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On the outskirts May City, Vash sits on the bed of their motel room, gazing at the three moons over the horizon. His whole body aches after the events of the past evening; a long ride to the city on thomaback, followed by an unsuccessful attempt to break up a fight in the bar downstairs before anyone got hurt. Vash isn't sure what they were fighting about, but from the way the instigator turned on him, his intervention certainly wasn't welcome.
After Wolfwood got him out of there and helped him to their room, Vash all but collapsed, going right to sleep. More from exhaustion than pain—he’s seen worse than a couple of well-placed punches, after all.
Waking up a couple of hours later, Vash found the room empty, but the space on the bed next to him was still warm. Wolfwood mustn’t have been gone for long.
Everything is quiet, except for two drunks arguing under the window.
Vash focuses on the moons instead.
The door creaks as it opens at the same time the drunkards decide it's time to drag themselves back home. Vash looks over his shoulder, and gives a small smile at the sight of Wolfwood entering the room. He’s not quiet; had Vash not been awake, perhaps his arrival would’ve been enough to rouse him.
Vash doesn’t ask where Wolfwood was, nor does he acknowledge that he was gone at all. They don’t tell each other everything. Vash wouldn’t expect Wolfwood to, not when he’s got his own share of secrets and silent burdens.
Wolfwood walks around the bed until he’s blocking Vash’s view of the horizon. Like this, he’s highlighted by a halo of moonlight, his features difficult to discern, like an angel sent by God. Or a demon, but Vash assumes it's only a matter of perspective.
Without looking, Wolfwood extends his arm and turns on the small lamp on the bedside table. Vash squints from the sudden outpour of light.
“That asshole got you good,” Wolfwood remarks. He reaches out, fingers tracing what Vash assumes is a bruise on the side of his face, his touch careful and gentle. A stark contrast to the redness of his knuckles. Vash isn’t sure they looked like this last night, but then again, he was too knocked out to pay attention. “You need to stop doing that, needle-noggin.”
“I'm sorry.”
Wolfwood takes back his hand, his fingers sliding down the length of Vash’s face along the way. Vash misses its warmth instantly—he leans forward to chase it, but Wolfwood is already turning off the light again, unbuttoning his shirt, and moving to his side of the bed.
He sits leaning with his back against the headboard. He lights up a cigarette, the glow of the flame briefly giving his face an orange tint. Vash turns around, moving into a cross-legged position. His eyes trail over Wolfwood, from his closed eyes as he inhales the first gulf of smoke, to his bare chest, smooth and perfect like he was never shot like a practice target not so long ago, or hit square-on by their car the day they met.
Vash wonders if Wolfwood would have as many scars as he does without his serum. Maybe that’s why it’s effortless for Wolfwood to let others look; only those who truly know him can see his invisible scars.
“I’ll take it as a compliment, but don’t sit there gawkin' like that. Come here.”
“Huh?” Vash blinks. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, c’me here.” Wolfwood taps the empty space next to him. “Get some rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Don’t make me knock ya right back out myself, blondie.”
Vash makes a moue, which Wolfwood doesn’t even bother to acknowledge. He merely drags on his cigarette and gives him a pointed look.
“Fine, fine, jeez. . .” Vash whines, but inwardly, he's more than happy to oblige.
He scuttles over and lies down, laying his head on Wolfwood’s lap.
A soft, content sigh escapes him when Wolfwood’s deft fingers begin stroking his scalp, threading through his hair. Goosebumps form on his arm, and pleasant shivers run down his back. It feels good, lulling him to sleep no matter how much he would rather stay awake and indulge.
Wolfwood leans down to place a kiss to his lips, which makes Vash smile, before returning to his ministrations.
“Look at ya,” Wolfwood snorts. “Just a touch and you’re already halfway gone. I thought you weren’t tired?”
“Shut up, Wolfwood,” Vash mumbles.
He tries to stay awake out of sheer stubbornness, but eventually drifts off to the rumble of Wolfwood’s low laugh, the smell of tobacco, and the slow circles rubbed into his skin.
When Vash wakes again, the rising sun lays a delicate blanket of warmth over his face. This might be one of Vash’s favorite things; the peaceful stillness of dawn on a sunny day.
Wolfwood is already up, chewing on a half-finished cigarette.
“Hi,” Vash says in a drowsy voice, stretching his arms and legs, much like a cat after a long nap.
“Mornin’,” Wolfwood drawls, putting his cigarette aside and shifting onto his side until they are face-to-face. “You were out cold.”
Wolfwood intertwines their fingers together. Then lets Vash eagerly kiss him hello.
Vash thinks that whether or not Wolfwood stopped smoking, he would still smell and taste of tobacco. Vash didn't always like it—though he didn’t dislike it either—but he's begun to find comfort in it. Every time, it’s like coming home.
“Thank you,” Vash finds himself saying. “For having my back.”
He's unsure what makes him say it. Perhaps it is simply that he's been thinking about it for a while, and he means it. Or that had Wolfwood not helped him out last night, he might’ve come out of it with worse than a bruise and a headache. Or perhaps, it is because he feels Wolfwood should know that his companionship is appreciated—that he needs that kind of reassurance, too.
Although a shadow darts across his eyes, Wolfwood smiles. Like on command, Vash's heart skips a beat. He can't help grinning, too.
“Right there,” Wolfwood says, pointing at him, his finger so close it almost pokes the tip of Vash’s nose. “That smile. That one's my favorite.”
He catches it in another kiss as Vash embraces him.
All this is fairly new; no more than a few weeks. It started with their hands brushing in the back of the car, and the craving of touch that came with it, impossible to ignore. Despite their disagreements, days and trials passed, one thing led to another, and when Meryl booked them a single bedroom. . . Vash thought they were arguing, but the next moment, Wolfwood was grumpily kissing him.
When they part, Vash beams into the crook of Wolfwood's shoulder. Warm. Wolfwood is so warm. Solid. Tangible. He holds him so close, Vash could never doubt that he’s truly here, no matter what his mind sometimes screams at him: that it’s an illusion—that it won’t last.
Like this, it’s as though the hourglass that always seems to hang over their heads pauses, if only for that moment.
A sound not unlike a purr escapes him as Wolfwood’s hands slide under his tank top, exploring and caressing, coursing over scars and curves alike. Vash chuckles, his body curling and twisting slightly at times, seeking further contact at others.
“Hey, it tickles, sto—” Vash chides, before snapping his mouth shut. “Huh. I mean. Just a little.”
“Oh, does it now?” Wolfwood smirks, pushing Vash on his back before crawling over him. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Huh oh.”
“Yeah. Maybe ya shoulda kept this information to yourself. Ya never know what could be turned against you.”
Vash tries to hold it in. He really does. But that's the weakest threat he's heard from Wolfwood yet, and compared to the others, it's just—Vash laughs, which turns Wolfwood’s playful smirk into a happy grin.
As Wolfwood chases his lips again, not making do on his sorry excuse of a threat, his breath has an unexpected rougher edge to it.
He begins to slide Vash’s tank top over his head. Vash lets him do it, despite the nameless, unwelcome dread that instantly creeps up his throat and dissolves his laughter away like it was never there at all. Undressing in front of Wolfwood isn’t new, but Wolfwood undressing him is. Alongside it, his instinct not to let him see the extent of the damage on his body kicks in. It’s promptly shut down, more easily than the time before, and the one before that. Although his face doesn't hide his conflicted feelings, it doesn't make Wolfwood uncomfortable. Why should this time be any different?
Vash redirects his attention to Wolfwood’s kiss.
Kissing is fine. Kissing is more than fine. Vash may not have originally craved it as much as Wolfwood’s touch, and it’s nothing he ever feels he deserves, but it’s simple and loving and. . . nice. His liking of it has only increased these past couple of weeks, and Vash latches on to its familiarity to force down the seeds of panic that begin to sprout inside his chest.
But next, Wolfwood’s tongue parts his mouth open. Vash starts as their tongues meet. He follows along in a daze, but soon enough, Wolfwood stops to press sloppy kisses to his underjaw, his neck, his collarbone. At the same time, his touch lingers and fondles, traveling lower and lower down Vash’s upper body.
“Is that alright, angel?”
Vash remains too stunned to reply, but he nods mechanically. Wolfwood has touched and kissed him many times, but not like this. Is it alright? He isn’t sure. Shouldn’t it be? Wasn’t it, mere moments ago?
Unaware, Wolfwood’s hands glide across his lower back, sliding to the front. His kisses are wet, his teeth scraping Vash’s skin. His touch is like hot iron. Finally, something hard is inadvertently pressed against his leg.
“God. . . I’ve been wantin' to do this for a while.”
Vash’s stomach drops.
He freezes, the seeds of panic sprouting into razor-shaped vines that seize him at last with the undeniable confirmation of where this is heading. His breath catches in his throat. He can't pretend to be fast asleep this time. He wouldn’t even want to pretend if he could, but this—he's not—he doesn't want. . .
Bracing for what comes next, he takes a deep breath. It trembles despite himself. Quiet and barely noticeable, but Wolfwood notices instantly.
His scalding touch abandons Vash’s skin. His mouth parts from Vash’s neck. It all ends almost as suddenly as it started. Wolfwood gets off Vash and holds up his hands, a shadow of concern creeping over his features.
“Sorry. Sorry, Vash. I should’ve—I thought—” Wolfwood trails off. He doesn’t appear to know what he’s supposed to say.
Vash doesn’t know what he’s supposed to hear, either.
“Don’t worry,” he hurries to reassure, plastering an easy smile on his face despite the thundering of his heart, despite his clammy hands and the lump of anxiety in his throat. “It’s fine—it’s stupid, actually.”
Wolfwood’s brow furrows. “Don’t say that,” he says, then adds seriously, “If it's about your scars, ya know I don't care about them.”
Vash sits up as well, and although Wolfwood’s sincere statement makes the corner of his mouth quirk up somewhat, his shoulders slump. “It's not about my scars.”
Wolfwood regards him silently. He doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't. No one ever does, do they? “What’s it about, then?”
That’s a question Vash has carried in a corner of his mind for the longest time. He isn’t sure of the exact answer, for a lack of occasions to bring it up, dwell on it, or any indication that he's not the only one feeling this way. That often leads him to wonder if it makes him even less human than he already is.
He settles for the simplest, most straight-forward answer he’s got, regardless of the how and why.
“I’ve. . . never wanted anyone like that. Sex is not something I've ever felt like seeking out—I just. . . can’t. I can't.”
He braces himself, takes his heart and attempts to wrap it in a protective layer, so that it will hurt less when he’s once again reminded that he doesn’t belong in that way either, and good things never last no matter how hard he tries to hold on to them.
“Oh. I see.” There’s an hesitation to Wolfwood now. It’s better than confusion, disgust or rejection, at least. He doesn’t seem to be jumping to any conclusions over the genuineness of Vash’s feelings, even if they never quite put words to what they are to each other, and that kindles a glimmer of hope within Vash. Wolfwood even looks like he wants to reach out, offer some measure of comfort, but his hands stay held up. “Is it alright, if I touch you? Fuck, I have so many times before. I won’t if ya don’t want me to—”
“No, I do! I do want you to,” Vash says quickly, trying but failing not to sound too desperate. “You can always touch me.” Please, please touch me. “Just not. . . not. . .”
Not what? What does he want? What does he not want?
Vash lets out a frustrated groan. His fists crumple the hem of his tank top, not meeting Wolfwood’s eyes.
“Not under the waist?” Wolfwood suggests, and Vash’s eyes snap up. In Wolfwood’s gaze, he finds nothing but the beginnings of careful understanding. And, most important of all, is acceptance he's never been on the receiving end of before. “And I’ll keep my tongue to myself. How 'bout that, heh?”
Speechless, Vash gives a nod. He never knew it could be so easy—it has always been so difficult the few times he attempted to explain over the years, before he stopped trying at all and found excuses and tricks to avoid it instead.
To his relief, Wolfwood gets closer and catches Vash’s waist in his hands. His thumbs rub slow circles into it. Not an inch lower. “Okay then, no problem there. I can do that.”
Vash’s lower lip trembles, just a bit. His eyes sting with the threat of fresh tears, which he hurries to wipe away before they can fall.
Wolfwood smiles, and pokes his forehead. “Hey now, don’t be a crybaby.”
“But, you. . .” Vash makes a vague gesture at Wolfwood’s crotch. He doesn’t usually feel so self-aware about these things, but he certainly does now that he’s involved. Wolfwood, however, is unfazed.
“Ignore it, it doesn’t matter. Come on needle-noggin, who do ya think I am? I can control myself,” Wolfwood says with a wolfish grin. He leans forward, stopping an inch from Vash’s lips. “And I'm a priest, remember? I’ll show you all the other ways I can worship you.”
Vash chokes on his next breath. He flushes, looking down bashfully. “So. . . you’ll go get me a box of donuts for breakfast?”
Wolfwood glares at him. He shoves Vash’s shoulder with a roll of his eyes. “Yer an idiot. Goddamnit, I’m tryin' to be romantic here.”
Vash falls back as he laughs, his heart no longer beating fast with apprehension, but soul-soothing relief. He never imagined he would one day be on the receiving end of such words.
“Go get it yourself after I’m done with ya.”
With that, Wolfwood crawls over him and pins him down. Vash offers no resistance, his body pliant despite the remaining tension. Despite what he knows of Wolfwood's true purpose, Vash has never felt unsafe around him, and Wolfwood just effortlessly proved his instinct right once more.
Wolfwood sets to softly kissing each of Vash’s scars, the skin surrounding each grafted piece of metal, the edges of his prosthetic, his hands on him like a caress that sends pleasant shivers all over Vash’s body.
There it is again, the kind of touch that seems to both mend him and break him apart.
The sun is higher up on the horizon now, adding to the warmth that courses through him. Vash lets the feeling of being cared for submerge him until all that is wrong and painful fades away, if only for a little while. He’s so full of it that he doesn’t have time or thought to guilt himself for his greediness.
Still, he’ll have to pay Wolfwood back for it all.
Finally, Wolfwood hovers over his lips. He places a slow, gentle peck there, then another, then another, only pausing to gaze at him with the wonder of a man who can’t comprehend that he’s allowed, that he's deserving, of all this.
Vash is no stranger to that look. He’s seen it on Wolfwood’s face more than once, and he’s seen his own reflected in Wolfwood’s eyes, neither of them able to make sense of being its cause.
But even now, after all this couldn’t turn into everything that Wolfwood hoped for. . . Unbelievably, Wolfwood still looks at him like that.
“Wolfwood. . .” Vash sighs. He feels boneless. As close to one with the mattress as he can get. Can the weight of such earnest love really be so light? He doesn’t remember if there ever was a time since the Great Fall when being away from Ship Three—from Home—that felt as safe as this.
“Nicholas,” he says earnestly, but Wolfwood flinches a little. Vash purses his lips thoughtfully, earning himself a raised eyebrow. “Nico. Nick. Oh, I like Nick!”
Wolfwood winces. “Oi now, don’t overdo it,” he grumbles between two kisses. “Too soon for nicknames.”
“That's bold, coming from you!” Vash pouts, but he promptly cracks up, and all he can think is thank you, thank you, thank you.
Vash is the one taking Wolfwood's hands now, like Wolfwood's easy acceptance unlocked something within him; a whole new level of trust he didn't even know was there, waiting to be granted.
He brings them to his mouth, kissing the bruises on Wolfwood’s knuckles. Vash finds the red tint that rapidly colors his neck and ears rather endearing.
“You didn’t kill him, right?”
“Of course not,” Wolfwood says with a scoff. “Woulda deserved it, though.”
Wrinkles form at the corners of Vash’s eyes. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sure he does, too.”
Wolfwood grunts. “Nah, I bet he wishes I had.”
“Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood covers Vash’s mouth with his hand. “Shut up about that asshole and let me kiss you.”
Vash rolls them over and kisses him instead. Wolfwood oofs as Vash drops flat all over him, crushing him under his weight. Ignoring his sorry attempt at pretending to struggle breathing, Vash embraces him as close as he can.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Thanking me again? For what now?” Wolfwood asks quietly. “Why are we whisperin'?”
‘For what?’ For always having my back. For accepting me as I am. For loving me, somehow.
But all Vash does as an answer is hold him tighter. Wolfwood seems to understand. His arm closes around Vash, his fingers sliding through Vash’s hair and keeping his head steady, right there, above Wolfwood’s heart.
Vash hears the shuffle of a pack of cigarettes, followed by the snap of a lighter. Smoke begins to drift at the corner of his eyes, strangely beautiful under the rays of sunlight piercing through the window.
If Vash could freeze time, maybe this is the moment he would choose to carry with him for as long as he lives.
But, he wants to hope that there will be many more. Perhaps they will gather a multitude, and when either of them needs to remember that they’re not unwanted, they'll be able to look back on each of those moments, and smile.