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"Your hands are rough." Vega says as he pushes his fingers against Guile's. "They feel hard, but your touch is soft. How can that be?"
Guile smiles. "Yours are soft like silk." Vega's slender fingers are so unlike his calloused knuckles. "The most delicate I've ever touched.”
Vega takes pride in hearing those words. Beauty is softness, fine and fair traits, harmonious features, subtle edges. He takes great care of his hands; after all, that's what his claw is for. Saving his hands from becoming like Guile's.
"But your touch is harsh." Guile adds.
Vega feels like losing his balance.
"How come?" He asks, betrayal tinting his voice.
Maybe it's just his sharp nails, he thinks. Guile keeps brushing the underside of Vega's fingers. He sighs. Vega shudders.
"You have blood on them." Guile says.
"I've washed them thoroughly.”
It's true. Vega's definitely turned his back to Bison, and Guile has stepped up to handle his rehabilitation. There's still a long way to go, and Vega didn't suddenly have a change of heart. He just turned to the person who wasn't actively hurting him.
"How long are they gonna stay clean?" Guile asks.
They've had a few drinks, so Guile's a little more blunt than usual.
"Honestly?" Vega asks. He's a bit tipsier than Guile. "Probably not as long as you'd hope."
Is that pain in Guile's eyes?
"Are you thinking about killing again?" He asks, and Vega laughs bitterly.
"Would it make you happy if I told you it'll never happen again?"
"Hearing it doesn't mean anything to me." Guile replies. "I'll be happy when I see it five years from now."
Vega looks down.
"You're giving me five years?" He asks.
Guile's fingers freeze while intertwined with Vega's.
"I'll be gone in half a year, at most."
"Vega, what are you..."
Guile's free hand moves to Vega's face to tilt his head upwards, and Vega lets him.
No one other than Guile is allowed to touch his face. Not even Bison, who knew perfectly that, in order to keep Vega in check, he couldn't just punch or slap him. He had to resort to other methods.
Now that he thought about it, Vega wished Bison had hit him in the face.
"Come on, don't say that." Guile pleads.
"What does it change, whether I say it or not?" Vega asks. "I know it for a fact."
Guile's eyes are painful to look into. His rough hand is so gentle against Vega's cheek.
The last person to touch him so lovingly was his mother.
"I'm not giving up on you." Guile assures him.
Vega knows he doesn't deserve Guile's hope and trust. His soft yet cruel hands will never be clean. He'll never love himself beyond his looks.
Now that his life among Shadaloo is behind him, what does he have to live for?
A life of fighting bloodlust, of hating who he is, of mourning his mother?
"I love you, Vega."
That doesn't sound right. That can't be.
What's there to love except his beauty?
What's the use of worshipping his soft hands if their touch is unpleasant?
Tears fight their way to the brim of Vega's eyes.
The thought of killing himself doesn't hurt. The idea that Guile could somehow find a way to love him is excruciating.
He shouldn't care. If Guile really does love him, that's his problem.
So why does it hurt?
Vega knows he'll die soon. He always knew he wouldn't grow old, so he never built a future in his mind. What's the point in living past your first wrinkle?
But now, Guile loves him. Guile cares about him. Guile listens, Guile seems to know instinctively how his mind works.
And, fuck, now Guile's cradling him in his arms and holding him so tight, like he's fragile, and precious, and worth saving.
Vega's so afraid. Death doesn't scare him, but the thought of Guile seeing his dead body, the thought of Guile being the only one to shed a single tear…
"You'll be fine." Guile says, and Vega's hands finally move to touch Guile's back.
Vega has never been in love. Every "I love you" he's ever said was empty.
Guile deserves better than hollow promises.
"I'll try." Vega breathes out shakily.
He wonders if his hands will ever feel soft. He wonders if they feel soft now.
He's not in love, but he wants his touch to be gentle when handling Guile's heart.
Maybe he'll kill him first. His last kill before himself.
But right now, he's falling asleep in his arms, between his damaged hands that feel like the softest satin sheets, like a warm morning, like Catalonia summer, and the last time in his life that he was ever, truly happy.