Porsche was sitting in a seldomly visited corner of the art gallery. There was a worn bench in the middle of this small room, facing the one painting he'd come to see. Or stare at. He'd found it once on a school trip in another museum, and it had grabbed him, and made him loose the rest of his class. He'd stood in front of this painting, his tiny frame rigid, lost in the eyes of the man who stared out at him. Then he'd moved on, worried by the loss of his classmates and the harassed teacher leading them swiftly around with an eye on lunch time. He'd found them again, his friends making fun of his frantic rush towards them, and the man in the painting was forgotten.

Ten years on, Porsche had found the painting again. The gallery was owned by Kinn, or both of them now, as Kinn would always say whenever Porsche described anything as Kinn's. It was a tiny, backstreet building, used by Kinn for means other than selling art, A few weeks ago, Porsche had been rushed through the collections of rooms filled with random art, towards the back room where Kinn's real business would take place. Porsche had hardly listened to Kinn that day. He'd followed Kinn's directions, which Kinn took great lengths to call directions, rather than the orders Porsche saw them as. Kinn tried so hard for Porsche, but still there was a distance beginning to form between them, one Porsche wanted to leap across, but couldn't bring himself to move.

On the way to the back, Porsche glanced into each of the rooms. Art had never interested him, past what he found to be beautiful, and his glances were more to keep his eyes from staring at Kinn. These days, Porsche found himself staring at Kinn with such a desperate need, as if he expected Kinn to disappear any second, and Porsche wanted to collect each contour of his face.

His eyes had moved from Kinn's face to one of the last rooms, open onto the central corridor they moved down.

There was the man, staring out at him, as if they'd never parted, as if Porsche had never grown up.

Porsche left Kinn storming ahead to the back room, and walked up to the painting. The man's eyes were as startling as Porsche remembered, his child's memory swarming his mind again, even after so many years of forgetting. The man was tall and slim, dressed in a simple black suit, his hands hanging languidly at the edge of the jacket pockets. His dark coloured tie with a vague stripe hung loosely around his neck and black hair curled messily around his head.

These were all details Porsche didn't remember from before, and were just vague realisations now as he stared at it. The man's eyes were everything to Porsche. Sharp and deep black, but warm and soft. They looked at him, straight into his own wide, brown eyes. The man was imploring him, he was about to reach towards Porsche from the frame, his hand clasping onto Porsche's collar to pull him into the painting. Porsche stepped even closer. 

'What are you doing?' Kinn's voice came from the opening behind him, and Porsche turned to the sound, barely understanding the words for a moment.

'Sorry, I just, saw this painting.' Was all Porsche could manage as explanation. 

Kinn walked towards into the room and placed a hand on Porsches shoulder, squeezing it gently in the way that would normally make Porsche feel so comforted. In that moment, Kinn's hand hung like a burden. Kinn looked up at the painting with the confused look that would knit his eyebrows together and pull the corners of his mouth down slightly. 'Why?' He asked, 'it's nothing special.' He looked back at Porsche and must have seen the hurt spread across Porsches face. the hand on Porsches shoulder squeezed again, and Kinn ran is thumb lightly across his collar bone.

Porsche could help but smile, just a little, and enough to bring the corner's of Kinn's mouth back up. 'I just, liked it,' Porsche said.

'Well, it's not going anywhere, unless you want to take it home?' Kinn asked, as always searching for ways to make Porsche happy.

Porsche shook his head, 'leave it here, I just wanted a closer look.' He took Kinn's hand from his shoulder and led him from the room, avoiding the painting's eyes.

Now, Porsche sat in front of the painting again, on a bench he'd had placed there, the business in the back room completed for the day.

He was transfixed by the eyes, so he didn't hear the footsteps behind him, not until they reached the bench, and someone sat down next to him.

'I thought you'd be here again,' Vegas said, not looking over at Porsche, who turned to look at him, but staring ahead at Porsches painting.

'Why would you think that?'

Vegas shrugged, 'your on the riverfront deal, they always gather here. And, I've seen you sitting here before.' He told him.

Porsche moved his eyes back to the painting. 'You spend too much of your attention on me,' he told Vegas.

Vegas smiled, a full, sideways smile creasing up his right eye. 'Just trying to get to know you, cousin,' he said.

Porsche held back a sigh. 'What do you want this time?'

'To talk to you, I have some interesting information.'

'I'm not interested.' Porsche told him and stood.

Vegas' hand shot out to him, grabbing him by the wrist, and held him in place. 'Not even if it's about Kinn?' He pulled Porsche back down onto the bench, and Porsche did nothing to stop him. Vegas didn't let go of his wrist, and held it tightly. 'That's what I thought.'

Porsche looked at him, 'just tell me, I can't deal with your games, not today.'

'Why not today?' Vegas asked, but Porsche said nothing. 'That's a shame, when we play so nicely.' He smiled at Porsche again.

Porsche felt Vegas' thumb rub against his skin, and press into him hard enough to leave a mark. Still, he didn't pull away. Maybe a small shot of pain would be enough to drown out a little of his thoughts.

'What about Kinn?' Porsche asked finally.

'There's someone asking questions, sniffing around.' Vegas told him.

'Isn't there always?'

'Yes, but this one is asking some very useful questions, and the answers would be very harmful to Kinn, to the whole family.'

'You still care about the family, Vegas?' Porsche asked.

Vegas let go of his wrist at that, and turned away. So he could still be hurt, Porsche thought.

'I could keep this to myself, can't you just accept it from me?' Vegas said, staring at the man in the painting.

'Tell me then.' Porsche said.

'A tall man, bleach blond hair. He seems to know exactly where to go, and who to ask. No one's caved yet, but it's just a matter of time. He'll find something, when he knows just how to ask.'

'What are you saying?' Porsche asked.

'How could he know so much?' Vegas said, and looked back at Porsche, 'how could he know who, and where, so well?'

Porsche didn't want to say it out loud, but he had to. 'Someone's telling him?'

Vegas game the smallest grin, 'you're not just pretty, then.'

Porsche ignored him, and turned this thought around his head. Who would betray them, when they last person to betray them had lost his head?

Vegas stood, 'I'll keep an ear out, but watch yourself, Porsche.'

He was about to leave when Porsche remembered what he'd wanted to ask Vegas. 'Wait,' he started, 'how's Pete?'

'I wondered when you'd ask, or if you would.' Vegas sat back down, closer to Porsche this time, so that their thighs touched. Vegas moved his head towards Porsches, so they were an inch from each other. 'Pete's, fine, satisfied, as only I can make him.' Vegas smiled.

'I worry about how you think to satisfy him.' Porsche said.

'Worry?' Vegas moved even closer to him, his hand skimming across Porsches thigh and towards the small of his back, 'or interested?'

Porsche jumped up, and stepped back from Vegas.

Vegas laughed, 'you take things too seriously, cousin,' he said, and stood himself, stepping towards Porsche again. 'But don't pretend our kiss never enters your mind.'

Porsche turned away and walked towards the corridor outside.

'One more thing,' Vegas said, and Porsche stopped just at the open door. 'Why do you like this painting so much?'

Porsche turned to him. He was looking at Porsche with a strange sincerity, as if the question was an honest attempt to know him.

'He looks like someone,' Porsche told him, for a moment wanting to tell anyone.

Vegas glanced back at the painting, 'Who?' He asked.

'I don't know yet,' Porsche said, and left Vegas behind.