Work Text:
He blew in like a tumbleweed after three months on the road, rosy-cheeked and grinning.
Livio greeted him in the doorway. Back-slapping hugs, camaraderie—briefly, they were a different kind of men with a different kind of past.
Vash wandered. It was in his nature; keeping him in one place was like trying to stop the sun from climbing across the sky. But he always came back—to Livio and to the house they shared, where there would be folded clothes and fresh sheets waiting for him.
Livio gathered Vash into a spine-cracking embrace, and Vash laughed—“hey, hey, put me down!”—and launched into the story behind the new mendings in his red coat. As he talked, he shrugged the coat off his shoulders, putting his tight strong body on display. Livio had gotten softer, if no less powerful, with time; a layer of comfort had built up around his middle. But Vash was still lean and spare, his waist and face narrow from the road.
It was only once that coat was hung neatly in the hallway that Vash seemed to have truly come in from the outside, that Livio believed he wouldn’t turn around and leave again.
As Vash softened back into the safety of a roof above his head, he goggled at the changes Livio had made around the house. (There was always enough time for changes.) He exclaimed about the freshly whitewashed beams on the ceiling, the new constellations of furniture, the colorful thomas painting the orphanage kids had made.
Once he’d made the rounds, Vash came back into the living room and magicked a bottle out of his bag. He grinned broadly and proffered it to Livio, shaking it until the liquid sloshed back and forth. It had been opened; Livio could tell that a couple glasses had already gone. Had Vash shared the first drops with someone else? Had he been drinking alone?
“New whiskey. Got it from barman Oakes.”
“I’ll get the glasses,” Livio said grandly.
Crossing back from the kitchen to the living room, he found Vash sprawled on the floor, weight resting on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankle. Livio perched on an ottoman far too small for his bulk, pouring amber bliss into tiny shot glasses. There was a couch, but neither of them used it. They’d sat on it side by side once, and Vash had gotten strangely withdrawn, his voice cracking horridly when he insisted everything was fine. No extra ass padding was worth going through that again.
“It’s good to be back!” Vash crowed, as Livio passed him his shot. “Cheers!”
“Cheers.” Their glasses clinked together, a sharp, bright sound. “Missed having you around, Vash.”
The set of Vash’s mouth softened, wobbled. “Thanks, Liv.”
They drank. Vash prattled about his time on the road without really saying anything. Livio parsed some names and places and a silly anecdote or two, but Vash kept his actual destination, and whatever he sought there, tucked close to his heart. Sometimes his gaze grew distant. He was seeing something out of Livio’s reach, a place that didn’t belong to him. There were a lot of those: little pockets of memory just beneath the surface of what they had.
He’s dead. I buried him.
It did hurt, that the last moment had been Vash’s. He supposed he had no right to feel that way. But knowing that had never helped.
It only took three rounds for the clothes to come off. Livio was barely drunk, felt at most a buzz in his fingertips, and he doubted Vash was much worse for wear. Still, this thing that had grown between them had always needed pretense. Knowing it was a game didn’t stop either of them from walking through the steps, the ritual itself a comfort.
Vash swayed as he undid the clasps on his pants, a million ridiculous buckles, then shimmied out of them to reveal scarred, lanky limbs. He burst out giggling as Livio leapt up to grasp him around the waist. As he hauled him off toward the bedroom, long legs wrapped around him with vicelike strength.
Livio dumped Vash onto the bed and yanked his own shirt over his head, and they tangled together, tussling until Vash slithered out of Livio’s grasp. Livio’s size was no obstacle for Vash; he flipped Livio onto his back, then slid down between his legs.
“Someone’s eager,” said Livio, unable to keep the smile out of his voice.
“I’ve been away for too long,” Vash breathed, then drew the flat of his tongue up Livio’s length. He moaned, reflexively grasping for the back of Vash’s neck.
“Not much dick in the desert?”
He already sounded out of breath. Vash swiped his tongue over his lips, looking up from beneath long eyelashes.
“None. I’ve been absolutely deprived.”
As Vash got to work, Livio crossed his arms behind his head, sighing with pleasure. Vash was good at this. The tiniest curl of his tongue made Livio’s spine tingle. His hand, the one made of flesh and bone, stroked playfully up Livio’s side, thumb rubbing over his nipple.
In the middle of it, desperately hard and his balls aching deliciously, Livio made the mistake of glancing down. Vash was giving him everything, hard at work between Livio’s legs—so attentive, so handsome—and with his head bowed, and that thick black hair—it was almost—you could mistake him for—
No. Livio turned his thoughts aside before horror could eclipse this good thing they had.
He pushed at Vash’s head, and Vash slipped off, wet and a little messy. Livio’s heart pounded wildly, but looking into Vash’s face helped dispel the unsettling double image that had flickered across his vision. Fair skin. Mole beneath one green eye. Thin, upturned nose. He was his own man. They looked nothing alike.
“You okay?” Vash sounded hoarse, throat used.
“Yeah. C’mere—I wanna kiss you.”
That earned him a cheeky smile.
Livio helped Vash climb on top of him and stretch the length of his body out along Livio’s own, chest pressed to chest. Vash’s teeth found Livio’s bottom lip, biting, tugging. He reached down with that metal hand—still wrapped in leather, delicious friction—and adjusted Livio’s cock until it was nestled against the cleft of him. He propped himself on his elbows for support, working up a smooth slick rhythm; Livio locked one arm around his waist, let his head fall back, and relaxed into the sweet bliss of a warm body against his own.
Vash slipped his long slender fingers between Livio’s thick ones. He squeezed, holding on tight, so tight—and along with it, foul resentment reared and found a hard grip on Livio’s heart. He knew what Vash was thinking about, and he hated that he couldn’t reach inside his head and rip the thought right out.
Months before—not the last time Vash was here, or the time before that, but earlier still—Livio had burned himself cooking. Once he’d rinsed his hand with cold water, Vash came to comfort him, lifting Livio’s hand between his own. He rubbed his thumb soothingly into the flesh of his palm and clicked his tongue at the damage, then laced his fingers with Livio’s much as he was doing now.
Then, as skin pressed to skin, something in Vash’s face had changed. Grief twisted his features—just for a moment, but that was more than enough for Livio to notice.
Hey. What’s wrong?
He’d tried to brush it off. High laugh, robotic hand waving dismissively, nothing, nevermind.
Livio insisted on drawing it out of him. You’re upset. He was so good at pretending to be earnest when what he really wanted was to pry back the veneer of Vash the Stampede and bare the pain underneath it—a pain that mirrored his own so closely that he sometimes wondered if it was all they really shared.
Your hands, Vash said finally, eyes darting to the side, feel like his.
Livio’s expression must have demanded an explanation, because Vash had shown him. He ran his thumb over the insides of Livio’s finger joints, tracing the calluses near the knuckles. Those had formed from slinging the Punisher around, hefting its weight by the skull-grip. And Vash would know that. Vash would have had time to learn what hands like that felt like, touching him all over.
You had him. You got closer than I ever could.
With all the years he’d lost to accelerated growth, Livio was prepared to die well before his time. But his metabolism had slowed back down as he settled into something resembling an ordinary life. That meant the telling roughness of his hands would not heal, would not be erased by the serum’s forgetful touch. This piece of him, that unexpected similarity, would stay forever.
And now, Vash clutched Livio’s hand, the hand that was so like another’s, like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. Vash’s strength came as a shock every time. Livio felt the need to squeeze back, to resist, so that Vash’s grip wouldn’t shatter his bones.
Livio slid his free hand into Vash’s hair, coarse and black as night. Vertigo washed over him, that same dogged illusion. Reflexively, he yanked Vash’s head back until he could see his face, the light skin and cut-glass eyes, and reassure himself of who was in his arms.
He regretted it the moment Vash’s eyes met his. He could have spared himself the animosity that flickered in their depths. It lasted only a split second, but it was there.
Livio let go of Vash’s hair, and Vash immediately buried his face in Livio’s neck, his breathing growing irregular and strained. Livio had cried himself to sleep enough times to know a sob when he heard one.
What was it like to be touched so tenderly by the hands that had taken everything away?
Razlo, not me. Razlo was the one who’d done it. But what did it matter? Their hands felt the same.
Teeth dug into the junction of his shoulder and neck, and he hissed with pain, hips jerking in response. Vash grunted, and the shape and smell of him were wrong, all wrong, but at least Livio felt something with him. Twisted jealousy, bitter anguish—skin pressed to skin, it was all just passion.
Livio canted his hips up, letting Vash rub against him, feeling Vash’s breath on his neck. His cheek, rough with stubble, pressed against Vash’s clean-shaven one.
Feels good, doesn’t it? Despite it all.
Pleasure swept through his abdomen in long, languid rolls. Vash seemed to be feeling it too, grinding against him harder, movements more erratic. Livio slid his palms down Vash’s back, from shoulders to the divots of his hips, and Vash let out a long low moan.
A golden sunbeam reached through the window, shyly slipping past the blinds.
Tobacco and sweat. The smell filled Livio’s head until he was dizzy. Neither of them smoked.
He was there with them, in the intermingling of their breath. His voice, with its low whiskey timbre. Wry chuckle. The air had changed, going tense, holy. If Livio opened his eyes now and looked over Vash’s shoulder, he would be there. If Livio opened his eyes, he would melt away.
Release crept up on Livio all at once, spilling out of him and onto Vash. And for once they were both just as affected, in step with one another: Vash shuddered against him, little whimpers soaking into Livio’s skin as he came. He was lucky; it always lasted so long for him—perhaps an upside of being a plant, or maybe just a blessing all his own.
Finally their trembling stopped, Livio’s hand at the small of Vash’s back, steadying and calm. Vash was a big man, but Livio’s palm spanned nearly the entire width of his waist.
Did you feel him too?
Livio kept the question sealed inside, head heavy against the pillows, Vash slumped over him and breathing into his clavicle. The metal grate covering his heart was cold against Livio’s skin.
Dry lips ghosted down Livio’s neck. Tender, apologetic. The soft brushing turned into real kisses, Vash suckling the hollow where Livio’s neck met his shoulder, fingers threading through Livio’s hair, as Livio rubbed soothing circles into Vash’s back.
Maybe one day they would stop punishing each other for the crime of not being him.
Livio rested his palms on Vash’s shoulder blades, feeling the throb of his heart as it calmed and slowed. The tendrils of dark emotion retreated back to the shadowy place inside him, the place that was slowly but steadily shrinking. Someday, he hoped it might vanish completely. Or perhaps the rest of his life would grow large enough around it that it would no longer seem to matter quite as much.
Love poured back in to fill the freshly cleared space in his heart—love for Vash as he was. The pale green eyes, soft with age and compassion, and the wavering smile that could be so brilliant when he meant it. If there was one thing Livio was convinced of, it was that he would have seen that too: the pain in those smiles, and the stubborn hope beneath it.
Just look at that spiky piece of work, Liv. How’d ya expect me to resist?
He had always had more of the preacher in him than he ever realized himself, that innate urge to shepherd, to shelter, to save. What was Vash but another sad, self-deluding thing for him to guide ever so gently back to itself? Sighing, griping, rolling his eyes all the way—but he had done it like breathing, because it was his nature to take broken things in his hands and make them whole again.
If Livio’s hands felt anything like his, perhaps he could try to do the same.
“Are you hungry?” Vash asked, his fingertip tracing the shell of Livio’s ear.
“’M okay.” Livio grinned, giving Vash’s back a knowing squeeze. “You?”
“Starving,” Vash admitted against Livio’s shoulder, trailing off into a whine. “I brought a whole bunch of stuff in my bag. I thought we could stir-fry it?”
“A man with a plan, eh.”
“Man with a pan is more like it.”
Livio rolled over, taking Vash with him, and relished the yelp as his weight crushed Vash into the mattress below.
They wriggled into clothes scattered in the corners of the bedroom, Vash swimming in a stolen t-shirt that fit Livio skin tight. Then they headed to the kitchen and fell into the motions of cooking. Vash really did have the contents of a small farmer’s market stashed in that bag. Livio got to chopping; Vash minded the oils and spices, tossing the wok expertly over open fire.
Noodle veggie stir fry. It came out good.
Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, ease seeped back into the cracks between them. Ease and love, shared like the meal they’d made together—slotting back into place like they’d never left. Everything made sense over the result of their combined efforts, hot and fragrant on Livio’s yellow floral plates.
The empty space between them, the absence at the table—that, too, was a way to remember. Even if looking at Vash felt like crimson nails driving into his heart all over again, he would keep doing it for the rest of his days.
Livio ate like he’d never seen a meal before, and Vash mirrored him with equal fervor. Telling themselves, one stubborn bite at a time, that they would keep each other alive.
I think that’s what you would want.
Isn’t it, Nico?