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Unlike how most things go in Wolfwood’s life, it started out soft. Slow. A glance here, a bumping of shoulders there, easily exchanged smiles all the while. Despite the resounding chaos that chased after Vash, it was easy.
Another day, another fight not their own that they inevitably stick their noses into, and the calls are close, but they make it out in one piece. Vash, never quite unscathed. It’s nothing serious, as he always insists, but the shot was from a shaky hand that, this time, fortunately meant it only just scraped his neck, instead of—
It’s cheaper to share a room, and Wolfwood wastes little time on getting their key and marching Vash up and to their restroom to clean the wound up. His more-than-human abilities will take care of it quickly enough, but Vash winces as he continues to attempt turning his head, and it’s all the encouragement Wolfwood needs to carry on regardless.
He’s fit enough to go back out already, bright eyes on Wolfwood’s face as he suggests they get a bite from somewhere nearby. He almost wants to say no. A tightness has been building in his chest recently, and he only knows he hasn’t come down with some odd cold because it’s the only thing that’s different. But Vash gives him a concerned look, and says his name again, and he knows what he’s going to ask. It would be embarrassing how quickly he gave in, but he’s long accepted that Vash’s way of doing things isn’t all terrible. Maybe the fresh air, without dirt getting kicked up into his face, will do him some good.
It doesn’t, or the walk to the saloon doesn’t, at least. Being inside is no better; it’s noisy and crowded and all that would be expected of any self respecting establishment at this point. Vash is squeezed next to him, though, and it’s bothering him, so claims he’s going out for a smoke so that he won’t blow the smoke right into Vash’s face.
The quiet is nice, though it does nothing to soothe him, but air that isn’t stale is an improvement of a sort. Wolfwood takes a final drag off his cigarette, and coughs. Which isn’t necessarily so odd, except he feels a tickle crawl up his throat as he hacks, and is left with a single red petal resting in his palm.
He shoves it in his pocket, and joins Vash in drinking the night away.
A final gift from Earth, he thinks. For humans love for one another to bring forth more life than ever before, to this barren planet. His chest aches. His lungs twinge with each breath, and his heart races a little more each time Vash’s heartfelt smile reaches him, beaming brighter than the suns.
It’s weeks after the first of the petals to come out, and his coughing fits have been getting progressively worse. Vash fusses, asking if he was getting enough water, teasing that he needed to lay off the smoking, and all Wolfwood could do was brush him off. Tell him that he’ll get over it soon, and to leave it well alone. He’s snippier than he’d like, and Vash’s concern only seems to redouble, but he does drop it.
He buries these petals—the same red color as Vash seems to favor—when he gets the chance, and wonders if anything will come of them.
Yet another fight, and more innocents lost in the crossfire that Vash didn’t know the names of but mourns all the same. Blessedly not terribly harmed himself, for a change, though he knows to keep that to himself. Wolfwood himself took a harsh strike to the back, but nothing’s broken, so Vash helps him hobble to their motel room of the hour, leaving him sitting on the bed with the promise to bring something for lunch to him.
Vash’s kindness warms his heart, and his lungs are burning. He’s rushing to the toilet the moment he thinks Vash has gone far enough to be out of his preternatural earshot. He grips the dingy bowl, and would laugh if he could that all these petals don’t even get the chance to see the light of day.
He never thought he’d see the flower Vash once mentioned to him, in a somber, wistful voice. He flushes the blossomed red geraniums down the toilet, and lays down in their bed to wait.
It’s painful.
The soreness in his arms, or the ache in his head, are nothing. He can hardly feel at all, with the binds on his lungs so tight he knows he isn’t getting enough air. He doesn’t know how they got out of that fight—he may as well have blacked out, barely aware of Vash half dragging him inside some abandoned building. Vash’s grip on him is strong and steadying, and he stumbles away.
He finds himself leaning on a counter, gasping around petals ripping their way up. He can hear Vash, moving toward him, reaching out, asking what’s going on and what he can do, and Wolfwood is tired. It’s not as if he can answer like this, so he swings his arm to grab the wine bottle sitting there, content with the slosh he feels from it.
His steps are off kilter as he turns back around, bottle and probably dusty shot glasses in hand, mouth firmly shut, and Vash doesn’t hesitate to grab his arm anymore, guiding him to sit down. He looks Vash in the eye for what feels like the first time in a long while, and lets himself fall.
His back hits the seat, and he chokes, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can keep it all in. Vash is gingerly taking the bottle and glasses out of his hands, mouth pressed into a firm line, though not one for holding back in the way Wolfwood is, right now. He watches, blearily, as Vash pours the shots, and they both take a shallow breath through their noses.
He can’t smell anything past the flowers nearly filling his airways, but Vash doesn’t recoil from it, for all that counts for. Holding the proffered glass again, he leans his head back, and glances over Vash’s face again. He can barely see him, barely see anything at all, and it’s a damn shame. He wishes he could see his smile again, tell him how he always liked it. Tell Vash he has no regrets, least of all in loving him. He can’t, and closes his eyes to take the shot instead, letting petals out at last, the flowers in his throat pushing up and out. It’s so many. The petals, the flowers, they feel endless, so light they hang in the air for the briefest moments, forcing their way out into the air at last, landing in his lap and onto the couch with equal measures of blood, and he’s faintly glad he doesn’t even have it in him to fear the abject honesty of this admission.
It hurts, and he’s warm, and he hopes Vash still likes red geraniums.