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"Just one, please!"
" No."
"I haven't had my breakfast!"
"Are you kidding me? You ate twice as much as me! No is no, Vash, we're tight on our savings."
"Hey, could I hope for three straight minutes of quiet?"
The two voices from outside shuts at once, only to continue as muttered bickering.
Wolfwood rolls over and groans; a truck definitely isn't comfortable enough to have some kind of a nap. It's even less likely he's going to rest, when outside are two childish adults arguing over food and a half-drunken old man coughing his lungs out.
"Hey, give it back!"
"Nah, mine!"
Wolfwood is usually patient—when it doesn't involve his life put on the line, or saving that damn blond spikey-head's ass. He's aware of what traveling with the infamous Humanoid Typhoon implies; calamities magnet, bloodthirsty criminals, being eaten alive by giant monsters. He signed up for this, somehow.
What wasn't in the contract, however—or maybe it was, written in letters so tiny he might have missed them—was the whole babysitting and mothering stuff. Fine, that Meryl girl is surely fun to tease from time to time. What isn't fun is keeping the spikey head from acting like a fucking child.
"I beg of you, I can't survive if I don't have my daily share of donuts!"
Wolfwood feels a vein pumping on his temple. The gals of this man, whining and whimpering about stupid sweets for hours—it really has been, at this point—when he hasn't seemed to mind at all until he saw Meryl bring her box out. Whatever the fight is, he's as stubborn as one can be.
"Then next time, either buy more, or manage your own stash."
"You're so cruel, Meryl…"
Oh, there they are, the teary eyes. Wolfwood doesn't see them, obviously, but the long stretch of silence that follows is unequivocal. And apparently, that's how the argument ends as well; aside from Vash's loud, exaggerated sniffles, there's no more bickering, and at last Wolfwood can enjoy some quiet.
~~
One bad perk of living on a desert planet is that finding an inn in that immense ocean of sand is like finding an oasis. Which means, most of the time, they have to set a camp in the middle of nowhere, preferably around some rocky formations. And because they're far more people than a humble journalist truck could handle, means they can't afford much space: Meryl sleeps in the backside of the truck, while the men have to share two duvets for three.
And because that Roberto guy has made it clear he feels far better sleeping alone, Wolfwood has to share space with Vash.
And Vash is… clingy.
Well, clingy is still too light; actually it's more like the spikey-head is holding him as if he's going to drown in the sand. There's one arm tightly secured around Wolfwood's waist, while Vash's prosthetic is holding his head. One leg is thrown over Wolfwood's own, rendering him unable to even turn over.
Ah, and Vash snores. Loudly so.
Of course, since that blond idiot is glued at him, the noise is right by his ear. At this point, even the old radio's white noise is preferable—it's this close. And maybe Vash's nose is running, because a few times Wolfwood jumps awake, thinking maybe some beast may be around (though he never saw anything else than sand worms in the desert), only to remember it's his bedmate sleeping at his side.
Then there's one time in the middle of night, Vash's respiration gets blocked, and the snore ends as a loud nasal cough, and all his breath blows straight up on Wolfwood's face.
That's it. He can't anymore.
Though he can't roll over, he turns his face around, ready to spit a bit of his thoughts—and damned if it wakes the girl and the old man—when he stops dead in his tracks.
Vash is close. Very close.
So close that Wolfwood can see the details of his blond lashes and his lips. And damn, they look perfect; soft and slightly glossy, not too thin nor too fleshy. Vash's face is so peaceful when he sleeps, it's unfair that he is the one having the luxury of a full night.
Damn, he needs a cigarette. Alas, they are tucked in the pocket of his jacket, which lies beneath his head as a pillow, and he can't move a limb anyway because he is being pinned in place by a giant blond idiot. Fuck it, how is it possible to have such long legs?
A shiver creeps up on Wolfwood's arms hairs at the same time he feels an impulse of annoyance at how this stupid spikey-head is having good dreams while himself can only stare and wait for his next sleep shift, before being woken up again.
~~
Well, there hasn't been any more sleep shift.
"Err, Wolfwood, are you alright?"
Oh, he got the gals to ask.
"Huh? Why wouldn't I be?" Wolfwood replies.
He tries to make it sound casual, but from the corners of his eyes, he sees he certainly failed at it, for a sweatdrop starts beading at Vash's temple.
"Hum, because you've got some eyebags… and because you sound, err, kind of annoyed?"
The truck runs over a rock, making everyone jump a few inches from their seats.
‘Kind of’ annoyed?
"I'm fine," Wolfwood repeats, though he doesn't even try to hide his tone now—it's not worth it anyway—and looks on the opposite side.
He feels a stare behind his back; it's piercing, judgemental. But knowing Vash, it can't be a glare; he's (sickly so) too nice for that. No, the spikey-head is staring at him with teary, begging eyes, and Wolfwood is just this close to snap.
But he is a patient man. He must be, or else he's done for.
~~
"Urgh, I'm so sweaty, it's disgusting."
They eventually stop by an inn. The owner is a small granny, a smile plastered on her face as she talks to them as if they're her long gone family. Roberto takes care of booking rooms, while Meryl hurries to the nearest bathroom and Vash unpacks their belongings.
At last.
At last, he's going to have a full night. Wolfwood lets himself fall on the first chair he sees and starts lighting a cigarette, when he feels a murderous stare behind his head. He turns his head slightly, to see a poster forbidden inner smoking. Well, great. He ain't going to have one when it's burning hot outside. Whatever, he doesn't mind; he's going to enjoy the pleasure of having a bed for himself, to be free of his movements, and savoring a full night of sleep, and god he needs one.
Roberto comes back a few minutes later, rubbing the back of his head.
"Looks like this inn ain't got much choice in rooms," he starts.
Wolfwood's eyebrows twitch. He doesn't like where this is leading.
"So err, we got something like three rooms, but one of them got a single bed."
Don't say any more. Wolfwood's features tighten.
"The newbie already picked her room, and I took the second one, since apparently you were busy killing time here."
You have to be kiddin' me.
"Hopefully the bed will be big enough for two grown men huh; next time don't slack off, mister priest." And he leaves with a raucous laughter, punctuated by a few coughs.
Fucking. Hell.
Well, on the brighter side, the bed is big enough to give space for them to sprawl without bothering the other. Wolfwood can comfortably read his book at the bedside lamp's light in the quiet of the room, aside from the distant sound of the shower running in the bathroom.
Holy hell, after two weeks of endless travels across the desert, having to hunt on sandworms to eat and trading with passing caravan for some water, it does feel good having a proper meal, some booze, and a real bed. Wolfwood turns a page and sighs heavily of content, and even buries his head further in the pillow.
A couple minutes later the shower stops and the door opens. As Wolfwood lifts his eyes from the book, his breath catches in his throat.
There's hardly any patch of Vash's skin free of scars.
They are countless; some are remnants of burns, others evident bullet impacts. From large scars barring his chest and shoulders, to smaller traces of thin stitches; there are even pieces of metals embedded in his skin. Vash dries up his hair single handedly, as his prosthetic arm is missing; his movements are a bit clumsy, and he fails at rolling the towel around his head. Wolfwood hears a small ‘whatever’ muttered between teeth while Vash bends down to pick it up and throws it on a nearby chair, and feels his own throat bobbing a gulp.
"Err, Wolfwood? Everything alright?"
"Huh?"
"Your mouth is wide open."
Wolfwood claps his lips shut. Fuck, has he been staring?
"Ya, it's nothing. Just tired. Haven't slept much lately," he says and tries to focus back on his book.
The mattress makes a slight screech when Vash sits on the edge a moment later—is it going to bear the weight of two grown men like them, Wolfwood isn't sure. He frowns, staring at the black lines before him, which suddenly look all blurry and vague. All his senses are elsewhere. His tongue clicks and he groans, once again feeling that pitch of annoyance in his stomach. A few clicking sounds soon catches his attention and he can't help but glance on the side.
Vash seems to be in his own world, humming some melody as he's working the fingers of the prosthetic arm with his valid hand.
"Are you going to sleep with it?" Wolfwood finds himself asking.
"Hm? Ah no, not this time," Vash replies with a smile. "I never bring it under the shower, I wouldn't like getting short circuited, haha…"
"Fair point."
"And honestly," Vash continues, "I sleep better without it. Just, I can't happen to leave it on the side when we sleep in the desert; not the most safe place, you see?"
"I guess you're right," Wolfwood says absently and turns another page—although at this point, listening to Vash appears much more interesting than the words spread on the paper.
But Vash doesn't say much after that; there is only the soft click of the prosthetic's mechanics, Vash's quiet hum as he does his routine, and the small ruffle of paper when Wolfwood turns a page. Eventually yawns begin to rise in the room as time stretches closer to midnight, and both agree they're good to be off to bed.
~~
It doesn't even take an hour before Vash invades Wolfwood's personal space once again. Except this time, Vash isn't wearing his usual black shirt, but is stuck bare chest to Wolfwood's own.
His breath itches as he stares at the ceiling above, feeling each trail of Vash's respiration against his bare neck and shoulder. He who was hopeful to finally find some respite and recharge his batteries with a full night, there is no way to happen now; not when Vash's flesh arm is wrapped around his waist and clinging on it as if it was a lifeline. What are these animals from Earth already, which like to climb trees and cling to them as if they're attached to it?
Ah, yeah; they're called koalas. Guess the guy at his side has decided to become one; if really it's true, then Wolfwood is pretty much fucked up.
Or…
No, the spikey-head isn't that look-forward. It's him, Wolfwood, who has been driven mad because of a man using him as a body pillow for weeks now, and gone to the point he's imagining things.
And then there's Vash's leg shifting, and brushing just around Wolfwood's crotch.
Wolfwood's face spins around, almost earning him a faint crack in his neck. The next second his knees are squaring Vash's long legs, and has one hand pinning the valid one to the wooden headboard. Wolfwood barely notices the book hitting the floor with a small thud; he had stopped paying attention to it for a while anyway. Vash stares back at him, fully awake—and looking too clear minded to have been in heavy sleep—and a questioning smile plastered on his mouth.
"...You did this on purpose," Wolfwood says. He feels an uncontrollable rage boiling in his head. "You wicked, infernal—"
"Aren't these blasphemy toward your religion?"
"Fuck the religion," Wolfwood growls, anger coiling around his throat now. "You've been making a fool of me for the past two weeks. Two weeks, spikey-head."
There's genuine surprise flashing on Vash's face. "Heh? Has it been this long?"
"Don't fuck with me, you were ready to drive me insane."
"Did I?"
That stupid grin again. Vash's smile is wide, it looks so innocent, yet there's something in his eyes, a glint that betrays his apparent idiocy. Much like that time they were stuck in that giant sandworm's guts.
"You're a menace," Wolfwood mutters and tightens his hold on Vash's only wrist.
There's a small voice in the corner of his mind, urging him not to keep going; like a siren warning of an incoming calamity—what an irony, considering the nature of the man trapped beneath him. Or maybe his instinct is right, that he should get up and leave before something happens.
Vash blinks. Wolfwood snaps.
He crushes their lips together, shutting Vash's surprised gasp that quickly melts into a soft sigh. His mind goes foggy, immediately intoxicated by the taste of Vash's lips and the remnant scent of soap on his skin. He vaguely notices he has just released Vash's hand, as he feels nails lightly scraping at his scalp and sending an electric shock right through his spine to land deep low in his body.
They are panting slightly when they part, Vash gazing at him like Wolfwood never has been looked at. They are still so close their lips could touch, and Wolfwood finds himself drinking in the sight of Vash's sparkling blue eyes. Have they always been so eager, so earnest?
None of them say a word—Wolfwood doesn't even have an idea of what he could say anyway, and he's not sure of what he's supposed to do either.
What is he supposed to do?
Fine, he just released two weeks of pent up tension the damned needle noggin' right there apparently calculated so, now what? His mind is buzzing, so strongly Vash may even be able to hear it.
Maybe Vash did hear, because the nature of his smile shifts and becomes all fond and disgustingly sugary.
"So, huh. Do you want to… talk? I mean, without you looking like you're about to tear me to shreds." Vash punctuates his suggestion by bringing their chests close and a gentle rub of his thumb right behind Wolfwood's ear.
Fuck. This man is too good at taming him—hell, he's not an animal. Yet Wolfwood finds himself leaning in that small touch, and makes something like a gruff groan.
"Guess we should, yeah," he eventually replies.
~~
Right. This is weird.
In a good sense, Wolfwood thinks. They're both laying side by side, no more awkward space between them; Vash's head is resting on Wolfwood's neck, this time not teasing him with sleepy breath (at this point he wouldn't even be surprised if Vash actually did it on purpose a few times). They haven't talked much in the end, only staring blankly at the ceiling and Wolfwood lighting up a cigarette to keep himself busy, somehow. Not that the silence is uncomfortable, but being all wishy washy never been Wolfwood's style.
"So," Wolfwood finally starts. "Has all this been part of your plan?"
Vash shifts a bit and giggles. "Huh… let's say I thought I would give it a try, and see how it would go?"
"Yeah sure," Wolfwood says with a scoff. "Don't give me that crap. You've been holding my leg— literally—for weeks. Quit acting like a dumbass, spikey-head, 'cos you're not."
A nervous laugh bubbles from Vash's mouth, but he replies nothing; perhaps because his ruse has been uncovered. Like a child caught in the middle of their mischief.
"Hey, spikey-head," Wolfwood mutters after another stretch of silence. Vash replies with a quizzing hum.
Wolfwood frowns. His thumb rubs absently around a scar on Vash's shoulder—it's a big one, star shaped with countless branches. The skin feels so smooth and taut, as if there have been more than one wound there.
"Are all these scars the price of your ideals?"
There's a brief tension following his question. Vash's hand, which has been resting all the while on Wolfwood's chest, toying with his hairs (which usually Wolfwood would absolutely hate, that clean shaven idiot surely ignoring how it can hurt), itches a bit, nails digging in the skin for half a second. A wall of sadness instantly falls on his face and lasts a moment.
"They are," Vash eventually murmurs in a breath. "I remember every one of them."
Vash then diligently replies to each of his questions. Bullet impacts when he used his body to shield people from being shot by mad lunatics; burns marks from when he would jump into burning houses to save children trapped in there; long traces of blades cutting as his flesh when he tried to reason mercenaries pursuing him. For each, Vash has a story to tell. Wolfwood never comments on them; there's no point to. He just hazardly points at one, carefully brushing it with his fingers, and Vash explains. Little by little, Wolfwood's hand wanders even lower, until it reaches the junction of Vash's hip and his thigh. It stops right there, hesitant to explore further.
"I was thinking, you must be kind of experienced at that, right?" Wolfwood asks, staring at where his hand is resting below the blanket.
Vash hums pensively and scratches the bridge of his nose.
"Well… there have been women, yeah" he replies slowly with a small frown. "Never went very far, though. They wanted to have an affair because of the Humanoid Typhoon's reputation and all, but in the end they weren't interested that much in the first place."
"So is that a yes, or a no?"
"...Yes." Vash goes silent. "But not enjoyable. And… what about you?"
Ah. Well, of course he should have expected the question. Nervousness coils at his stomach. Where should he even start?
"But you'd rather prefer sleep now, right?" Vash quickly adds, as if guessing his hesitation. "After spending so long with no proper rest, it would be best for you."
Wolfwood hums absently, the invisible coil releasing him, and takes his time to breath out a last puff of smoke from his cigarette before tossing it on the nightstand. Then, he turns his head to meet Vash's gaze and can't help a sharp smirk.
"Huh. Since we're there, and one more night deprived of sleep won't kill me," Wolfwood says. "At least this ‘all nighter’ won't drive me insane. I'd even say it might be kinda rejuvenating."
Vash bites a laugh back and rolls himself over Wolfwood's chest, wrapping him tight and still laughing as they kiss again. Wolfwood doesn't stop the pleased groan slipping from his lips as he brings themselves tighter.
For the two following weeks, though, Wolfwood had to deal with some consequences of this untold night: the faint cackling of Roberto and Meryl from the front side of the truck during the day, and the heavy weight of knowing glances on his back at night.
There's no end to hell on this infernal planet.