Sugar touch, the old cracksmen who trained him called it. Sweet and rare. Locks open for Vila like hungry mouths. His hands work wonders.
"All your brains are in your fingers," Avon likes to say. Something's wrong in Avon, turning sweet to bitter, but Vila doesn't listen. Not to words.
When he's got Avon under his hands, half-unlocked, naked to the skin and armored under it, Vila listens with the flats of his palms and the ridges of his fingertips. Avon holds himself tense until he simply can't, until the sweat's slick on him and he moves with Vila like a shadow.
Vila steals him from himself. And the shudder of Avon's body, his gasping stillness afterwards--Vila knows those things are gratitude.
"Clever fingers, yeah," he whispers in Avon's ear, touching him. Avon's hands are clumsier, stupider, but Vila holds them in his own, kisses them, tastes their sweetness.