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The sky is gray, and maybe if they lived in a kinder world it'd be gray with rainclouds and not dust and sand. Maybe, anyway. Wolfwood tilts his head back into the cushions, lets himself go a little more boneless. His ribcage is aching like something is trying to tear its way out of him.
Well.
Something is trying to tear its way out of him.
He tries to spit out the broken glass from shattered vials that's finally worked its way out of his gums, but he doesn't really have control over his muscles anymore- it barely dribbles down his chin in a pathetic slide of spit. He wishes he could bring his hand up to wipe it away, but that, too, is immeasurably heavy and limp, ten thousand pounds of fuck-you barely making an indent in the couch even as it caves him into a collapsing star.
The confetti has long since stopped falling. He's just waiting around for the finale.
Vash is still sitting next to him. God. If he had an ounce more sense he'd take off running, would have a long time ago. Wolfwood is finally starting to resign himself to the idea that Vash is never going to run away from him. He wishes that would bring him more joy. Instead, it's…
You are not lost, Wolfwood.
His eyes slide shut, bone and sand fucking dry rubbing against the back of his eyelids like nails on chalkboard, and he tries to grit his teeth, to clench his fists, anything, as his heart keeps pounding in his chest, tearing itself apart and fusing itself back together in the same instant. Destruction, creation, destruction, creation.
When he'd first met Vash he hadn't thought much of anything at all, just- wanted to see him smile, that's all. That was all it was. He looked like he had a pretty smile. (He did.)
The next time they met…
There's a sharp pain lancing through his sternum like a gunshot, he can almost see the way blood is spilling inside of him and then being forced back into place- next to him he hears Vash inhale sharply, but his heart keeps beating, he's not done yet-
The next time they met. Wolfwood drags his focus back into place. The next time they'd met, it was as two different people. Chapel and Eriks. He'd assumed his old man's place for two years now and the bite of a name that didn't belong to him didn't get any fucking easier, and there Vash was, also pretending, for a purpose that Wolfwood wishes was more selfish.
And then what had become of them? Vash letting himself be led to his death. Wolfwood leading quietly. He hadn’t said a word about it but… Vash already knew anyway. He’s inconvenient like that.
It's something fucked up alright, the way Vash makes him feel. He makes Wolfwood feel selfish for wanting Vash to be more selfish. God, what a pair the two of them make. He's not one given to introspection, really. But if not now, then when?
He wants to open his eyes, but- he can't even do that, now, his jaw falling open with a slack motion without his consent. He breathes out raggedly. His heart feels- it feels-
You give up all hope so easily.
Vash had seen right through him, as easily as Wolfwood did Vash. He should've known then. Wolfwood's never let go of anything easily, everything he's ever given up has had claw marks in it. Except for his own life.
He'd thrown himself at everything like he could solve his problems by removing himself from the equation. Fucking stupid, he knows now- he'll never see Livio smile again, never see Miss Melanie smile again, none of the kids, he'll never see Vash's smile again.
Vash will keep protecting them, but who will protect Vash?
There's no rhythm to this hell. The more he thinks about his own body the more he realizes how close to the precipice he is, how much time he fucking wasted doing shit that didn't even matter, could've done fucking anything else. If he ever gets a second chance at his own life, he swears to himself, vicious and clear and bright like the sun over water, if he ever gets a second chance he won't flinch away when he shoots Chapel's godforsaken ass. He'll turn his skull to a fine fucking paste, he won't flinch away, will wait til he's good and dead to throw up over himself, his shoes, shaking with the knowledge that even the most powerful men are still human.
All save two, that is. And one of those two is next to him, sitting next to him, waiting for him to leave first. Waiting for the finale, curtains draw closed, the actors will not take a bow. There will be no applause.
He keeps wishing Vash would leave already. Surely it can’t be worth it, whatever he gives Vash in return for this, this devotion- surely it can’t be a fair trade. Wolfwood doesn’t want to be another bastard taking advantage of his mercy, he wants to…
...What Vash had given him, Wolfwood- knew before, but only now understands, had never been mercy.
Fuck. Wolfwood wishes he could- he wants to come to his feet, drop to his knees, he wants to wrap his arms around Vash and never let go, wants to kiss him like he's- he's never gotten the chance to, he hasn't even kissed the love of his life, is this how he's going to die? He hasn't even told the love of his life that he loves him.
It’s not that Vash wouldn’t know. He’s here now, after all.
But Vash deserved something better than church bells that had long stopped ringing, confetti that had long stopped falling, a drink Wolfwood couldn’t even taste that’s soaking into the ground from where it fell from limp fingers.
His chest hurts with something different now, two aches superimposed on each other like crossing your eyes until the world goes blurry-mixed. Heartache over heartache over heartache, and he hasn't felt what Vash's skin feels like under his hands, hasn't felt his legs around his hips, hasn't felt Vash's hand in his, his lips under his own, against the side of Vash's neck, against his chest, his wrists, his hands, his belly, hasn't felt what it's like to fall asleep with him and without fear, hasn't…
Wolfwood wants Vash to be selfish. So, it follows that Vash wants Wolfwood to be selfish.
Wolfwood's fingers twitch. His heart is tearing itself apart. His heart is putting itself together. With a strength of will he thought he'd exhausted saving Livio, he drags his hand over to Vash's side, and clumsily pets at him- Vash startles and goes tense as a snapped whip, breath stuttering still.
"Y-" Wolfwood coughs, something warm and wet, he can't tell if it's blood, his eyes are closed. "--han-d," and saying it takes so much out of him, but it's worth it, it's worth it. His throat feels scraped raw with just that single word, that crumbled its way out of him more than anything.
Vash's weight shifts next to him, and Wolfwood doesn't even entertain the possibility that Vash will deny him, because- he's through with that now, what is death if not to reassess, see through new eyes every time that Vash had looked at him with that fucking light in his eyes, that small smile, that careful lean into him, and then here in the present Vash's bare hand slides into his.
It’s funny to think that he’d ever entertained the thought that this could be anything less than mutual.
He's not warm, Wolfwood thinks stupidly, and then wants to laugh at himself, because, face and laugh and voice aside, nothing about Vash is warm, he's always been a walking ice cube. Vash's hand is cold, against his fevered, overworked pulse, and smooth, callouses filed down smooth to a near-polish with over a century of careful, compassionate work. Vash laces their fingers together, and it's not everything he's ever wanted but it's a damn good start.
The time passes.
He loses his hold on it, eventually, letting seconds slip by in arrhythmic beats, lets the suns slide down and the cold evening wind come in. It's relaxing, almost. The back of his eyelids are lit up pink-orange from the suns' light, and he can't tell if it's darker because they're setting or because his vision is fading. It feels like falling asleep, his body heavy and softened and weighed down by his own life, his own choices. He's heard that dying's supposed to be relaxing, seeing your life flash before your eyes and making peace with it or whatever. Well, Wolfwood just got the highlights reel- his verdict is that he fucked up bad and he should've had more gay sex.
Still, some parts of it weren't so bad. Vash's hand in his, cold and perfect and holding him tight- at least he hasn't fucked that up, though he will soon, once he kicks the bucket. And so the time passes. His heart speeds up again to bring the world into hazy clarity, then slows down to sleep, again and again, and he can't tell how close death is, whether it's breathing over his shoulder or a few miles away. He can't feel any part of himself, and slowly, even the feeling of Vash's hand fades away, leaving himself alone- no hearing, no taste, perfect isolation with only the knowledge that Vash wouldn't leave him as a cold comfort.
Even though he knows Vash won't leave him… it's lonely.
In the dark, alone in his mind, he curls up and wishes he had been dumb enough to not hide his heart, even though it would've hurt more.
And then his heart slows and comes to a perfect, regular, beat.
(Unnoticed, a few meters away, a black cat licks its paw and then struts away, smug and proud as a cat is wont to do when it has accomplished some incredible mischief, and plans on accomplishing more.)
"Wh-" Wolfwood somehow gets out, and then doubles over coughing at the sudden regain of territory, light and sound and sensation, his body becoming his own more shocking than a gunshot. His eyes snap open and he keeps coughing, until liquid painful and red and glowing blue comes out, his body rejecting it, pushing it away and out. He gags and presses his chest to his knees, emptying his throat of whatever-the-hell-it-is, eyes open wide.
Vash's hand is pressing painfully tight into his, and it's the only damn point of pain in his entire body, somehow.
"Holy shit. What-" he hacks out another glob of fucking bullshit, "-God that is fucking disgusting." He drags his other arm over his mouth, wiping it off, and his mouth tastes so fucking bad. What the hell. He'd already lost his sense of taste by the time they'd started drinking, how does he have it back now?
"Wolfwood?" Vash whispers, something terrible in his voice. Hopeful and damned at the same time, and Wolfwood- Wolfwood- he-
He's alive. It crashes into him like having the Punisher fall on top of him barrel-first, something so concrete and true that he can't deny it any more than he can deny the suns their light. He's alive, he's alive, he has no idea how but he knows it'll stick, the same way he knows that he loves-
Wolfwood staggers to his feet, still coughing, and turns, drops to his knees in front of Vash, half-sprawled and messy like it's his first time in his own body. It feels like it is. He feels rubbed raw from the inside out, like something sandpapered him clean, and the ground is wet with blue and red, his blood and all the shit that the Eye of fucking Michael put into him, how did it all come out like that? He's not going to look that miracle in the eye, instead he's going to-
He lifts his head to look at Vash and looks his own personal miracle in the eye instead. "Spikey," he says, and then coughs again, an aftershock more than anything. He tugs Vash's hand to be clasped by both of his, wraps those cold fingers in his warm ones. And notices, now, that Vash took off his glove to hold his hand. God, he's so fucking sweet it kills him- and on second thought, that's a phrase Wolfwood'll happily strike from his vocabulary.
"You're alive," Vash says, his voice breaking over it like glass in gunfire, eyes wide and his entire body trembling. Wolfwood makes the gigantic personal sacrifice of pulling one hand away from Vash's hand to steal away his glasses so he can look Vash in those perfect blue eyes, see the way they're filling with tears. Vash's other hand wraps around the back of his neck, sun-warmed thumb of the prosthetic pressing at the corner of his jaw to feel his pulse, steady and quick with human emotion and no poison at all. "You're alive."
"Fuck yeah I am," Wolfwood grins, his body filled with a different kind of adrenaline. He's alive. He's alive, and he's well, and God knows how any of this happened but he's not going to question it, he needs to ask a different question. "Spikey- Spikey, what's your full name?"
"What?" Vash blinks, leaning his head back and half-giggling. "What kind of question is-?" The last rays of the suns light his face up orange and gold, cast his stupid broom-head of hair in a brilliant halo, god, Wolfwood was an idiot for even considering letting this man slip through his fingers.
"I'm getting to it, answer the question! You have a last name, don't you?" he snaps, desperate even as he's overjoyed beyond words to hear Vash's laughter (he never thought he'd get to hear that again, he's never going to let him go again, never.)
"Uh- Saverem? Vash Saverem." Vash looks a little loopy, grief and joy mixing together into a mindbending net-zero emotion that makes him look wild and delirious. Wolfwood can relate- he feels exactly the same way.
"Vash Saverem," Wolfwood starts, a grin splitting his face, tears in his eyes and heart pounding for a different reason entirely, something safer and kinder, something he never imagined until now. "I thought I was going to die here, and I thought I'd be satisfied with it, 'cause the orphanage's safe and Livio's safe, and that meant all the people I loved were okay." He drops his forehead to rest against their joined hands, feels the way Vash is still shaking, and keeps talking. "I was a fucking idiot."
"Wolfwood, you're not-"
"I ain't done yet, Spikey! I was a fucking idiot. I thought that if- if we just pretended, we could act like none of this shit fucking mattered. Like you didn't matter to me as much as the people I'd loved my entire life, like I didn't want t' spend the rest of my life with you, like-"
"Wolfwood-"
"Shut up, needle-noggin!" Wolfwood roars, squeezing his hand tighter and looking Vash in the eye again. He's crying, Wolfwood realizes, and then realizes that his vision is blurry, oh, he's crying too. "I had a lot of thinking to do while I was doin' my best to give up on life and it made me realize that I didn't want to give up on life at all, not while you were still in it!” The relief is immediate, overwhelming, like lancing a wound- he can’t stop talking, not with that look in Vash’s eye, like he’s looking at the most beautiful and fragile thing on the planet. “And I'm a damn fool for not seein' earlier that I can't run from you, and the way I love you, and I'd be stupid to want to anyway. Needle-noggin- Vash Saverem, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, please for the love of God marry me!"
Vash is openly sobbing now, big blue eyes wide and mouth half-open. "Don't- aren't you supposed to take me on a date first?" he hiccups, laughing even as tears spill. "Y'know, kiss, something like that?"
"I couldn't give less of a damn about that. I've had enough of saying 'later', I want forever now." he snarls, and Vash leans forward, shoulders shaking as he keeps laughing, his smile so, so big and real, eyes sliding shut.
"Yes- yes, you're completely insane, of course!" Vash keeps laughing, even as Wolfwood throws himself forward into Vash's lap, curls his head into Vash's neck and exhales pure joy. Vash's arm immediately wraps around him, holding him perfect and tight, and this, this is perfect, it's all he's ever needed or wanted out of life. Vash holds his face with both hands, pulls his head up to press kisses to his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his jawline. "Wolfwood- Nick, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, yes, damn you, of course I will!"
Wolfwood wraps an arm around his neck and tugs him in for a kiss, mashes their lips together with no grace and all clumsiness, unpracticed at this, at love. He wants to learn how, he thinks, for a bright, shining second, and then Vash is spluttering and pulling away, and he realizes immediately-
"Ack- bleh, Wolfwood, you're all gross!" he complains, bonking their foreheads together with eyes scrunched shut and his tongue half-stuck out with exaggerated disgust. There's color all over his cheeks, pink and pretty and alive, and his eyelashes- blonde at the tips, dark at the root- are clumped together and shining like jewels with the tears stuck to them. "You taste like shit!"
Wolfwood starts laughing too, and his eyes reflexively shut against it, the pure joy that pours into him, more unfamiliar than any kind of pain has ever been, but he could get used to it, he wants to get used to it. He wants to learn how, he's willing to practice for as long as it takes. "Yeah, Spikey, I just spat up like a decade and a half's worth of evil goo. 'S kinda what happens."
Vash gives a thoughtful little I'm-up-to-no-good hum at that and shifts him around, tucking one hand under his knees and the other around his back, and Wolfwood doesn't think much of it until he stands up, lifting Wolfwood as easily as nothing and spinning around a little bit just to show off. "Guess we have to fix that, then, huh?"
"Hey!" Wolfwood protests. "I can walk- wait- where are you taking me?"
"There's toothbrushes in the orphanage, right?"
"Uh, yeah- Needle-noggin! I can walk there, put me down!"
The bottle of Bride, forgotten, has long since spilled its contents into the thirsting dry earth. It mixes with the blood, the tears, and the thing that had damned Wolfwood into a strange mud, quickly left behind but not as quickly forgotten. There's still, Wolfwood knows distantly, things to do. Knives is still being a crazy bastard, the world still needs saving- but it's the easiest thing in the world to trust in the man whose arms are wrapped around him. He'll save everyone and come back to him. If a fuckup like Wolfwood could do it, Vash definitely can.