him too.
And although he would never say it out loud, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
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Vegas : there is someone spreading around false rumours about me
Pete : what? That's terrible, babe. Who may be?
[later]
Pete : that's me, I am spreading around false rumours about Vegas
Porsche : and why's that?
Pete : have you seen him, Porsche? He's perfect, he's the embodiment of beauty, he has such an angelic face, is such a sweet talker, fucks that good
Pete : people will definitely try to steal him away from me, one's gotta do what one's gotta do
Porsche : I'm not gonna comment on that but I mean, why inventing rumours-? You could as well just say the truth
Porsche : he is a criminal, a murderer, a torturer, a sadist-
Pete : *sighs hopelessly in love*
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