Chapter Text
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Vegas hummed and nodded, watching the crowd in front of the building as it grew, and grew some more. He wasn't really listening to the conversation because it was a useless conversation. Porsche got mouthy when he was being a coward and Vegas wasn’t in the mood to engage.
He was more worried about the men and women growing in number, placards in their hand that said the most offensive things. Human hate was an interesting thing. Most times, it was coated in love for humanity. Vegas had seen this shit all his life. People were never going to be different. Only fools believed in activism and change.
Vegas believed in endeavors that made him money.
Unfortunately, freedom of speech was still a thing. The bigots with the placards could write whatever the fuck they wanted. Sure as Porsche could say whatever useless thing he wanted to say to stall going into the building.
“You know,” Vegas said, cutting into what Porsche was going to say next. “That you could just go in through the garage.”
“No,” Porsche said, tapping his hands on the dashboard. “Everyone knows I’m in this play. If I don’t enter through the front…” He licked his lips, pressed together and shook his head. “I’m going in through the front. Take pictures.”
“For the last time,” Vegas said. “I’m not camping with you. Toss is staying.”
“Yes, Phi,” the nervous boy in the backseat said, leaning between the two of them in the front. “I’m here for you, Phi-Porsche.”
“Well Toss, take good pictures.” He clapped his hands. “Okay then, let’s go.”
Vegas restarted the car.
He had things to do. Businesses to run. Assholes to frighten. The fact that he’d taken the day to do this should have been enough to tell this ingrate in the passenger seat that Vegas couldn’t afford him any more favors. But this was just like Porsche to assume and expect and take up every ounce of Vegas’ time.
Really, Vegas didn’t spoil any of his other artists like this.
Porsche took out his jar of suppressants from his bag, unscrewed the cover as he popped two tablets into his mouth.
“Tell me I want to do this.”
“You want to do this,” Vegas said, going through his schedule in his head.
“Tell me I’ll be great.”
“You’ll be great.”
“Do you think so?” Porsche asked.
Vegas sighed.
“You signed a contract. You have to do it.”
“You’re a horrible manager.”
“I! Am not! Your manager!”
He slowed down at the front as the crowd of protesters converged on the car. Toss got out to open Porsche’s door.
“You’re no fun,” Porsche said, putting on his sun glasses and exiting the car.
“Take care of him,” Vegas said to Toss.
“Will do, Sir.”
Vegas' phone buzzed as alerts from Porsche's appearance at the Graham Blitz Hotel started flooding in. He didn’t even have to check. Porsche was an omega rights activist who also supported a lot of marriage equality groups. Choosing to be in such a controversial play was good for his image. He’d been in a rut for a couple of years. Breaking his hiatus by being in this play was good for him.
At least, this way, Vegas would be spared midnight calls with horrible pitches that Porsche seemed to have at the worst of times. A six-month long camp was good for both of them. Really. Vegas needed a break.
He drove into traffic, pulling out his phone when he caught sight of Porsche’s jar of suppressants.
“Fuck!” he said.
He pulled over and picked the jar from the floor of the car. For crying out loud, Porsche was older than Vegas. The fact that he was a child, at this age, was so frustrating, sometimes.
The plan had been to drop them off and leave. But by now, Porsche would have dropped his bags and made it into rehearsals. Calling him out would be impossible. Especially if his phone was with Toss.
He drove into the garage and parked. Then he searched the entire car for something to carry the jar in. Everyone took suppressants when they were going to camp. It wouldn't be strange to walk in with it. But Porsche was self-conscious about this brand. It was prescribed for his condition. A condition that wasn’t public yet. Porsche was private, like that. One look at this jar and everyone would know.
He found a squeezed up magazine and a disposable leather bag. He wrapped the suppressants in the magazine, then put it in the bag and exited the car. He cussed Porsche all the way up the elevator. Gave him new names as he got out of the elevator. Followed the signs to the rehearsal hall.
Security wasn’t a problem. Everyone in the building knew who he was. The problem was all the staring. This was why Vegas hated interacting with people. They tended to stare when you ignored them and walked by. Because, apparently, everyone was supposed to smile and greet and pretend to give a fuck.
As he poked his head in, the big room had been cleared of chairs, with the director, writers and producers in a line, sitting on chairs, while the cast got comfortable, standing around, or sitting on the ground. Porsche was standing by the mirror, already deep in conversation with another actor. Vegas searched for Toss. But Toss was on the other side of the room, with most of the managers. He had on his waist bag, watching Porsche, waiting to be sent on an errand.
Vegas was about to gesture for him to come when he noticed a familiar face… or a familiar back. Scoffing, Vegas went closer.
“Really?” he asked, standing beside the other man.
“What are you doing here?” Kinn asked, frowning at him.
“You do realize, as CEO, you can hire other people to do this part, right?”
“It’s a big deal. This play is a classic. I’d rather be here.” He frowned at Vegas. “I’m surprised that you’re here.”
“I came to drop something for Porsche.”
That was when Toss noticed him and started towards him.
“You're not staying?” Kinn asked.
“Why would I?” he asked back, sparing Porsche a glance as Porsche moved aside, revealing the person he was talking to.
Seated on the floor, his back against the mirror and his head turned up to Porsche, was a young man with the cutest, heart shaped lips Vegas had ever seen. His eyes shone with glee as he smiled up at Porsche, engrossed in whatever the fuck Porsche was saying. His neck was stretched, exposed, bare, begging to be bitten. He was a sight, just sitting there and doing nothing.
His toned arms were uncovered by the sleeveless, blue cropped top and around him, the drape of his long, black, flared skirt spread around him with his legs folded underneath it. Vegas wondered if he was wearing briefs of tights underneath. It would be just too easy to drag him away and lift that skirt up, just so Vegas could see for himself.
Because Vegas wanted to see.
“Who’s that? The one Porsche is spitting on.”
“Porsche’s co-star?” Kinn asked, like Vegas was supposed to know him. “Pete?”
“Pete,” Vegas asked, confused. “Pete? Your Pete?”
“You’ve met him a million times,” Kinn replied in exasperation.
Vegas thought back to all the times he’d met Kinn’s star artist. Sparkly, bright, always covered in make-up from head to toe. This was the first time Vegas was seeing him and good god, was he gorgeous.
“Your make-up artists do not do him justice.”
Kinn smacked Vegas on the shoulder just as Toss got to them. Pressing the suppressants into Toss’ hand, Vegas faced his cousin.
“What the fuck?”
“We’re not doing this again.”
“Why did you hit me?” he asked, hitting Kinn back.
“My agency is not your escort service.”
“I never said it was.”
“If you want to get your dick wet, fuck your own artists.”
“I’ll fuck whoever the fuck I want to fuck.”
“How would you feel if I did that to you? Imagine if I fucked your artists. Imagine if I fucked Porsche.”
Vegas shrugged.
“I wouldn’t care.”
Kinn tilted his head, smiling at Vegas.
“Say that again,” he commanded, challenging Vegas. “This time, try sounding more convincing.”
Vegas ran his hand through his hair, looking away from Kinn. Because Kinn never knew how to play fair. He always had to dig in and draw blood. They couldn’t just talk without Kinn going too far.
“Keep your fucking artist,” Vegas said, just as the director clapped and moved to the center of the room, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said.
“Good morning,” the crowd around him murmured.
“We have some visitors out there who came to greet us.”
People laughed.
“They came to wish us good luck on this auspicious endeavor,” the director said. “It’s real. It’s here. We’re staging the classical play titled, “Overheat” and we expected this backlash. We just have to stay strong. Right?”
Murmurs and shouts of affirmation rang through the crowd.
“I hope everyone’s started their suppressants. Wouldn’t want anyone going into a rut and triggering the entire cast. We have work to do, people. If you haven’t taken your tablets, now’s the time.”
No one moved.
Everyone present was already on suppressants. Production was on a schedule. Having to stop rehearsals because half the cast and crew were incapacitated for a week wasn’t the best. That was something that had to be scheduled in, for a time when everyone had stabilized and their cycles synced.
“Umm, Director?” Kinn said. “He’s not on suppressants.”
Vegas’ eyebrows dropped because his annoying cousin was pointing at him.
“Oh,” the director said, bowing to Vegas. “You’re here, Khun-Vegas.”
Vegas barely acknowledged the man. He just stared back at the man, his back straight, his hands clasped at his back, as he dared the man to speak to him. Or worse, ask Vegas to leave.
“Shouldn’t he leave?” Kinn asked, looking at Vegas and knowing that he was getting on Vegas’ nerves. “Don’t you think Director?”
I swear to god , Vegas thought. Who could be intimidating with their older cousin in the room?
“Uh, Khun-Vegas. Will you like some suppressants?” the director asked, desperately searching for middle ground.
“He’s not planning to stay,” Kinn offered. “Isn’t that what you said?”
Vegas was about to answer when his eyes roamed till they landed on the prettiest brown eyes he’d ever seen. This time, those eyes were trained on Vegas, watching him with quiet curiosity. Like he had never seen Vegas before. Like he was trying to follow the conversation, follow every word that left Vegas’ mouth.
Caught in the moment, unable to look away, Vegas longed to step forward. It almost hurt not to be able to go to him. The man blinked, waiting for Vegas to speak. There was a heavy dip in Vegas’ belly, followed by light fluttering.
But then the moment was broken as Porsche whispered something to Pete and Pete looked away, breaking the connection. Vegas almost stepped back like he was slapped in the face. How could he look away? How could he be distracted from this… thing… that was brewing between them? How could Porsche take this away from Vegas?
Betrayed, mildly annoyed, Vegas looked at the director and motioned for Toss to come to him.
“It’s not a problem, Director,” Vegas said. “I’ll have my suppressants here in a moment.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Kinn asked.
“I’m staying, Phi,” Vegas said with a wide, toothy grin.
“You said you were leaving.”
“Don’t worry, Director. Continue along and pretend that I’m not even here.”
Unsure, the director turned back to his speech. When Toss got to Vegas, Vegas handed him the car keys.
“Go home, pack me a bag and get a jar of suppressants from the pharmacy for me.”
“What brand?”
“I don’t care, Toss. Just get it done.”
As Toss ran off, Kinn shook his head.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Why not?” he asked. “I’m trying to be more like you. I’m applying a more hands-on approach.”
“But you’re not a manager.”
Yeah, well, Vegas was not a lot of things. But he was very aware that, in this moment, he was willing to do just about anything to spend the next six months getting to know the brown-eyed beauty in the black skirt.