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He shouldn't do this. Shouldn't crack Wolfwood open like a brittle shelled thoma egg, pushing his thumbs into the fissure until it spills out into the pan. It's not right, it's not fair.
Vash is the one who wants to cry tonight. The feeling claws at this throat, it begs for release. But he won't let it. Not like this. Not ever. He is not allowed to cry and scream till he collapses into a heap.
Wolfwood is, however. Vash would do anything to give Wolfwood that much protection. To hold him safe and tight and make sure he can sob until he's sore and exhausted. And oh, oh how Wolfwood can cry…
It's so easy, too. Maybe this is where the guilt lies. Vash knows this is all it'll take. Just reaching out for Wolfwood's hand in the quiet of the evening, sitting next to him on their rented single bed (the hotel was out of double rooms, not that they mind at this point).
He gently pulls Wolfwood's hand into his lap and meets no resistance. Just a warm, too soft and too big hand limply cradled in his lap. Vash presses his fingers gently between Wolfwood's and there's a little flex, then he squeezes their fingers together. Vash gently cups his other hand under both of them, cradling their linked hands in his.
There's a soft sound that he doesn't have to look up to identify. Then Wolfwood sniffles, audibly, and plip plip plip, 1, 2, 3 tears land on the back of Vash’s hand.
Vash doesn't mean to count them at first. It just happens. Comes naturally. The night is so quiet and peaceful. He can't trust the numb calm of counting.
When he looks up, there's more dripping down Wolfwood's face already. He reaches up to wipe them away with his other hand and Vash catches it. He wants to watch them slowly gather in his pretty dark lashes and drip down his face…
He laces their fingers together in those hands too. The feel from his prosthetic is less rewarding tactile but Wolfwood squeezes it a little harder, aware of this. Vash could kiss him. Vash is going to kiss him so many times. He's decided.
“Mean to me,” Wolfwood mumbles, sniffling again.
Vash smiles gently at him. “I just wanted to hold your hand,” he says, like the liar he is. Like the liar he knows he is, because he knew what would happen when he touched Wolfwood like this. It's what's always happened.
13, 14, 15…
Vash leans in closer and kisses a few tears from Wolfwood's cheeks. 15 and 16. His face is warm and Wolfwood leans into the touch, needy.
Shifting, Wolfwood releases his hands so he can wrap his arms around his neck. He only keeps himself from hiding his face against Vash's shoulder to bask in the feeling of kisses peppering his face.
He's cute. Vash can't get over how cute he is.
Vash holds his face, cups his hand against Wolfwood's cheek so the tears pool in his palms. 23, 24, 25…
Wolfwood grasps at his wrist and looks at him with absolute heartbreak in his eyes. Like Vash just told him he was going away forever. Leaving him to his sorrow all alone after prying it out of him like a bullet.
He leans down and kisses him and the feeling vanishes. Wolfwood relaxes into him, hiccuping when Vash breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together.
Lost count again. Time to start over. 1, 2, 3, 4…
“What are you staring at, tongari?” Wolfwood mumbles, leaning against his hand and causing the tears to spill over.
11, 12, 13…
“You,” Vash tells him, earnest. He could stare at him all day like this.
“M’gross,” Wolfwood murmurs.
19, 20, 21, 22…
Vash smoothes his thumbs through the tracks left in the wake of 23 and 24, tutting softly. Wolfwood sniffs wetly and leans his head back a little, eyes closed. There are tears caught in his lashes but they haven’t fallen yet so Vash chooses not to count them.
He’s beautiful. Cheeks flushed and damp, long lashes glittering with tears, a little pout on his lips–still red from Vash’s teeth grazing his lower lip as he broke the kiss. Just gorgeous. Just perfectly pretty as a picture Vash could stare at forever.
But he can’t exactly say that. Best case and Wolfwood gets shy, flustered and pouty and trying to hide his face. Vash can’t count tears then. (25, 26, 27…) Worst case and he thinks Vash is lying; he has before, curled in on himself and choked out the question of how Vash could play with his feelings like that. (The fact Wolfwood finds it believable that anyone could gently coax him into such a vulnerable state only to mock him makes an anger he doesn’t feel often ache in his chest.)
29, 30… He’s waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t particularly ask but Vash knows is floating in the air all the same.
He leans in and kisses 31 from Wolfwood’s cheek. Smears 33 with his thumb. How 32 slips past to land on his arm is a mystery for the ages.
“You’re mine,” he says simply. It’s a compliment in its own right.
Vash kisses another kiss from Wolfwood’s cheek, presses his tongue between his lips to taste the salt. It’s like home. It’s like warm, salt seas he’ll never see. It’s like the tanks his sisters float in, safe and warm. He licks his lips when he pulls back. Wolfwood is leaning into him, eyes still closed, and grasping at his wrists tightly.
Lost count. Oh well.
He presses a few more open-mouth kisses to Wolfwood’s face. His cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Trails lower to mouth at his neck, tasting the stray tears there, before raising back up and running his tongue over his jawline–soft skin and salt and prickling stubble. He’s done it before he even thinks about it, like he’s grooming Wolfwood like a cat.
Vash freezes, just a tick, to gauge the response. Wolfwood doesn’t pull away. Makes a short little whine when the attention pauses for too long. Vash repeats the motion, more obvious now, and Wolfwood lulls his head back to give more room. Displays his neck to Vash can lick the tears from there too.
“Mine,” he rumbles, wrapping his arms around Wolfwood’s waist and dragging him into his lap. Closer. Vash wants to bury him in his chest. Wants to keep the little ocean of Wolfwood’s vulnerability in his heart forever.
Vash wants to push him down into the bed. Lick and kiss the tears from his neck and chest, damp shirt pulled away so he can find it all. But Wolfwood is a tender wound he’s already pushed his finger far enough into for today. Too much attention and he’ll crack, panic and sob till he can’t breathe and Vash will feel terrible and selfish for asking for more when Wolfwood already willingly has given him so much.
So he just holds him. Licks and kisses his neck until he feels Wolfwood’s chest settle, breathing evened out. He’s got his arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangled in Vash’s hair and face tucked against the side of his head. He’s asleep. Just like that. There’s still steady tears gathering and dripping into Vash’s hair and onto his shirt but Wolfwood is asleep.
Like a kitten, Vash thinks fondly. Lulled to sleep by a little tending.
Slowly, carefully, Vash shifts until he can prop his back against the headboard, Wolfwood still comfortably in his lap. He’s slept in worse positions. His collar is already noticeably wet when he finally settles, petting his hands up and down Wolfwood’s back slowly. It’s worth it.
Gradually, he matches Wolfwood’s slow and steady breathing until he feels himself nodding off too. When he finally tucks his face against Wolfwood’s shoulder, his eyes sting. The spot grows damp as he dozes off. His chest feels lighter, despite the weight of Wolfwood sleeping against it.
Wolfwood won’t notice in the morning. Or, if he does, he won’t tell a soul.