He wondered how many people thought Pete had some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. They clearly didn't understand him. They didn't see him, not how Vegas did. He always knew there was something beneath Pete's polite, somewhat silly exterior. It called to him, drew them together again and again until he finally saw it. And what he saw delighted him, aroused him. Pete was just like him: a product of an ugly, violent world too scared to reveal their true selves for fear of rejection.

He pressed his thumb firmly against Pete's bloodied lip and smiled.

"Always."