Archive of Our Own

Despite having walked a myriad pathways by his lonesome, Vash the Stampede was never truly alone.

For he always had grief by his side.

He is constantly reminded of this - the countless nights of seeing a distant memory that reminds him of a smile from someone whose eyes he could no longer recall, the relentless tears that blurred his vision when the smallest of things reminds him of the rage and tears directed to him for faults that weren’t his own...

So he carries that cross with him, and on that cross lies a ghost that haunts him - one that he couldn’t hate. One that crawls by his side at night, when he readily embraces slumber and it wakes him up with vivid memories, forcing him to jolt upwards with cold sweat and bated breath. One that holds him back when he wants to reach out to something, and although he tries anyway, he feels pain sear onto his wrist - it hurts where the claws had dug into him, despite the lack of an evident mark. One that reminds him of the scars and wounds on him, for in the rare moments that they would ache, he would hear a voice that isn’t his, and it would chastise him.

But despite the hurt and pain that said remnant had caused, Vash couldn’t hate it.

So when Wolfwood comes to him, knocking, with gritted teeth and furrowed brows, he isn’t sure how to go about this.

Especially because he’s already eluded Meryl’s calls for so many months now, uncertain if he should answer or approach her at all. The hesitance then gives way for guilt to fester and it eats him up from inside out. It nests in his heart, gaining strength, and eventually becoming denser and denser, weighing heavier on his heart than any other feeling that had come before in his years of life.

It is especially worse when he is reminded of July once more - when he had heard her voice and answered her call. How could he ignore her now?

Every time he opens his mouth, almost determined to answer her call in return and greet her under the sun once more, his voice is stuck in his throat, a vice grip unlike any other holding it down and he speaks out in broken, muffled sobs when Meryl finally walks into the distance and disappears.

Over time, he’s become certain that he absolutely cannot answer that call anymore. Not after what had happened. Not with the ghosts that’s perching themselves so tightly on his neck, shoulders, living within his veins and hanging off his heartstrings.

Except now, that call... It comes to him - it threatens to break down the door and it calls out to him, not with “Vash the Stampede” or “Vash”, but with a multitude of nicknames that had always been directed towards him with a grouchy tone and an accent that nests in his ears as if it was home. It’s a voice that he hears in his dreams, and when he wakes up, he hesitates to even stretch out his arms, even if he only wanted to assuage the painful tinge in his throat before the tears inevitably fall.

Even if he only wanted to play pretend, fully knowing that he’s only reaching towards something that lingers only in his memories.

So when he faces Wolfwood, now leaning against the doorframe, he isn’t sure how to approach him and make sure that he won’t be just another remnant in Vash’s memory.

Does he say anything? Does he greet him “Good morning”? “Hello”? Does he say his name? Does he skip the formalities and ask what’s been going on since what had happened in July? Does he joke about how funny it is that whether it be by someone else’s direction or his own will, Wolfwood always seems to find him?

“Wolfwood--” He opens his mouth but was quickly interrupted by a familiar scoff as Wolfwood lets himself in.

“Zip it, spikey.” Wolfwood walks a few paces ahead, then stops in place before turning to glare at him. “Think you were gon’ hide forever?”

Vash falls silent at that remark. He lets his gaze fall onto the floor and away from Wolfwood’s prying eyes, his heart praying for a wish of sheer folly - that the sunlight streaming through the window would solidify, becoming something almost like a barrier to shield him away from Wolfwood’s gaze.

Maybe.

Not really.

I wanted to find you. I wanted to find Meryl. I wanted to...

...

“Spikey.”

Wolfwood’s voice shocks Vash away from his thoughts. He looks upwards in surprise, and as his weight shifts he clumsily takes a step behind to keep his balance. Though he briefly meets Wolfwood’s eyes, he immediately forces his eyes to pull away and look elsewhere.

He isn’t sure if he could even look at Wolfwood. Not anymore.

“...S-Sorry, I...” A shaky breath, followed by a pause that was on borrowed time - Wolfwood might have stepped in and made another remark, had he not opened his mouth as he pondered his words. “I... I guess not.”

Vash half expects Wolfwood to come closer. Perhaps to call him “stupid”, or to flick his forehead, maybe even try to talk him into coming back with him. He can’t deny that there’s this dormant spark, slowly tickling his stomach as if fluttering back to life at the thought, but at the same time...

There’s a reason that he had put those feelings away in the first place.

Now, there’s just more reasons to hope that they would fade, and Vash hopes that that would be soon.

Perhaps Wolfwood would--no, should lose his patience with him and walk away. Perhaps he should return to Meryl and say that he never found him at all, assuming that he’s still around her. Perhaps he should be forgotten, after all.

At least in that way, there would be no spark that could remain to turn into a roaring fire of chaos, just like the one that had cost him everything that he held dear.

“...Dammit.”

But instead of any of the above, he hears that mumble. Then, he hears a gentle thud from where Wolfwood was. Wolfwood had placed the Punisher against the wall and Vash only watched as he reaches into his pockets to fish out a cigarette. One that he lights up with practiced proficiency that Vash had already seen multiple times before - though he wouldn’t dare say that he had tried to memorise it at some point to make fun of him.

It’s a pity, then, that seeing it this time around beckons for something to tug at his heartstrings. Guilt, remorse, yearning... He’s not sure what to name it. Perhaps there isn’t even a name to it, at all.

But it reminds him of the times when his fingers would brush against Wolfwood in the back of the car. The first time that it had happened was completely and purely by accident - he immediately shot a look towards Vash with an open mouth, accompanied by what Vash could have sworn was a brief tinge of pink on his cheeks before he started panicking because he had dropped his cigarette onto his pants. The panicked screaming from the back had forced Meryl to immediately hit the brakes and launch him and Wolfwood against the seat cushions.

Despite the grumbles that Wolfwood would offer him for the next few days after that, he remembers when he first started to do that intentionally. He remembers that the first few times, Wolfwood would inch away when he felt the ghost of Vash’s fingers against him. Then, as Vash slowly managed to muster up the courage to quietly extend his pinky towards Wolfwood, he kept trying - he kept going with hope in his heart, almost like the pearly white waves of the sea would always, always reach for the golden strands of sands.

Until the one time that he managed to place his fingers on top of Wolfwood’s and isn’t met with rejection or avoidance. He is met with a comfortable silence only interrupted when Roberto turned around to look with knowing eyes.

Once, before July, Wolfwood had even shifted his hand around so that Vash could place his fingers on the edges of his palm. Although, he was met with a grouchy, brief grumble when he tried to place his entire palm in them.

He doesn’t remember what Wolfwood had said exactly, though. Instead, what he does remember was the smile that he had directed towards Wolfwood, one that had bloomed from a cozy warmth in his heart when he saw the dusty pink on Wolfwood’s cheeks. He also remembers the way that Wolfwood moved the cigarette on his lips - It would always move up and down at an almost rhythmical phase whenever he had things on his mind that he would never admit to.

It was quickly interrupted by Roberto asking them why they were smiling, but it was a memory that Vash cherishes in his heart, nonetheless.

“Something funny back there?” A lingering memory of Roberto’s voice reminds him of that moment. Then and there, Vash doesn’t notice how his lips were taking up a small smile at that fond memory.

“Guess you could still smile after all.” Wolfwood points it out with a scoff, and Vash’s eyes widens at the remark.

“...Wolfwood, I.”

“I’m not hearing it.” He turns away from Vash and begins inspecting the house, quietly opening the doors and peering inside. Eventually, he turns around with raised eyebrows and calls out to him. “Which bedroom can I take up?”

“H-Huh?”

-

Even though Vash had offered to sleep on the floor with minimal padding from the sheets so that Wolfwood could take the single bed, it baffled him how Wolfwood had immediately refused, left, and came back with an old mattress that he then immediately placed right next to Vash’s bed.

It’s been a week since, but Vash seems to settle in to this life with Wolfwood as his sort of roommate almost effortlessly, almost as if they had done this before.

When he digs through his kitchen and complains about the food that Vash has, when he protests about the pile of clothes that Vash barely touches in the corner of the room so much so that it has collected dust, when he grumbles about how Vash should eat more, move around more, stay out in the sun a little bit more instead of in the darkness of dust-addled windowsills and muted, decrepit lighting with faint scents of rotting wood, Vash finds himself in an oddly familiar situation.

It’s slightly more emphasised when he finds his mouth open slightly, as if he was almost used to responding with a witty remark despite the words being gone to him right now. It makes him pause and think - he could say something, right? He should say something.

“What? No response ‘cause I’m right?” Wolfwood tilts his head mockingly after complaining about how he should air out his bedroom.

At that moment, Vash looks upwards and into his eyes - for the first time since Wolfwood’s arrival, he doesn’t look away or apologise immediately.

Instead, Wolfwood’s amused expression quickly turns into that of concern, and he approaches him immediately before he could tell why.

It’s only after Wolfwood was mere inches away from him that he immediately felt a warm stream of tears begin to fall down his cheek, following a trail that he had thought was long forgotten since he had last cried months ago.

“H-Hey, why the hell are you crying?” In his panic and futile effort to hide the crack in his voice, he placed his hand on Vash’s shoulders and begins to move him slightly. “Spi--Vash?”

At that moment, blue eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat, before a warm feeling begins to settle in his heart and he could feel it grow all the way from his chest to the tips of his fingers.

It had been far too long since he had last felt something like this.

At that realisation, the tears flow more freely, despite not knowing whether it was from all those months of bottling everything up, or the comfort that he thought was lost to him forever.

Perhaps it’s the latter. But either way, at this moment in time, Vash lets his voice pour out into the distance between them.

In the space where there was only them and the sound of tears withheld alone in the darkness of the night, Wolfwood fell silent, and pulled him closer towards him, letting the other man rest where his neck and shoulders meet. For the rest of that day, Vash hears a different lilt in Wolfwood’s tone whenever he calls him by that nickname. One almost reminiscent to how gently the moon would light up his room at night.

Somehow, after that, he almost feels as if he was slowly being reminded of what it was like to live. What it was like to spend his todays with hope and hope for his tomorrows.

-

But it all comes crashing down when he is reminded that accepting the sunrise means that he must accept the sunset and all the darkness that comes after. Despite the fact that dawn looms in the corner, it’s always the hour before the darkest that sprouts a sense of dread that consumes him whole.

The dread becomes too much when one night he finds himself waking up in a barren desert with nothing but sandstorms and pieces of metal lodged into random parts of the sand. He takes several hesitant steps before all of a sudden, he is filled with a sense of fear.

So he hastens his footsteps, and although he still doesn’t know where he’s going, at some point he begins running anyway. He runs past the sands, the winds, and he keeps running. He tries to look forward beyond it all, but fails - until he drops his gaze just once and bumps into something. He falls on his back with a soft thud.

At that moment, Vash pushes himself upwards and glances forward to find Wolfwood’s back facing him. In that instant, the dread that had filled up his heart to the point that it was overflowing was slowly beginning to wane. It was immediately replaced with relief as he reaches out to him.

“Wolfwoo-”

But the moment that his hands touched the familiar fabric of his suit, Wolfwood disappears in an explosion of light blue blossoms with curved, round petals adorned with golden crowns at its core that reminds him of the sun.

Forget-me-nots.

As his clothing falls onto the ground, Vash is still frozen in place with wide eyes and trembling lips. He moves his hand slightly forward, trying to catch the clothes before they fall onto the sand, but it all slips through his fingers like air.

As if he was never there.

In that moment, Vash could only watch helplessly as Wolfwood - or what remains of him - disappears completely into the ground. At the same time, the flower petals were slowly beginning to wane one by one, as if their being was being ripped away little by little by the sandstorm.

Save for one.

Immediately, Vash gets up on his feet and tries to catch it. He reaches out to it and with both hands he tries to cup it in his palms gently - but it was like a ghost. No matter how many times he did it, he could only ever graze it with his fingertips. It continues to float in the air, almost as if it was flying.

But it didn’t take long for Vash to realisei that it was flying away from him. As if something was pulling it away from him.

So he gives chase. He runs and runs, and with every footstep he almost stumbles to the ground. The sands are uneven and unforgiving, but he doesn’t dare to blink or look down to watch his step.

What if he looks down for barely even a second and the petal disappears? What if he trips and falls, causing the distance between them to grow? What if he looks away for a second and forgets about the petal?

He can’t lose Wolfwood.

He can’t.

A strange feeling begins to overwhelm his chest, filling his heart to the brim with it. It seems to be draining him of all the energy that he had mustered, and dread begins to cloud his mind when he feels himself weakening.

He feels his hear begging him to stop, that it’s all becoming far too much for him to handle, as if an all-consuming forest fire that could only be doused by a deluge. He feels his hands teling him that it was futile, barely being able to open up his palms when he knew that the petal was just between reach. He feels his legs telling him to stop - to stop hurting himself by falling in love with the night sky, because to love and hold the starry skies that he loved so much would mean that he has to accept that there will be a time when it will fade and slip away from him.

They all tell him one thing: that there is only one way that this story of the boy who fell in love with the moon can end.

Slowly and quietly, his vision begins to blur and he lets out a desperate cry - angry at how even his own body wanted to give up. He wipes away the tears streaming down his cheeks and forces his legs to continue to give chase.

No matter what, he can’t lose Wolfwood.

“Spikey!”

He can’t lose Wolfwood.

“Vash!”

Vash blinks, and he jolts awake. Immediately, he feels a warm hand on his back, and slowly, the world is no longer muted - save from the relentless drumming of his heartbeat into his ears. He could barely make out what Wolfwood was saying, but the way that it chimed in the air was enough to clue him in on the worry and frustration dripping from every word that he says.

“Vash? What happened?”

His gaze falls onto Wolfwood, and amidst panting he slowly reaches out to Wolfwood’s cheeks and cups it gently.

“Wolfwood...?” He says, but he’s not sure if he had voiced it out or if he had simply mouthed it. Then, Vash repeats his name and moves Wolfwood’s hair back behind his ears - just to make sure that he’s real. “Wolfwood?”

“It’s me. I’m here.” Wolfwood lets out a sigh and places his palm above the hand that was now resting on his cheek. “I’m here.”

When he moves his hand atop of Wolfwood’s, he is silent before he crashes into Wolfwood and here, Vash seals himself within Wolfwood’s arms in an embrace almost like a legacy that was only one second away from being forgotten - and that the only way to save it would be an act long lost to civilisation itself.

He takes a deep breath and with it, a familiar scent protrudes through his nostrils. All it took was for Wolfwood to place his hands on Vash’s back and gently stroke the back of his head for the tears to stream uncontrollably, a deluge of relief onto Wolfwood’s shoulders.

“You’re... You’re here.” He manages to say inbetween broken sobs. “You’re really still here.”

Wolfwood makes a small sound, almost as if he wants to say something, but Vash doesn’t hear anything. Perhaps it’s because the world is now drowned out by the sound of his sobs and pounding heartbeat. Perhaps it’s because he hears something else close by beating in tandem with his heart. Or perhaps it’s the blooming warmth, finally returning into his heart after an overwhelming emptiness that had consumed him and left him a husk of what he once was.

Whatever it was, he decides that he’ll ask him again later.

For now, all that matters to him is that Wolfwood is actually here, and he’s not a mere remnant of his dreams. That a single touch wouldn’t cause him to disappear into thin air, leaving behind a lingering ghost that he could only remember by faint traces on his skin and wilting flowers in his heart.

He feels Wolfwood take a quiet breath before reciprocating, before he fully commits to the embrace, pulling Vash a little closer together like where the horizon meets the sky - almost as if fated to be bound and undivided, without a single gap in between.

“...I’m here, Vash.” He whispers, almost as if he wanted to make sure that only Vash could hear it. Then, he repeats it - just to make sure that he hears it. “I’m here.”

-

A few days later, Wolfwood forces him to sit down on a stool and takes out a pair of scissors. He’s unable to object when Wolfwood complains about how his new hair doesn’t make sense, especially since he still calls him tongari.

“You could... come up with a new nickname?” Vash laughs sheepishly, only to be met with a scoff from Wolfwood.

“It’s a pain having to come up with something else when spikey already rolls off my tongue perfectly.” He clicks his tongue. “Now sit down before I tie you up myself.”

Wolfwood points at him and then at the stool. Vash furrowed his brows and gives off a wry smile.

“I can, uh...”

“You really wanna experience being tied up while getting a haircut?”

“O-Okay, okay, let’s... uh, alright.”

With hesitant steps, he approaches Wolfwood and sits down on the stool.

“That so hard?”

Vash shakes his head no. Then, he hears a proud scoff, followed by the sound of scissors cutting through air.

“Wait, Wolfwood...” Vash slightly turns his head around, but before he could finishhis sentence, he hears the sound of metal cut through hair. He looks at his shoulder area and finds several strands falling weakly down his shirt and onto the ground.

“No one ever tell you not to move during a haircut?” Wolfwood lightly slaps the top of his head. “Dammit, spikey! You wanna be baldy or something?”

“O-Ow!” He whimpers and turns around to look at Wolfwood past his shoulders. “I-I just wanted to ask if you’ve ever done this before...”

The other man only sighs before placing his hands on top of Vash’s head and turning it to the front. However, instead of hearing Wolfwood’s response, all that he could hear was the sound of hair being cut.

He was ready to shrug it off until Wolfwood clears his throat.

“Livio.” He mumbles, but then clears his throat again and says his name in a slightly louder voice. “I used to do this for Livio and the other kids.”

“Oh, right...” Vash hums to himself. “At the orphanage, right?”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t exactly have the money for several dozen kids to all get their hair done.” Wolfwood pauses as he cuts another lock of hair. “Plus, when Livio first came, his hair was past shoulder length. Got stuck everywhere, got in his eyes...”

Vash notes how fondly Wolfwood speaks of him and found himself barely able to resist the smile that came across his features.

“Chopped it off for him, but I gave him a hairstyle closer to a worm’s ass than a human’s.”

“A-A what?”

“A worm’s ass.”

Vash isn’t sure whether to frown or to laugh at the thought. So instead, he simply lets out a sheepish laughter, beguiling his mild fears that his haircut may end that way as well.

Hopefully he doesn’t piss off Wolfwood at any point during this haircut.

“Guess I could, uh... Trust in your abilities to make me spikey again?”

“Obviously.” Wolfwood holds another strand in his hands and cuts it, but Vash could feel the way that his hands froze in place. “...Shit.”

“W-Wolfwood?”

“...You’ll be alright.” Wolfwood grunts. “It’ll grow back.”

He really, really wants to see the damage done and discern for himself, but he figured that perhaps he shouldn’t turn around and risk another incident. Instead, Vash only let out a small whimper as he continued looking to the front.

For the next few minutes, Vash focused on the feeling of Wolfwood’s fingers against his. Somehow, this time, they felt a little gentler than before. At some point, his fingers brushed slightly against his neck, prompting a quick apology from Wolfwood, but Vash couldn’t explain to himself why he leaned backwards a little - as if he wanted to escape from a state where he was without the other man’s warmth.

Then, he hears a melodic hum. He’s never heard Wolfwood hum before.

“What song is tha-”

“What did you dream about?”

Wolfwood interrupts him in the middle of his question. Out of surprise, the only answer that Vash had reserved for him was a simple word.

“Huh?”

”Few nights ago.”

He had left his mouth open out of disbelief, but as the seconds passed, he closes his mouth and lets his gaze fall onto the floor.

“You don’t wanna hear it.”

“Spikey.”

“...It was just a nightmare.” He lets out a sheepish laugh, desperately trying to add levity to the situation. “It’s nothing, really.”

“You were calling out to me so loudly I could hear you while I was smoking outside.”

“Wolfwood...”

“Wolfwood this, Wolfwood that,” He cuts another strand of hair as if to emphasise his point. “You don’t get an out of this.”

“...”

“I had lost you for seven hundred and fourty days, and I spent every single hour of every single day thinking nothing but the worst - that I had fucked up by letting you go.” Wolfwood grumbles as he continues cutting his hair. Vash, however, found himself unable to respond in any way.

Silence befalls them once again, and Wolfwood lets out a sigh. Perhaps he was hoping for Vash to answer, but without a response, he decides to speak up again.

“Look, you went through shit, sure. Not that I can relate to... well, that. But I...” He ruffles the top of Vash’s head. Suddenly, his voice takes a turn - it’s almost like a whisper, tender and gentle as he lets go of his hold on Vash’s head. “But I don’t want to lose you again, damn it. Not again.”

As his heart skips a beat, Vash’s mind pulls him away from the warmth in his chest - it reminds him of how terrifying it all is. It reminds him how intimidating the sparks of fire in his heart burnt, so brightly and lovingly that his chest begins to ache. It reminds him of the quiet, starry nights that he spends with Wolfwood on top of Meryl’s car and how he had fallen for Wolfwood first - all it took was an uncharacteristic laughter that echoed in his ears like a light melody that he memorised after one hearing. Although it had only appeared after several shots of alcohol, it had lured him to follow suit.

So how could these memories - that he cherished so dearly - give rise to such dread? How could it incite within him a fear that he thought only the moonlight could ever see?

With gritted teeth and blurred vision, he swallows and speaks weakly.

“I don’t want to lose you, Wolfwood.”

He takes a deep breath, careful so that Wolfwood won’t hear his voice crack when he continues. But it fails, because when the tears began to stream down his cheeks and onto the floor, he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out.

“If I lose you... It’s all my fault.” He holds on to his pants tightly, forcing the fabric against his palms before using his sleeve to wipe his tears.

But they keep on coming.

“I don’t want to lose you. If something like that happens again, you... I...” He lets out a sob. “It’s going to be my fault. I killed so many people, I kept thinking what if I had... you and Meryl...”

He lets the tears fall, but not once does he feel Wolfwood’s touch withdraw. But oddly enough, Wolfwood continues to cut his hair.

“Spikey.” Wolfwood calls out to him.

“...Yeah?” Vash’s only response was a choked out sob that he tried to suppress, but failed.

Briefly, Wolfwood lets go of his hair and he walks beside Vash towards the front. Then, he squats down, worried black reuniting with despairful blue.

“Even if I won’t be here tomorrow, am I not here now?”

“Huh?”

“Am I not here now, with you?” He repeats.

“You... You are, but-”

“Even if I won’t be here tomorrow, am I not here now?” He speaks a little louder, but not so much so that it was close to a scream - no. If anything, it was as if he was trying to reach deep into the depths of Vash’s heart. “Have I not lived? Have we not lived?”

“I--”

“Have we not loved?”

At that, Vash’s eyes widen and he stops trying to resist. He doesn’t follow up with a response, and his sobs begin to calm down.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend that guilt and grief is easy to get over.” He peels the cigarette away from his lips before tilting his head slightly to meet Vash’s eyes. “Look, if you’re scared about me, don’t be. I got hit by a car and still lived, remember?”

Vash looks upwards to meet Wolfwood’s eyes, and he lost the response that he had mustered in his head the moment that he saw Wolfwood smile at him.

“Despite everything, you still get to laugh. Hell, you still get to love - don’t you dare let that stop you.” Wolfwood places his hand over Vash’s bangs and gently pushes them back. “I’m not going anywhere, Vash.”

And so, in those orbs that reminds him of the night sky, he searches.

He searches for doubt in his words - something to throw him away, something to confirm his fears, something to make it all go away.

But all that he finds is determination unlike any other - stalwart like the colour black and reminiscent of a strength that he had been separated from for far too long. He finds reasons to let the flowers in his heart bloom again, reminding him that he had loved, and can continue to love.

This time, although his vision blurs again, Wolfwood doesn’t disappear. He’s fuzzy and he sounds a little grumpy - nothing new - while saying something along the lines of “Why are you crying again?!”, but he’s there.

He’s still there.

For the first time in years, Vash the Stampede feels his heart beat again, as if it was finally waking up from a long nightmare.

“...Thank you, Wolfwood.” He manages to mutter.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Wolfwood stands up again and walks behind him. “...Cry again and I’ll mess with your haircut.”

For the first time in years, Vash lets out a laugh that came from his heart - weightless and radiant.

“Okay, I won’t.”

-

Despite everything, his nightmares have not fully stopped, nor have his fears completely waned.

But he and Wolfwood knew that. They are no strangers to grief, so they both understand fully that it is something that will persevere. So knowing that, Wolfwood takes care of him with the patience had he had promised to himself and carried since that fateful day in July.

So when Vash wakes with nightmares again, Wolfwood wakes up grumbling by his side, but he holds Vash’s hand and gently touches the back of his head, whispering into his ears that he is here, and he’s not letting go until he wakes up. When Vash opens his eyes with uneven breaths and a trembling call for his name, he lets Vash sob into his shoulder and Wolfwood reminds him that he’s not leaving.

So when Vash doubts himself and Wolfwood finds him sobbing into his knees at nighttime, Wolfwood doesn’t say a word. Instead, he sits right next to him and extends his hand into the distance between them. He’ll stay there, smoke a cigarette or two as he waits for Vash to stop. It’s almost like practiced choreography at this point - the way that eventually, Vash would place his hands next to Wolfwood’s, and then eventually when their hands brush against each other they don’t wait - Wolfwood opens up his palms and Vash places his on top of it.

So when the ever familiar light in Vash’s eyes begins to slowly return, Wolfwood takes note of it and tells him. “Turns out you can still laugh like that again” or “Looks like you’ll be fine after all, spikes” were more often than not, his favourites. He fulfils his promise from two years ago to take care of and protect the budding bloom that he had found once again.

On one particular morning, he finds himself at a loss for words.

“Morning, Wolfwood.”

“Morning, Vash.” Wolfwood says without looking up from the paper that he’s currently reading.

“...Huh?”

“What?” Equally surprised, Wolfwood’s gaze shifts from the old newspaper that he was reading and immediately directs it at the blonde who had just finished the last piece of scrambled eggs on his plate.

“What happened to my “Good morning, spikey”?” At the end of his sentence, he imitates Wolfwood. He thinks it’s perfect, but Wolfwood only furrows his eyebrows in response.

“...Oh.” Wolfwood responds nonchalantly and shrugs it off before reaching out to his cigarette pack. “Who’s Vash? I meant spikey.”

“Wait, wait, no!” Vash cries. “Back to Vash, please?”

“Spikey.” Wolfwood lights up a cigarette and continues reading the old newspaper. “Go wash the dishes, it’s your turn.”

With a light chuckle, Vash stands up from his seat and leans in closer to Wolfwood. He shoots a smile at him before Wolfwood moves his cigarette to the center of his lips.

“I’m smoking.”

“It’s okay.” He says before kissing the corner of Wolfwood’s lips, then sauntering off to the kitchen with his plates on hand. “...Nick.”

“H--Watch it, spikes!” Slightly flustered, Wolfwood calls out to him, but Vash doesn’t turn around to look. Instead, he lets out a laugh before turning the corner and disappearing into the kitchen.

-

Despite having walked a myriad pathways by his lonesome, Vash the Stampede was never truly alone.

For he finally learned that he would always have Nicholas Wolfwood by his side, no matter what.

So when he sits on the sand, back faced against the sunset. And as the shadows grew taller and taller, a smile forms on his face before a sigh escapes his lips.

“We really lived, didn’t we?” Gently, he whispers. “Wolfwood?”

But he doesn't expect an answer. Not anymore. Not when the only time that he is able to see the other man is in the form of mere flashes in his periphery or when the stars elude the night sky, resembling a darkness that reminds him of the colour that Wolfwood dons.

And despite grief accompanying him once more, Vash the Stampede rises to his feet and he walks forward and onwards - to fulfil a promise.

Because for as long as they were able to, they've lived as much as they could, and they've loved as deeply as they could.