#and especially in this concept how he's craving Pete's animalistic fury on him

[yujeong]

Pete's fever wasn't going down. It wasn't really Pete's fault. He had started eating more regularly, even if slowly to not upset his stomach. (He didn't want to vomit his insides all over the duvet again. It hadn't been a pleasant experience.) He had started sleeping more, too, and even though it had mostly been accompanied by disturbing dreams and could be described as anything but nourishing, at least it was something. This wasn't really Vegas' fault, either. Well. It was. It was difficult to explain, and Pete didn't quite have the mental capacity or the patience to make Vegas understand why he hadn't magically healed in a day thanks to a bowl of noodles, a couple of pills and some bandages wrapped around his torso. In all honesty, that was a lie. Despite Pete's reluctance to admit it, he had been way more patient that he should have. More than he could sustain. Today, his patience seemed to be at its limit. Pete didn't let it show - he never did, he couldn't afford to, not even now - but he could feel it brewing under his skin. The urge to snap at an anxious Vegas hovering above him with blood-shot eyes and trembling limbs was big and tempting, but Pete knew better than to succumb to it. He simply closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, trying to forget about it. Vegas, of course, wouldn't allow that. "Pete," he heard Vegas whisper. When he didn't respond, Vegas said it again, louder. "Pete. Hey, look at me." Pete did. "Do you not hate me?" Pete didn't answer. "Don't you want to kill me?" Pete sighed. He refused. H wouldn't give Vegas the satisfaction. "How would you do it?" This was starting to get irritating. "Vegas-" "Tell me, Pete. What would you do? Would you use your hands or a weapon?" Pete couldn't escape this. He realized when he looked at the pure desperation in Vegas' eyes. "I'm a bodyguard, aren't I?" he foolishly said, his voice breaking slightly. He lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. He could picture it; him wearing his uniform, blowing Vegas' brains out with his gun. The image brought him no satisfaction. Only a faint sense of dread he couldn't rationalize. Vegas' humming snapped him out of it. "Yes, I can see that. I can't imagine you using a knife, though." Pete felt slightly offended by that comment for some reason. "Why? Don't you think I have the guts?" "It's too... emotional a choice for you. You wouldn't use it to kill me." Right. Pete huffed in amusement. "I guess you're right. I'm not like you." This did the trick. Pete could feel the effect of his words, the hostility Vegas was emitting. It gave him goosebumps, despite the temperature of the room. The sound of the door closing harshly made him flinch, a racing heartbeat remaining for a while afterwards. It didn't bother him. He was finally left alone. It didn't matter if he'd manage to get better or not. If only Vegas could see that.

(A snippet inspired by a scene in the movie "Eileen")