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He was drunk. Uccio could see it in the way he stood, could smell it even from over here where he himself was standing. The air was muggy, heavy. Very dark. Above them no stars, only an oppressive ceiling of cloud that seemed to flow across the sky like very slow moving water; a strange, tidal motion. Below Vale's feet, asphalt.
He was beautiful, even from behind, even from this distance, even at arse o'clock in the morning with the smell of liquor thick in the air and the darkness so deep Uccio could barely see the whisps of his curls as they kissed his neck at the collar of his t-shirt, could barely make out the whip-thin muscles of his arms, the grip of those long fingers on his hips.
It was rare to see him this still. Vale was always moving. Even sat down, his body would be animated, his face, his hands, the tapping of his feet, his eyes seeking out other eyes that might be drawn to him, cameras, waving and grinning like a mad man. Even sleeping – and Uccio had, though there were very few people who knew it, seen Vale sleeping a great deal – he wasn't still. He twitched and kicked and rolled, he smiled when he was happy and frowned when something in his dreams angered him. Mostly he smiled. A smile Uccio had fallen in love with in a great rush one day as a child when it was first focused on him.
No smiling tonight, Uccio was willing to bet. And no movement. Vale was still as death, out there on the track, and Uccio shivered in the heat. He didn't like it. He didn't like it enough that he moved closer, willing to interrupt whatever quiet moment this was that he was fairly sure he should be respecting, should be leaving Vale alone with.
“He isn't here,” Vale said, when Uccio was still far enough away that he didn't think he'd been noticed yet. But perhaps Vale had known he was watching all along. Uccio had learned to expect such things from him.
“Who isn't?”
Vale didn't turn to look at him, even as Uccio jogged closer. Even as Uccio was pretty sure he knew the answer to that question.
“Marco. I can't feel him here.”
Right. Uccio wrapped his arms around himself. Right. “Did you expect to?”
As Uccio had thought, Vale wasn't smiling. But he didn't look sad either – he didn't look... anything. It was like seeing a drawing of Vale's face, all of the spirit was gone and had left only stillness. Uccio felt a little nauseous at the sight.
“No. Not after last year.”
“What happened last year?”
A pause, and then - “Nothing. The same as this.”
Uccio felt something inside him break, ever so slightly. “Do you ever... feel him?”
“Sometimes.”
What could Uccio say to that? They stood in silence together, and the ground felt warm beneath Uccio's feet. For the first time in a very long time, he felt home sick. He wanted Italy. “We'll go home soon,” he told Vale, as if it was him that needed the reassurance. If Marco was anywhere, Uccio thought, he was in Italy. And sure enough Vale looked at Uccio, for the first time, and smiled at him – a weak but nonetheless true version of himself. Uccio reached out and touched his slender arm, the sharp elbow. Pulled him gently closer, a bare step or two.
He remembered the two of them together, their loud laughter, their dancing eyes and fingers. It was hard not to compare himself to that, sometimes. Dark times. Times like this. To wonder if Vale wouldn't rather have had Marco there than him. Someone who would make Vale laugh and forget himself, make him happy again. Someone as bright and quick and blinding.
But then Vale pulled Uccio closer still, and his arms were wound around his waist, his head resting against Uccio's forehead, his breath slow and warm and alcohol-pungent, and Vale was murmuring words that were almost too quiet to hear – don't ever go don't leave me behind – and even though they were out here in the open where anyone might find them, Uccio kissed him gently, his hands tangling in Vale's hair, his mouth swallowing all of those helpless little sounds.
When they got back to their familiar little motor home, they didn't speak. Uccio undressed Vale slowly, reverently, uncovering his beautiful body as if he didn't deserve to be allowed to. No women between them tonight. Uccio didn't even offer. He offered himself instead, parting his legs wordlessly and feeling fat and clumsy and awkward beneath Vale's almost unnatural elegance, his leanness, his sharp, predatory beauty.
Vale didn't close his eyes, hardly seemed to blink as he entered Uccio, and this was always a somehow emotional act for Uccio, but never more than tonight. He felt overwhelmed, so full of Valentino that he wasn't sure there was anything of himself left any more. Wasn't sure if he wanted there to be.
Afterwards, they lay together and didn't sleep, but at least Vale was smiling again.
Uccio struggled to find the right words for how he felt at the sight of it. “You don't have to pretend to be all right all the time, you know.”
“It's not pretend. I am all right.”
“You weren't tonight.”
“That doesn't make all the times I am a lie.”
Uccio sighed. “I suppose not.”
One of those impossibly long fingers touched Uccio's mouth, stroking his lips. “I never ask if you are all right, do I? I'm a selfish bastard.”
“Why would you? He was your friend.”
“He was your friend, too. All of my friends are, or they are not my friends.”
It was such a good, warm, Vale thing to say. It settled in Uccio's chest, a comfortable weight. Privately, though, he often thought that he had no friends other than Vale. That Vale was all he would ever want or need, was everything to him – friend and brother and lover, his family, the one he would grow old with. There was just no room for anyone else.
“I'm fine,” he replied quietly. “I only stop being all right when you do.”
Vale shifted closer, his curls tickling Uccio's shoulder. “I meant it, you know,” he said. “You can't leave, you can't go. Not like... not like Marco.”
Uccio shifted uncomfortably. “I'm going to die some day, Vale.”
“After me,” Vale said, with such easy conviction that Uccio could hardly process it. It wasn't the first time Vale had said such things, but it was no less horrific for that.
“Do you think I'll be all right without you?” Uccio thought of Vale, alone out on that dark track. Thought of himself standing out there some day, trying to feel some trace of Valentino rising up from the asphalt. Nobody would be waiting in the shadows to snap Uccio out of it, he was sure.
“I know, I know that I'm selfish, I told you I am. I can't help it.” He kissed Uccio's hand, and it felt like a plea – love me anyway. Please love me anyway.
Uccio nodded. The silence evened out until, gradually, he heard the familiar sound of Vale's sleeping, felt the steady breath against his neck. They were too hot, as always here, sticky where they were tangled together. Uccio told himself that this was the reason sleep couldn't quite find him.