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“For the love of god, can you just relax for one goddamn second.”
Nicholas sounds pissed. He doesn’t sound just annoyed or mildly inconvenienced as he normally does. His voice is deeper and raspier and just to accentuate his plea, he smacks Vash upside the back of his dumb little head and punctuates his sentence with a growl.
“But I am relaxed! Woofwood!” Vash twists up his face into a pout and damn near smashes his half empty glass of whiskey on the counter and makes the whole thing rattle, he sets it down so hard.
“Then stop wriggling! You’ve almost knocked my drink out of my hand three times!” Nicholas hates how whiny his voice sounds, but he truly can’t help it.
“I’m not wriggling!”
The second Vash’s lips touched a drop of alcohol, he began to wiggle and sway on the metal stool for no reason. Behind the bar, the large man wiping down glasses quirked up an eyebrow at the two of them but Nicholas had enough of a bite to his tone to make sure that the glances and hums stopped–or at least that they were low and distant enough to ignore. Vash though, fuck. Whatever music was playing out of the beat-up jukebox in the corner only seemed to make him more restless. It had started with him bouncing his foot under the counter, then continued with him dragging the heavy glass from one of his hands to the other, pushing it as he babbled on about some dumb shit Nicholas couldn’t even remember at this point. Was Vash complaining about the worm meat they had a few days before, or about how his tailbone hurt from falling on his ass off the top of Roberto’s truck earlier in the day? Hell, he might have been singing out of tune for all Nicholas remembered. All he’d done was drink his whiskey and grumble or hum, whatever he hoped would pacify Vash. It just never actually worked.
And now here Vash is, giggling and shaking like someone stuck a ground drill inside him and set it off.
Vash is loud when he drinks, which Nicholas honestly wouldn’t have guessed. Vash’s voice has been steadily getting higher, he’s already laughed loud and shrill enough to make half a dozen other patrons turn and groan in annoyance, but he doesn’t even notice–or doesn’t care.
“You’re the one who needs to relax, Woofwood!” Vash places a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder and squeezes. He kicks the bottom of the counter with his abnormally large boot and cackles with an “Ow!” that could either mean that he stubbed his toe or that he snapped his dainty ass little ankle in half. It’s hard to tell which one it is.
“I’m fine, you’re just fuckin’ annoying, tongari,” Nicholas taps the top of the bar and gestures at the bartender to pour him another. Then he gulps it down in one go.
“Woofwood, you keep calling me that,” Vash says–no, he yells, placing his arm around Nicholas’s shoulder and digging his thumb right into his flesh. “My hair isn’t even that spikey, see?” And he leans into Nicholas’s personal space as if he had been invited.
“Hey! Easy! You’re gonna poke my eye with that–” Nicholas tries to move his head out of the trajectory of Vash’s hair but ends up almost losing his balance, yelping, and clinging to Vash’s arm for dear life.
Which makes Vash laugh hysterically.
Deep down, Nicholas has to admit that it isn’t an unwelcome sight. He doesn’t think he’s seen a genuine smile, or heard a genuine laugh from Vash in the weeks they’ve spent traveling together. Sure, Vash offers soft and gentle smiles to anyone and everyone and for any reason. He smiles at Meryl when she hands him sandwiches he refuses to eat, he smiles at Roberto when he tweaks and turns the knob on the radio incessantly; he smiles at every innkeeper, vagrant, and pedestrian they happen to come across, and he smiles at Nicholas every single time he wakes up next to him in the back of the truck. But there’s something different in his face this time.
It could be the blush across his cheeks caused by the three drinks he’s had, it could be the blue lights decorating the walls of the inn reflecting off his features in a different way from the sickly yellow sunlight. All Nicholas knows is that Vash’s eyes glimmer, as if someone had plucked the brightest stars right out of the sky and placed them in soothing pools of blue. And it’s making something warmer than the heat of alcohol sink to the pit of his stomach and stretch its weird tendrils into every part of his body.
“Dumbass,” Nicholas mutters though he can feel his ears and cheeks burning like goddamn coils. He thanks his lucky stars that he’s just buzzed, not drunk, and that the inn is barely lit, just shy of being completely dark, because blushing is embarrassing enough as it is.
Laughing, Vash tightens his hold around Nicholas’s neck and wriggles close to him, until he’s actually nuzzling his damn cheek. It makes Nicholas feel like a bonfire has been lit inside his ribcage. He swallows a lump in his throat and tries to shrug Vash’s arm off, but it’s a pitiful attempt with no real intention.
“Sheesh, Woofwood, you’re so mean for no reason,” Vash trips over his words and for some ungodly reason continues to wiggle and bump into Nicholas as if he were losing his balance though he’s just fucking standing there. He cannot possibly be that drunk.
“Wolfwood,” Nicholas rolls his eyes and reluctantly (or so he tries to make it seem) curls his arm around Vash’s waist just to stop him from falling on his flat ass. “I’m not mean. You’re just a fuckin’ mess, blondie.”
Vash blinks up at Nicholas with the brightest spark in his blue eyes. If he weren’t sitting down, Nicholas would feel weak in the knees, he knows he would. The smile spreads across Vash’s face as easily and quickly as the fire inside Nicholas’s chest, and before he realizes, he’s gazing into those pretty pools of blue as if the world around them had come to a stop.
It has got to be this shitty booze.
That’s the only logical explanation.
“That’s what I mean. You’re rude,” Vash says just as the tip of his nose rubs against Nicholas’s cheek, and he lets out another giggle. “Your scruff tickles.”
“So stop rubbing my face!” Nicholas whines like a baby.
“You’re squeezing me,” Vash mumbles, somehow moving even closer until his chest is pressed right up against Nicholas’s.
And well–Vash is not wrong. Nicholas is gripping Vash’s waist like his life depended on it, digging into his flesh through that ridiculously tight shirt, and of course he hasn’t moved a single millimeter. His breath is caught in his throat still and his ears are throbbing, his face boiling hot–he can feel Vash’s own heartbeat against his chest and it’s all bad. It’s all very bad. Nicholas can feel the alcohol and Vash’s warmth mix into a deadly concoction that effectively dissolves his walls and leaves his craving exposed. His mouth is running dry and his eyes are wandering, lingering dangerously on Vash’s pretty, pouty lips, and his breath is knocked out of his chest. His heart is pounding furiously, demanding, and its message is clear as day. What Nicholas’s heart spells out is, ‘Stop thinking and give me what I want.’
“Vash–”
“Get a fuckin’ room!” some random drunkard yells from the side.
“We have one!” Vash screams back with a giggle and a blush on his cheeks that matches his jacket perfectly.
“So fuck off to it!”
Nicholas arches his eyebrows halfway up to his hairline at the sheer audacity of the man screaming, and he immediately begins to roll up his sleeves when Vash stops him with a warm touch to his chest.
“Hey, don’t worry about him,” Vash hiccups, and he wriggles for some reason, deliberately leaving his palm right on his chest. “Maybe we should leave,” he says and chews on his bottom lip, looking at Nicholas with a very clear, silent question in his huge damn eyes, and Nicholas feels his answer pumping through his bloodstream. He’s sure that Vash can feel it, too.
He nods. Before leaving, he hikes Punisher up on his shoulder and glares at the first guy he sees sitting in the direction where the yelling came from, but Vash places both hands on his shoulders and guides him out the door while he apologizes to the patrons in general. Not that anybody listens or gives a shit.
The door behind the counter leads to a dimly-lit hallway with metal doors lined up on either side, the furthest of which is their room. They walk–well, Vash mostly stumbles–past the first four doors and Nicholas can feel Vash’s breath tickling the nape of his neck with every incoherent giggle and nonsensical mumble he lets out. His palms are sweating and by the time they reach the end of the hallway, his anxiety has reached its boiling point. Still giggling, Vash sways and holds himself steady by pulling on Nicholas’s shirt when he stops to fish the key out of his pocket, and Nicholas can’t help the grunt or the immediate reflex to stop Vash from falling.
“Get it together, blondie,” Nicholas holds Vash up by the hoodie of his coat and maneuvers him into a better standing position, but Vash takes this as his sign to use Nicholas as a wall to lean on.
Again, he’s pressed up against Nicholas, arms around his neck, chest to chest. Again, he’s warm and his whiskey-scented breath tickles Nicholas’s lips.
Nicholas needs to get a grip himself.
When Vash tries to take a step, the door swings open behind Nicholas’s back and he almost loses his balance, bringing Vash along with him. Nicholas curses under his breath but Vash still clings to his neck, laughs and looks him in the eye as if he were the only thing that exists in the world.
Nicholas can’t take it.
“Nicholas,” Vash twists his fingers into Nicholas’s shirt and there’s that unspoken question in his eyes just like before. “I want–”
Nicholas wants, too.
So he takes.
When his mouth crashes into Vash’s, he can feel the fire inside roar and burst into a blaze, and Vash pushes himself right up against him, taking his kiss and his teeth and his tongue, hungry for more. Like a reflex, Nicholas’s fingers twist into Vash’s hair and he devours him, drinking in every little moan and gasp that escapes his pretty lips. Punisher thuds against the wall off to the side and Nicholas can’t be bothered beyond a quick glance in its direction, because Vash kicks the door closed and pulls at Nicholas’s waist with a very quiet whimper.
Kissing Vash feels nothing like Nicholas had imagined–and here, now, stumbling towards one of the ratty beds, Nicholas can fully admit the hours that he’s spent wondering. All those countless times his gaze has lingered, filled with silent longing: how would Vash’s lips feel against his own, what sound would he make if Nicholas bit them, how flushed would his cheeks look if Nicholas touched him? Would Vash look coy, how would his body respond? Nicholas has wondered dozens of times how his hands would fit around Vash’s waist and at times the thought has been deafening.
Now, he knows that Vash’s lips are softer, his taste is sweeter, and his sounds more musical than he ever allowed himself to imagine. Nicholas almost chokes on his own breath when Vash pushes him onto the bed and immediately breaks the kiss to apologize.
“Hah, sorry–” And he smiles, face red, hair even messier than usual.
Nicholas grabs Vash’s hips and places him firmly and swiftly upon his lap, guiding his thighs to straddle his hips. “You’re not sorry at all.”
“Kiss me more,” Vash says, slipping his arms around Nicholas’s neck after removing both of their sunglasses in two quick motions.
It’s not fair. How is Nicholas supposed to say no?
When Nicholas does as told, like a damn dog, Vash greets him with more hunger and parted lips, and his own flesh and metal fingers stroking his neck and then running through his hair. Nicholas feels lightheaded. Sure, it could be all the blood suddenly rushing down to his cock, but it’s Vash on his lap, rocking forward, warm and lithe and moving against him like he wanted to seep into his skin. It’s exactly what Nicholas wanted and what Nicholas feared. It’s a terrible idea. It’s a mistake.
“Nick,” Vash clumsily grinds his hips against Nicholas and lets him feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this.
Nicholas didn’t know that a mere whisper of his name could suck the soul out of his body just like that. He grabs Vash’s ass and squeezes, kisses him deeper, bites and returns the little moans and feeble thrusts of his hips, trying to speak those things he’s afraid to say out loud, giving Vash all the silent answers to his silent questions.
“I wanna–” Vash mumbles against Nicholas’s lips and slides his cool metal fingers across the exposed skin of his chest.
Nicholas shrugs off his shirt, no questions asked, uncaring as to whether it’ll rip a stitch or pop a button. He throws it to the side and moves his hands back up to Vash’s hair, kisses him to drown out the embarrassing sounds Vash’s hands squeezing his chest bring out.
“All yours, tongari,” Nicholas smirks.
Somehow, Vash blushes even deeper. So, obviously, Nicholas pulls him down for another kiss.
He slides his hand under Vash’s jacket and feels out his chest, confused by the feel of something hard like a metal grid and of something soft and uneven on the other side, but he’s far too blinded by lust to pay it any mind. The jacket drops to the floor and Nicholas moves to kiss and suckle along Vash’s jawline, down to the small bit of skin of his neck that shows. Vash lets out a louder moan and tugs at Nicholas’s hair, bumps his hips forward and offers some more delicious, teasing friction, but then Nicholas slips his fingertips under Vash’s shirt and he tenses up like a rod.
Gasping, Vash moves away from him a half inch, just enough to make Nicholas pause.
“All good, blondie?” Nicholas asks breathlessly.
Vash smiles, bites his bottom lip and gives him a coy look, slowly guiding his hands away from his shirt. “Let me leave this on, alright?”
Nicholas grabs the back of Vash’s head and pulls him down into a kiss, bucking his hips up. Instead of trying to slip his hands under his shirt, he squeezes Vash’s hip and guides him to rock back and forth against his lap.
“Sure thing.”
Nicholas would love to see, he would love to touch and kiss and bite every inch of Vash’s skin, but he’s not exactly in a position to complain. He bites hard at Vash’s lip and feels him shudder, so he moves his hand to the front of Vash’s pants, palming at the very hot, very hard flesh tenting them. Vash moans even louder than before.
“Can I touch here?” Nicholas teases, squeezing lightly and giving Vash’s jawline a small bite.
“Uh huh,” Vash moves against Nicholas’s hand almost desperately. “Do it again.”
“Bossy,” Nicholas chuckles against Vash’s neck but does as told.
Vash tries to say something back but his words dissolve into a whimper. “Want more.”
Nicholas unbuttons Vash’s pants and unzips them, and pulls them down just enough to see his cock spring out and bob against his lower stomach. He feels his throat run dry as the damn dunes they’ve been traveling through, and his own cock twitches at the thought of putting his lips around it. He wraps his hand around Vash and pumps, feeling his thighs tense up around his hips and his fingernails dig hard into his chest. So he does it again, gripping him tighter, letting Vash’s noisy, heavy breathing guide the rhythm and he rubs the head with his palm.
“Nick–” Vash’s voice trembles and cracks and Nicholas thinks now's the perfect time to take some more. “Touch me–touch me more–”
He grabs Vash by the back of his thighs and flips him over onto the bed, facing upwards. Quickly but somehow clumsily, Nicholas undoes his pants and wriggles out of them, and the way Vash’s eyes travel hungrily down his body and widen when they reach his dick doesn’t escape him.
“My eyes are up here, blondie,” Nicholas says.
Vash looks embarrassed. It’s adorable. Nicholas would have to be tortured before admitting this aloud, but whatever the case, he pulls Vash’s pants down his thighs and feels a bump. A strange, metallic ring right under his knee.
“Just pull them down,” Vash smiles and wriggles on the bed to get more comfortable, so Nicholas does.
The prosthetic leg looks to be the same material as the arm he’s way more familiar with, and Vash’s flesh leg is covered in scars from cuts, stitches, and bullet wounds. Nicholas doesn’t stop to gawk. He hikes both legs up around his waist and settles between them, holding himself up on his arms to lean down and kiss Vash. And Vash responds instantly: he opens his mouth and moves his hands down to grab Nicholas’s ass and pull him closer, so demandingly it makes Nicholas grin into the kiss.
Nicholas rocks his hips to grind against Vash’s hard cock and Vash takes the hint with no need for words. He licks his palm, setting Nicholas’s blood stream on fire as a side effect, and wraps it around both of them to pump in sync, squeezing, hard and fast and panting Nicholas’s name as he does.
“Keep moving,” Vash sighs as if Nicholas had thought of stopping for a single second.
Instead of calling him dumb for even suggesting that, Nicholas kisses him and grinds into Vash’s cock and into his fist, heat already coiling in his lower stomach.
“Fuck, Vash,” Nicholas grunts as Vash moves his knees up and squeezes him. Nicholas straightens up just enough to grab Vash’s flesh ankle, frail little twig that it is, then the metal one, and hikes them both up on his shoulder.
Vash sinks into the pillow with a loud curse and arches his back off the bed when Nicholas begins to fuck between his thighs. He throws his head back, exposing his throat, babbling and gasping little nonsensical words of “Yeah,” and “Like that,” and “Nick, Nick, Nick–”
Nicholas moves faster, too worked up by the sight of Vash flushed and lost in pleasure and by the warm, soft skin enveloping him. He pumps his hips and his cock rubs against Vash’s, and when Vash reaches down to guide them together again, that’s enough for Vash himself to fall apart.
He comes with a shudder and Nicholas’s name on his lips, over and over like a prayer, struggling to breathe. He spills a mess onto his shirt and bites his fingers to stop from screaming even louder, though the damage is done. Nicholas is sure the entire inn has heard Vash crying out and these muffled sounds are just a cherry on top of the pie.
He presses a kiss to Vash’s flesh ankle and grabs his knees to push his legs tighter together and fuck harder between them, chasing selfishly after his own climax, and when it comes, it’s almost blinding. He closes his eyes and breathes Vash’s name, goddamn stars exploding behind his eyelids–it had been ages since he’d come like this, so he rides it out to the point it’s almost painful. But he can’t help himself, he wants more of it, more of the throbbing pleasure making his toes curl, more of the heat spreading everywhere under his skin, more of Vash gasping and clumsily reaching up for him to demand a kiss.
Nicholas gives in, because at this point he thinks that there’s nothing he could deny Vash. He spreads Vash’s thighs again and arches forward, crushing Vash into the bed, kissing him open-mouthed and hungry like a man starved. He loves the feeling of Vash’s limbs trapping him, squeezing around his neck and around his waist, hot skin and cool metal. Vash rocks his hips against him still as if he hadn’t had enough, digs his fingernails into Nicholas’s skin and bites his bottom lip almost as if he wanted to rip it off. Nicholas doesn’t even think that he would object.
Vash’s heart pounds frantically against his chest, and though their skin is sticky with cum and sweat, Nicholas thinks that this might be the closest he’s been to pure bliss.
Slowly, steadily, their breathing slows down to its usual pace and Nicholas finds himself nuzzling into the crook of Vash’s neck. Vash strokes his hair almost tenderly. It’s just this side of heartbreaking.
“You should’ve told me sooner that you wanted to do that,” Vash says, guiding Nicholas’s face to make him look up.
Vash’s eyes are the sweetest thing Nicholas has ever seen. They’re soft, blue in a way even the prettiest mornings this shithole of a desert has to offer would pale in comparison to. Without his sunglasses, Vash’s eyes are big and round, honest and transparent. Nicholas didn’t understand the old saying that said the eyes are the windows to the soul until this very second. So he kisses Vash because he can’t think of a single word that would be appropriate. Sure, he could tell Vash that if he’d known his longing would be reciprocated he would’ve said it sooner, that he wouldn’t have needed alcohol to give him the courage to let his guard down–that he doesn’t want to have a guard up when it comes to Vash. He could say that something bitter is already beginning to grow in the back of his throat at the vague idea of losing what he’s just taken, but what would be the point?
“And what if I want more?” Nicholas asks instead, brushing Vash’s hair out of his forehead.
Vash smiles, brighter than the light of both suns combined. It shatters Nicholas’s heart in half.
“I’d give it to you,” Vash says, simply, as if there truly were nothing more to it. As if Nicholas had asked something as obvious as the color of the sky.
“God, blondie. You’re gonna be the death of me,” Nicholas whispers the words into his kiss, slipping his hands under Vash’s back to embrace him.
His words feel like a confesion.