I worked on this on and off for the past couple of months and now that it's finally finished, I'm excited to share it with the world~ No apologies for how long it's taken; my cat passed away this week and I have been legitimately consumed with grief nearly nonstop ;w; Feels bad!

Written for the request "in vino veritas + sleep intimacy", featuring "what if I just made up a funky little road trip AU for the two of them? would that be cool?" and the answer is yes.

There's nothing out here.

The rust-red land stretches as far as the eye can see, only broken by jagged rock formations jutting out of dust in a desperate attempt to reach for some greater fate. The warm light of the setting sun paints the sky more colors than the moldered carpet of their motel room, a vivid backdrop to the cigarette smoke curling around Knives's fingers.

He watches the last wisps of smoke float away on the breeze and tries to ignore the lingering itch from sleeping on cheap sheets. Even if it's less than stellar, at least Knives knows he chose this for himself. It's purposeful, not just another thing foisted on him by-

"Knives?" The door creaks open on its overworked hinges, and Legato joins him outside. "Are you really going to polish off the rest of that pack today?"

"No," he promises, taking another long drag. His judgment of those mindless puppets who let cigarettes rule their lives feels a bit shallow now that he smokes; who knew it could be so grounding? Who knew it could take every loud noise rattling around in his head and smooth them into something he could actually ignore?

Legato plucks the pack from his hand and knocks one out, drawing Knives's gaze to the way his long fingers expertly balance the cigarette as he lights it. The paper kisses his lips, a delicate tease of what could but couldn't be, before Legato exhales around them.

The day's heat has burned itself out in the way only the desert can sustain and as the sun falls further across the sky, Knives is grateful that the air conditioning at least half-works in this particular motel. He doesn't think he can take another morning being awakened by the sweltering sun slowly baking the room.

"The sunset is quite striking out here," Legato says, eyes on the horizon. Knives's eyes are on the cigarette dangling from his delicate fingers. "Though, I suppose freedom makes it striking anywhere, now that my senses aren't dulled by captivity like some sort of caged animal."

Knives snuffs out the smoldering end of his cigarette on the railing. "You're so dramatic."

"I don't think it can be helped."

"I never said you had to stop," he clarifies. Legato's countless eccentricities are at least twice as endearing to Knives as they are strange.. He can always tell what Legato's thinking and trust that he's telling the truth, and that certainty is more valuable than any 'normal' companionship.

Legato's gaze stays fixed on the flaming colors of the sunset, but his mouth curls into a pleased grin. "Thank you, Knives."

He shrugs. "I'm heading back in."

"Don't forget to eat something."

The idea of another meal of microwaved sadness turns his stomach. "I'm not hungry."

Knives turns away before he can see any worry slash across Legato's pretty face; he used to being the only one looking out for himself, so to let someone else in is far from easy. The door to their room clatters shut behind him.

Do potato chips count as a meal?

He samples a few and decides that they're neutral enough that he can keep them down, so that's good enough for him.

The struggling mini-fridge houses more alcohol than food or water, though that's mostly because they go through the water bottles faster. Knives grasps the passably cold bottle of hard cider, rationalizing the fruit content as a necessary part of a balanced meal. It's not terrible for him, but R—

Someone might say it's not enough.

Whatever.

Knives forgoes the decaying desk chair in favor of a bed, making himself as comfortable as possible on top of the thin blanket. It could be better, but like most things in his life now, it could be a lot worse. He can see Legato outside, silhouetted against the setting sun and framed perfectly by the window. He could definitely be a lot worse. Legato doesn't bore him with endless, prattling small talk, for one thing, and he makes sure that Knives stops to eat at least occasionally. He's useful.

The sun dips below the horizon and Legato leaves his post to join Knives inside. The warm light from the bedside lamp only fills a pocket of the room, highlighting the remains of Knives's so-called dinner for Legato's eyes. He doesn't comment on it; they both know that Legato can't just pull a better dinner out of his ass. Even if he could, Knives has learned that he's apparently a picky eater. But chips keep away any discomfort or nausea, and alcohol chases away the last dredges of hunger, so together they're what he'd call enough.

"The bed could be worse," Knives explains from his post. Legato casts a doubtful glance over him and the other bed, but he doesn't disagree.

Instead, Legato rummages through the mini-fridge, as though he's going to have better luck. Knives tries and fails to resist the urge to watch him. Is it extra offensive to ogle him after so many others have? His intentions are…better? Pure? No, his head feels too warm to call anything pure. Legato stands, clutching a pair of water bottles and having given up on performing miracles to summon food to their empty mini fridge.

Knives shakes his head and takes another drink, finishing off his cider while it's still mostly cold. Whatever it is with Legato, he can't get lost in it. He can't get lost in anything but freedom and the endless road that stretches ahead of him. Knives has seen how quickly friends and family can turn. He can only trust himself to find his future.

Legato presses a bottle of water into his hand and takes the empty one with his other, one fluid movement that feels too beautiful for the crappy lighting and crappy room. "At least drink some water, too- I don't want you to suffer in the morning."

Does he trust Legato enough to accept his worry? Will Legato accept anything but his compliance?

Knives breathes out, the taste of smoke and tang of apple on his tongue. The water bottle stares back at him.

Does it matter?

He takes a swig of the water, lukewarm despite its time in the fridge, and sinks into the bed- as much as it'll let him. The headboard does more harm than good, jutting out from the wall just enough to be uncomfortable. Whatever. He can still sit here while Legato devours a healthy chunk of their food supply, one cup noodle at a time. The microwave whines with each one, threatening to give up on its pitiful existence and deny Legato everything he craves. Its sad hum fills the room far more than the lamps could ever hope to.

If he stabbed it, would that make the noise worse or better?

"Legato," he drawls, relishing the way his head snaps to attention almost instantaneously. "Get me another drink before I dismantle the microwave with my bare hands."

"I'd at least get you a screwdriver first," he says, already moving to the mini fridge. He emerges with something painfully sugary- one for himself and one for Knives.

When their fingers brush, warmth flows through Knives, spreading from the brief hint of skin to skin contact and swirling together with whatever's making his head so fuzzy. It's not enough to make him lose his grip on the glass bottle that Legato carefully placed in his hands…

But it is enough to make him wish he could hold onto that flash of contentment for longer, long enough for that warmth to fill in and keep him company eternally. It's almost enough for him to open up and say just that, to let honesty fall free, but Knives knows enough to stop himself before he sounds like an idiot. He twists off the bottle cap and deals with Legato's sweet tooth, instead.

Knives would never buy it for himself, but the overwhelming sugary fruit flavor hits his tongue and washes over any sharp bitterness the alcohol brings, a nostalgic taste like drinking candy he hasn't had since he was little.

The microwave whirs to life again, its protests falling on deaf ears as Knives curses it out in his head. He can't deny Legato dinner, as much as he wants to destroy the stupid thing. He'll drink his candied alcohol and hope it fixes how annoyed he is. It can't fix the microwave, but it can give Legato a hazy glow as he watches the styrofoam cup spin. It even makes Legato slurping the noodles up seem artful somehow.

Legato spirits all evidence of his perhaps embarrassing quantity of instant noodles away into a trash bag and ties it off with an elegance usually reserved for presenting a gift to a lover. Some of the bottles end up there, too, spirited away like evidence of a crime.

As if that's what's criminal about them.

The drink goes down smoother than water, and Knives is more than halfway through the bottle before he realizes it. He's pretty sure there are more taking up space in the mini-fridge; he could ask Legato to bring him another. He could down the rest and not even feel it. He could…

"Do you need something, Knives?" Legato is by his side, handsome features pinched with concern and mild confusion as he waits for Knives's answer.

He could open his mouth and destroy all of the safety and peace and affection behind those golden eyes. He could snap the thread of fate that now binds them together. He could break it like everything else in his life, torn to shreds until he's standing in the smoldering pit of a once-happy life, and—

"Knives?" Legato asks again, reaching for him but never making contact; his hand forever hovers millimeters from Knives's cheek, desperate for something he thinks he hasn't earned.

The air is so fucking heavy - from the heat? from the tension? - and it threatens to choke Knives before he can respond.

Fucking hell. His head is making him feel like he's moving through sludge. His thoughts are too slow to be anything but stupid. But it's his problem, and his hindered state is his secret to keep.

"I- I'm fine," he says, stumbling over what should be a solid opening. Legato's face stays worried, because of course it does- he's too observant to believe that fuck up. "Seriously, I am. What about you? Did you eat enough?"

He nods. "Tomorrow we'll need to acquire more water bottles and food, even if it's only a little."

"Got it."

"And…" Legato trails off, his thoughts worrying his brow. "Perhaps something with more sustenance that you enjoy, Knives."

It's always there, that worry, that desire to take care of him and his needs, and Knives hasn't let anyone take care of him in so long, he's not sure he remembers how. He's not sure how Legato remembers how to care and be kind to someone else.

"You can sit down, you." The words burn their way out, harsher than he wanted, but there's not taking them back. He watches Legato's hand drop to his side as he turns to- to what, go get the shitty desk chair? That's stupid. "No, look- you can just sit on the bed with me."

"Thank you," he says, bowing his head deeply before joining Knives on the bed. It's worse with two people on it; it dips precariously with the added weight. Legato doesn't even weigh that much, and it's still enough to test its limits. Wow.

He takes another drink, trying to savor the sugary-sweet escapism as Legato makes himself comfortable. Was his judgment of the bed really that off? With how badly it's handling the two of them, Knives is starting to think so.

Silence hangs between them. It's not the comfortable kind he's grown accustomed to from their long hours in the car together, traveling the endlessly criss-crossing roads. Nor is it the entirely awkward kind that comes with some sort of judgment or displeasure. It's its own sort of silence, born of anticipation. Legato is waiting patiently and Knives is trying to figure out what words he's supposed to say.

"We can get something else." Legato's voice breaks through as best as he can. "If you'd like, Knives, I don't mind going without for your sake."

"That's not necessary," he says firmly, sinking down and letting his head fall back. How are there so many stains on the ceiling?! Especially since they're on the top floor- it just doesn't make any sense.

"If you insist."

"You like food more than me anyway." Legato doesn't disagree, merely goes quiet and lets the room settle. The lights hum with a distinct buzz that Knives has gotten used to; he thinks every shitty motel uses the same shitty lights. He'd ask why, but he's not naive enough to think anywhere he's stayed has done anything with guest's comfort or enjoyment in mind.

The headboard tries to dig into his head as he tries to stay comfortable, and Knives doesn't want the bed to win…even if it certainly has the advantage. Is it gonna be like this all night?

"Knives?" Legato's voice is closer now, coming from his right. Maybe he left and came back with a surprise snack, or, barring that, another drink. Shouldn't he have noticed the bed shifting? It shifted enough earlier when he simply sat on it.

"Yeah?" He doesn't need to look over; he can just feel Legato's presence, hovering out of sight and exactly where he needs to be.

The floor creaks under thin carpeting and there's the barest shift in the air. When Legato answers him, his voice is the barest hint closer. "Even though the sun has set and we're reliant on these pitiful excuses for light, I find myself unwilling to give up on the day quite yet. Perhaps, now that I have put everything away, we can sit and talk for a while longer."

Knives nods, hoping that's enough to get the point across. The stains on the ceiling swirl together into indecipherable patterns, taunting him with their mysteries. Conversation with Legato is probably more satisfying and - usually - less confusing. However, there's been no other move in the room, save for whatever the fucking ceiling is doing. He shifts on the bed and pats the area next to him. "Sure thing. Talk away."

There's an extended pause where neither of them move, filled with Legato's baffling hesitation. Hadn't he just been on the bed? They spend their days together, hours in the car and hours taking in anything that catches their eyes along the way and hours in countless crappy motels, and Knives doesn't understand why he still acts like he has to "earn" his place in this scenario. Knives can't explain it to him or force him to get it, but—

Legato takes the last small step over and, once again, the bed sinks with his weight as he sits on the edge of it. "Thank you."

"I mean, I'm just laying here."

"Is it pleasurable?"

Knives rolls his eyes. "It's passing the time."

Legato chuckles knowingly, parsing the unsaid 'perhaps the bed isn't as comfortable as I'd thought' without calling attention to it. "That I understand." He shifts some, throwing off the delicate weight distribution of the bed. "Sometimes it's nice to just sit and relish in the freedom of it, but other times…my thoughts wander too much and I get lost in my head, drowning in things I'd rather forget."

The bluntness of his misery always gets Knives, catching him off guard like a punch to the gut. Legato doesn't shy away from what he feels, even when he's trying to keep his distance, and Knives appreciates the clarity. "I guess that makes sense. If you're just sitting around, it's harder to block out thoughts you hate."

"If I'm talking to you, they don't bother me," he explains. "And ever since I've been with you, they have plagued me less in general."

"Oh." Knives sits up, drawing his gaze from the ceiling to look over Legato. The lamp on his bedside table casts warm light across Legato's face, illuminating his features even as it adds depth with dark shadows and somehow, it's something that feels like "home," even if it doesn't look like any home he's ever had. "It's— look, I dunno."

"You don't have to feel the same. I feel fulfilled just being able to be in your presence," Legato assures him, moving his head and letting the shadows dance across it and take new forms when he stills.

"That's not it." Why is it so hard to keep his thoughts in order? They're still swimming, dancing away from him as though they're going to join the shadows on Legato's face instead of staying still enough for him to understand them.

Legato's attention is on him, intense and unwavering. It's a feeling he's grown accustomed to but still, it can be overwhelming when he's not ready for it.

Knives braces himself on the headboard, which has decided that it wants to be uncomfortable. Great. "It's better now," he says, trying to put words to the jumbled mess in his head- in his heart? He doesn't know where you're supposed to keep feelings anymore; he doesn't trust anywhere to keep them safe, except… "It's just- it is. I like seeing your face all the time, rather than just my own."

In the warm, cheap light, Knives can't tell if pink is actually staining Legato's cheeks, and he's not sure if he wants it to be.

"I'm touched that you think so highly of me."

"I'd be fucking lonely without you. Being out on the road alone kinda sucks," Knives tries to explain without sounding like an idiot, but he's just sober enough to worry over it. Is it too much, too soon? He's warm and can't quite get comfortable in this bed- this stupid bed that seems insistent on making a lie out of his initial thoughts on it. Is the bed out to get him? Is that it?

Legato gazes at him with a passion usually reserved for religious fanaticism, drinking in every ounce of Knives that he can. "I will do anything you desire of me, and if my presence brings you that much contentment, then I will endeavor to stay by your side."

"I just said- yeah, I get it," he agrees, because what else is he supposed to say? Legato's devotion is overpowering at times, but ultimately harmless. "You're doing fine."

"Thank you." Those two simple words sound like anything but from Legato's mouth, carrying the weight of his immeasurably deep gratitude.

"Y-yeah. Sure. Just…" he trails off, trying to gather his thoughts properly. Everything is just out of reach in his mind, trapped in a sludge that moves so painfully fucking slowly. "Don't- you know better than to leave, unless I send you away."

"Even then, I would pray that you would one day allow me to bask in your presence again." He leans in, that intensity in full force as he grips Knives's hands and stares directly into his eyes. Legato's golden eyes, unnatural at even the best of times, flash with manic desire. Knives can't hold his gaze, and he can't look away.

"…thanks, Legato."

He beams brightly before his expression falters like he just remembered something. "I'm sorry, Knives, I've been too touchy," he says, dropping Knives's hands and scooting away. The bed is only so big, but Legato manages to put distance between them.

There's a way for Knives to fix this, to close the distance. Knives knows that there must be. There must be some way to explain the cacophony of messy thoughts going through his head, swirling through the warmth that alcohol brings and muddling themselves before they fully form. They'll sound stupid. He'll sound stupid. Even Legato's seemingly boundless devotion would be tested.

And he just…doesn't want to seem like a useless idiot, especially around Legato. That'd be…

It'd be…

It'd be easier to have another drink and let the warmth cloud the last of his thoughts, and he doesn't want to give up that much control, and he'd give it up as long as Legato is there with him.

"You're nothing like Vash," he begins, and the room ices over, Legato's expression chilling it more than the rattling air conditioner could ever hope to. "But that's fine. You don't have to be him."

The room is still, hanging in this one simple moment. Legato's lifeline hangs in this moment, stretched taut like fishing line, ready to capture or destroy at his whim.

"I like you just fine like this," Knives continues, grasping at something he doesn't have the words for. It's the loss he felt when Legato dropped his hands, and it's the loss he felt when he moved away from him, even though he's just across the bed, and it's the way his presence usually chases away any loss that's clawing at his insides, threatening to tear him apart.

Legato bows his head, long bangs obscuring his face. "Thank you, Knives. I'll treasure your compliments eternally."

"Then why are you still hiding over there?" Knives asks sharply, a small part of him worrying that he sounds like a petulant child, while a greater part of him wants to demand even more.

"I know you like your space—"

"Bullshit." Legato's face blossoms into confusion. "I invited you over here, so obviously I want you here."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you like playing dumb?"

"No. But I've had a significant amount of practice."

"So? That doesn't answer my question."

Legato's mouth works unhappily, trying to find purchase in the stale air. When that fails, he stays uncharacteristically quiet.

Knives rolls his eyes and reaches out, trying to entice Legato into taking it and coming closer, clearing that last little, insignificant bit of space. Why is this so familiar? It's like the way he and Vash drifted further and further apart and not at all; it's the distance that he sees…

Somewhere?

Knives sees that same significant piece of nothingness somewhere, and he sees it often enough that it's lodged in there, forcing its way forward to make itself known, even without all the details. And it's there, taunting him with its existence, telling him that there's something out of his grasp, probably because he hasn't taken it yet.

Because…

Because why? Why—

Legato's hand clasps his, solid and warm and familiar in a different way. It's familiar because it's there, something he can hold onto and see, rather than a void that cries out to be filled. "…I don't mean to insult you."

Knives clutches that hand tightly before entwining their fingers, and he can't tell if it's a trick of the light or what, but he swears he can see pink settle on Legato's cheeks, for real this time.

Huh.

The room is still too warm and fuzzy, at least as much as his head, and Knives tugs at Legato's hand- chances of seeming petulant be damned. Thankfully, Legato moves closer without complaint, willing to play into Knives's whims this much.

"Don't be difficult," Knives chides.

"Am I the difficult one?" he asks, a smile curling in the edges of his lips.

Knives stares in shock for a second, trying to parse if Legato's teasing him.

Maybe?

Whatever.

He flops gracelessly sideways, landing in Legato's lap as best he can. It's more comfortable than just laying on the bed alone and it's a more sure way of trapping him in place. Legato doesn't try to move, but he stiffens at the sudden company.

Whatever.

"I'm sorry if my actions earlier displeased you, but I promise I will try to avoid them in the future," Legato says. Their fingers are still entwined, though Knives's arm is at an uncomfortable angle now that he's laying in Legato's lap.

If he lets go, will he still get to hold it?

"You apologize a lot for someone who hates people so much."

Legato tugs his hand back before Knives can realize what he's doing; he doesn't have time to stop him. He wants to argue, tell him to give it back, something, but instead, Legato gently strokes Knives hair off his face. "I hate people, and I hate to be on the receiving end of their whims, and sometimes, apologies can prevent some of the violence. I trust you, but I suppose some habits are hard to break."

Knives can't remember what he's supposed to be answering at first, focused on the hand running through his hair instead. It's a small nest of safety in a terrible world, hidden away from anyone who could be after them and relying on each other to make that safety feel more real. It feels real. It feels so incredibly real in this uncomfortable bed in this shitty room in this cheap motel in this nothing of a town just off the infinite highway system that brought them together and keeps them together.

"Did you drink too much?" Legato asks gently, still petting his hair.

"No," he manages. Now that he's laying somewhere more comfortable, it's easy to ignore how much his head is swimming. It's basically fine now. If he just sits here with Legato, he's sure he'll be fine.

"Of course." Legato's touch is so gentle, like he's afraid Knives will break from the barest hint of pressure, and he's wrong. He's been through so fucking much so that he can sit here peacefully; he's been through so fucking much so that he can do it all again if he has to.

But…

But it's nice, like this.

It's nice, laying with his head on Legato's lap in the terrible warmth and marking the way the ceiling's brown stains look like cousins of the coffee stains in every 24 hour rest stop they've been to. Legato is everywhere, always there, inescapable, his existence pressing in and filling in everything cordoned off by the thin curtains and the thin light of the lamps. The way that Legato is someone he didn't seek out and he never meant to find anyone else ever again and yet, the way that Legato is someone he found by chance somehow makes it that much more.

It's nice.

Knives forgot what something as simple as "nice" can be, and now that he's found it, he's keeping it.

"You don't have to act like I'm gonna break."

"I'm sorry," Legato says, his hand stilling briefly. "Thank you for telling me. It's just that—"

Silence descends, and Legato runs fingers through Knives's hair with more than just the lightest touch, though it's still deeply fond. He wants to ask what Legato was going to say, and he doesn't want anything to stop.

"You're very precious, and I suppose I forget that you are not an untouchable god who has descended to allow us to take in your presence. I don't want to…" he trails off, and Knives waits to see what has made Legato temporarily struggle for words. It's such a rare experience, it must be because of something important.

Legato doesn't finish his sentence at first, staring purposefully at the wall across the room. There's nothing there. There's just another poorly constructed dresser and an even worse microwave, and Knives knows they're both killing time like this. They're together every day and they talk about everything every day and they've never talked quite like this, ever, and—

"I know you aren't so easily broken, Knives, but someone should treat you like you're precious."

Knives stares up at him and now, Legato is staring directly down to meet his eyes. "You—"

"I'm so—"

"I can't tell you what I want," Knives says, pushing forward before Legato can apologize again. "I tried to, and you're not- I know you're not stupid. You're really smart and you pick up on things, so you're either refusing to understand on purpose or…I don't know. I don't fucking know. I want you to stay with me until one or both of us stops breathing and I don't know how to make it any clearer."

He breathes in deeply, eyes wide as he regards Knives. His eyebrows have vanished into his bangs and the light glints off his eyes, shining bright with a hint of tears.

"Oh, don't fucking cry."

"I'm not going to cry."

"I swear to fuck, Legato—"

"I swear I'll never leave you. I promise. I told you and I'll tell you again: I'll spend every moment with you until you tire of me—"

"Stop that."

"What?"

"I'm not going to tire of you, or at least…I don't fucking know. Stop including it every time, like it's the more likely option than just staying together."

Legato nods hesitantly. "If you say so."

"I thought you trusted me."

"I do."

Knives rolls his eyes. "Then fucking show it. I'm not going to just toss you aside cuz I got bored."

"Okay," Legato agrees. "I will trust in your knowledge and stop letting my own doubts cloud my loyalty. You've given me so much—"

"Yeah, I know."

"—and I want to repay that without upsetting you."

He tugs on Legato's shirt, trying to get him to go back to petting his head, fingers working through his hair and the pressure soothing the way his head insists on aching at the slightest provocation. "You're not upsetting me."

"You've told me that I upset you."

"I did not."

Legato finally heeds his unspoken demands and Knives melts further into his lap. "You offered to give me a list so I could make sure to avoid pissing you off in the future, as you so succinctly put it. However, I am still waiting on that list—"

"I'm not writing you a fucking list," Knives says, as if his disagreement now will somehow take back every nasty thing he's said out of minor annoyance. He doesn't even remember saying that, but Legato carries the burden all the same.

"If you say so." Legato doesn't sound hurt, merely complacent, and Knives can't take it. He can't take this peace when it's haunted by things he shouldn't have said, because…because he hates the reminder, and because he's always lashing out, and because he never has the fucking clarity to realize it until far, far later.

He scrambles up, twisting around until he's facing Legato, forced to face each other eye to eye. Legato stares at him, blinking away surprise. "Stop that," Knives says, grabbing the front of Legato's shirt to hold him in place. "Stop this whole- whole—"

Legato leans forward almost imperceptibly, thirsty for whatever divine knowledge Knives will bestow upon him, and Knives doesn't have that, not now and maybe not ever. He wants the buzzing in the room to stop drowning out the buzzing in his head; he wants—

He wants—

Knives yanks Legato closer, crossing that insignificant space of significance between them, and their lips crash together with enough force that he's sure he hears the clack of teeth; he's sure he feels it, if nothing else. There's a second where everything is frozen; there's a second where everything is fine and nothing has changed and nothing has gone wrong and everything has gone right. There's a second of nothingness that threatens to destroy the everything they've enjoyed together.

And then it's gone, that terrible moment of doubt, chased away by the arm wrapping around Knives's waist and holding him close and the hand tangling in his hair and for once, Knives thinks his mouth might taste sweeter than Legato's, and he hopes that's some kind of enticing. Legato is enticing in the way that he's so sure of what he's doing and so solidly there and they're both here, together, he supposes.

Legato's shirt is soft because it's been washed so many times and still damp with the heat of the day, even as the sun has been lost to the horizon and the far expanse around the space that is just theirs has chilled, and his shirt is the closest Knives has to a lifeline in all of this. He wants to hold and he wants to held onto more and when he presses ever closer, Legato kisses him like a man drowning. Legato kisses like he wants Knives to feel nothing but devotion and he kisses like he'll die if either of them let go and Knives isn't sure he's wrong on either of those counts. He digs fingers into the shirt that's just as cheap as every fucking thing they have and he wouldn't trade any of it for anything better, because it makes him want to gasp and moan and desperately try to figure out how to ask for more.

The world is spinning and Knives can't see the lights dancing around them but they must be for how magical it manages to feel.

And it isn't magical because it's two ordinary people barely holding on in just another motel room, and countless people have done that and more on these same sheets.

And it isn't magical because it's something that any two people could do, given the time or place or chance meeting.

And it is magical because they've already had their chance meeting and nothing about it was something any two people could do and they're two extraordinary people barely holding on, but they're still so much more than this shitty room in this shitty town in this shitty world.

And Knives holds onto that shirt and finds purchase in silky-soft hair and they're tumbling backwards onto not even close to the worst bed either of them has been on, groaning under their weight and even its complaints aren't enough to put a damper on what they've found.

Legato would hold him for an eternity, forsaking any necessities in lieu of Knives's desires. But Knives doesn't have that override, and he pulls back breathlessly. His mouth hurts from the insistent, needy way Legato bit at his lips and also, somehow, from the relentless pull of a smile tugging at the corners. When was the last time he smiled like this? When was the last time it felt so effortless on his face?

"Knives, I…" Legato begins, looking down at him, his own lips curling into a delighted smile. "I didn't think you felt so strongly."

"I told you not to keep presuming shit."

He doesn't answer at first and Knives watches him think. He watches how it pulls his brows together and apart and how, in time, a relaxed sort of peace settles on Legato's features, and it takes him a moment to realize he doesn't think he's ever seen him look quite so at ease. "You look good like that."

"Under you?"

Legato chuckles. "Letting yourself express such honest contentment. I'm flattered you would allow me to see," he explains, leaning down just enough to press a kiss to Knives's forehead. "But I can't deny that there's a certain thrill to the position you're in."

He falters, laying in this space between the familiarity of a shitty bed and the familiarity of Legato's presence, and none of it is familiar, and none of it can be pulled together into words, and so he doesn't. Knives pulls him back down instead, trying to claw out the space that is solely them, and feeling like he's trying too hard for something that Legato will give him without question.

He's right. He's right about Legato, over and over, and Legato kisses him over and over until they both can't breathe and until Knives's mouth is no longer candy sweet and until everything around him is nothing but hands gripping his and the sloppy way he kisses and the perfect way Legato kisses, like he's only learned this much so that he could give it to Knives alone. And the sticky heat of the day is finally gone and replaced by their body heat, together, and—

"Knives," is a promise against his lips, sent like a prayer from Legato's heart to his. It's a promise that Knives takes greedily, gasps just so to swallow it whole and keep it within him, eternally.

"Knives," again, already, with the faintest brush of teeth nipping against his lips and Knives can match that without the fear of using too much force, because he wants Legato to want to be eaten up as much as he does.

"Knives," a third time, a demand for attention that threatens to draw them out of the hazy dream of intimacy that Knives wants to crawl inside of until it engulfs him and holds him safe, eternally.

He looks up at Legato, haloed in darkness by the low light, and frowns. "What?" he asks in a whine that even an hour earlier would have made him flush at his brattiness.

"You're still drunk," he reminds Knives, as if that somehow has some bearing on anything that's going on.

"So?"

Legato's face is tight, twisted into worry, and shadows fall into the creases around his eyes. "Knives, I beg of you and I promise I'll only stop this once: I don't want to be your drunken plaything for a night, only for spectre of your folly to forever poison our friendship. If it ruins what we have and you are never able to look upon my face without being disgusted, I'll—"

"Stop doubting me." It's a cyclical conversation, over and over and fucking over again, as though Knives would change his opinions on such a whim.

"I'm not doubting you," Legato promises, eyes a liquid gold that could spill out and drown the world in riches and instead, he saves every breath for Knives alone. "I've seen— I don't— Knives, if you ask me at any other time, in the morning, in the evening, in the car as we fly down whatever highway we've found that day, at any other time, I will do anything you want."

Knives reaches up and even with the tension and anger and disappointment, Legato doesn't flinch away from his hand; Legato never flinches away from his hand. "I'm not that drunk," he lies.

Legato's face relaxes again, letting his cheek rest against Knives's palm. "I would hate to disagree with you."

"But you are."

He turns his head slightly and kisses along Knives's hand, one fingertip at a time, and Knives sucks in a breath. He can't look away. He can't pull away. He wants to watch Legato until he runs out of air to breathe, their conversation fizzling out and dispersing until it's just this, again, forever.

Legato leans back down and presses kisses along his jaw and down his neck and by the time he returns to his mouth, Knives is gasping and whining for more. "You're so demanding," he says, as though he's appreciating his handiwork. "And you deserve all of it."

Knives grabs his chin and kisses him again, anything to prevent more words from coming between them. He asks for more and Legato gives it to him, as if his previous misgivings don't matter and as if he, too, wants to devour Knives and keep him, eternally. Knives could demand to rip him open and take his heart as an offering and there's a part of him that isn't drunk enough to hide from the fear that he might find his own heart already tucked inside Legato's ribcage, safe and sound.

The world spins and it's warm and good and jostles him and it's not the world: Legato has rolled onto his side and taken Knives with him, one arm wrapped firmly around him to keep him safe and keep them pressed together, because nothing else exists except this space, the tangle of hands and limbs and lips, wrapped up in scratchy sheets and the almost forgotten memory of a discarder comforter.

The world spins and Knives presses his eyes shut to keep his balance and he's still laying down, held tightly and held like a precious gift.

The world spins and it's a swarm of feelings he never quite learned the right words for and he can't spare the single syllable to express them because the world is spinning all around them in this single, still room. The room doesn't spin and the room isn't quiet and neither are they, not now, not like this, and maybe not ever again. Legato fills the buzzing thoughts in his head and the buzzing lights in the room with his lips, peppering Knives with kisses.

And that's enough.

It's enough.

Knives isn't even sure what would be more than this and he knows if he pushes, Legato will tell him and give it to him, but this—

This is enough and he wants more and he wants just this, held close and held together.

He pulls back to breathe and Legato is still there, a breath away from him, and he shifts to grab one of Legato's hands again. He wants to say something and he doesn't know what to say and he wants to know how Legato feels—

"I can tell you how I feel again, if you need, until you are satisfied." It's only from Legato interrupting his thoughts that Knives realizes they may not have been wholly private and that, perhaps, Legato was onto something about him being too drunk.

Not that Legato needs to know that.

"You're fine," Knives says. "I think…I think I'm tired."

"It's been a long day."

"Has it?"

Legato eyes him up and down before answering. "The heat can make it worse."

What does the heat have to do with anything? They were talking about… "Hmm?"

They were talking about…the day?

"This much heat can make you more tired," Legato explains patiently. "Or so I've heard."

Legato has heard a lot for someone who spent most of his life in a gilded cage. Does he know more than Knives? Maybe it's because Legato is such a good listener… "I guess," he agrees, shifting some to try to get comfortable. "I never spent this much time in the heat."

"I'm sorry—"

Knives yawns and it cuts off whatever Legato is trying to apologize for. "It's whatever. I'll take your word for it about the tired thing, though."

"You should get some sleep."

"What about you?"

"I will also sleep," he assures Knives. "However, you're still holding onto me, which is stopping both of us from sleeping."

"Why?"

He can't duck his head and hide from Knives's eyes, much as it looks like he wants to. "I wouldn't want to take any of your bed."

Knives grips his hand tighter, squeezing hard enough that he can feel Legato's slim fingers crunching together. "You're not taking up space. It's more comfortable with you here, anyway. The pillow sucks. The headboard sucks. The mattress sucks! But I liked laying in your lap earlier, so you can't leave now."

"Oh." The single word resonates in the air between them. "If you want me here, I will happily stay, Knives."

There's a flurry of movement that Knives can't track properly, and he whines when Legato takes his hand back, the stale air in the room not nearly as good at caressing his palm as Legato is. Legato clears the remains of Knives's dinner and drinking from the bed, hastily shoving it aside instead of properly bagging it as he had the abundance of empty cup noodles.

Knives blinks and the bed dips with Legato's weight as he sets off the balance of the mattress once again. He pulls the thin top sheet over them and though it catches on Knives's skin it's still better than the blanket. Even a thin blanket would probably smother them in this heat.

"Did you doze off, Knives?" Legato's face is next to his again, worrying over him, and the mental sludge of earlier is still there, still keeping him from answering properly.

Did he?

"No," he says, whether it's a lie or not.

Legato reaches out and runs a hand through his hair and smooths it out. "Then let's sleep now."

Something about it is comforting instead of demanding. Something about Legato is comforting instead of demanding. Something about Legato is easy instead of complicated, even when his head is a confused snarl of feelings. Something about him and Legato, curled together under the sheet with nothing to protect themselves except each other, is comforting. Something about all of this is comforting instead of—

Instead of—

Instead of every hurt that either of them has gone through and every hurt that either of them has gone through isn't enough to stop them and every hurt that either of them has gone through is enough to bring them together.

Knives falls asleep with their legs tangled together and his head against Legato's chest, kept close despite the promise of sweltering heat to come. Knives falls asleep knowing the morning will dawn far too bright, and that the morning will dawn on them together. Knives falls asleep with the promise that no matter how the morning finds them, they'll keep moving forward together, just like they have been and just like they've found something more.

under the buzzing
lights in yet another
forgotten town with
dusty streets

of desperation of newly
grasped freedom, and
all roads lead
back to you

and maybe you and i
can carve out just
a little space
together.