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Vash can feel it coming before it happens; like the static in the air before a storm, like a knife hovering over the back of his neck. A string stretched taut, moments before the fall. There’s an ache in his throat that he does his damnedest to swallow- after all, what use is grief for a loss that hasn’t happened yet? He has grieved since forever and everything he’s ever tried to hold slips through his fingers. And still, still. Vash holds on, even if what’s left are mere seconds, meager hope that the press of memories into his skin would be enough to fill the absence left behind.
They’re only halfway through the bottle of wine they picked up from the orphanage’s abandoned pantry when the little pieces of white paper flutter down from the sky. Wolfwood watches them fall with wordless recognition, and Vash can only stare vacantly into the expanse beyond, sinking acceptance that no saving act of God awaits him here. The alcohol tastes bitter on his lips.
He does not need to look to know that Wolfwood is crying.
He does not need to look to know that Wolfwood is gone.
Vash only waits, only sits and curls into himself as a new, aching wound is struck into his chest. Taut string cut, the knife falls into the depths where everything else he loses disappears. Vash remembers now, a truth that bleeds out from his core and seeps into his fingertips: no matter how hard he tries, this pain will always come.
When did he fall in love?
Vash buries Wolfwood by the remains of the orphanage.
He’s worn down and frayed at the edges, whether it’s from the fight or from the ark, he cannot tell anymore. The aftereffects of the strike at his brother’s vessel hum through his body, but the cost of expending his powers feels small next to the world of distance between the coffin lid at his fingertips and the warm body that isn’t there.
Still, Vash would choose the impersonal rigidity of the stone box over the desolate stiffness of a corpse any day, if only to protect his final memories of Wolfwood’s warmth from being stained with the feeling of cold lifelessness in his hands. It’s difficult to hold a body you used to know, but Vash tries. He tries.
It’s wrong, wrong, wrong , Vash thinks to himself as he gently carries Wolfwood and tucks him into the coffin. He makes an effort to lay Wolfwood in a comfortable position, closes his eyes into a more serene expression, brushes off the blood dried on his face and smooths out the wrinkles in his tattered suit, but it’s difficult with the sand and stiffening limbs. It eats at Vash, how much he wishes he could offer something better. The bounds of reality close in until his limitations damn him- there’s not enough room on this sun scorched planet to contain all that Vash wishes he could do, all that he wishes he could give.
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it Blondie, I can’t feel a thing,” Wolfwood would tell him, Vash could nearly hear it. There would be a certain lilt in his voice, and Vash would know it as Wolfwood’s concern for him. And in response, that old ache would come breaching from his chest, rising to his throat.
I want to worry about you, Vash wishes he could say. I care about you as much as you care about me.
The words don’t leave his mouth, unspoken prayer disappearing into the wind. There is only silence where Wolfwood’s voice is supposed to be, and Vash feels it like a wrenching absence.
What would Wolfwood say now, if he could witness Vash choosing to indulge in this grief?
The pressing matters of the world close in on him, but just this time, just for now, Vash takes his hands and carves out a selfish moment. He scrapes his fingertips against the cold concrete of the coffin and lets the tears come, lets the ache radiate through his body and wash over him until he’s wrung out and empty. And then when all that remains is dull nothingness, he lets the broken fragments sit where they’ve spilled across the ground. He doesn’t pull himself back on his feet right away, for the simple reason that he doesn’t want to.
The grave Vash digs for Wolfwood isn’t very deep. There’s little else in the desert that would concern themselves with a dead man’s body.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, the first sun begins to creep up against the sky. The clouds turn pink as the grey shadows of the dunes give way to golden light. Streaks of it fall through the blinds of their dingy hotel room and onto the faded walls. It’s a beautiful color, but Vash finds himself squinting through the glow of them as he fastens the last of the buckles on his boots. There’s a knock on the door, and Wolfwood lets himself in.
“Are you ready yet? If we don’t head out now we’re not gonna beat the afternoon heat.”
“Oh!” Vash looks up sheepishly. “Sorry, I’ll be good in a few minutes.”
Vash finishes with his shoes and pulls on his coat in a practiced motion. Wolfwood lets out a huff and settles by the window with a smoke, casting a quiet gaze on Vash while he attends to the fasteners running down his body. It’s a companionable silence; Vash’s fingers deftly working over his clothes while Wolfwood takes drags from his cigarette. In the early days the smell would give him a headache, but over the time they travelled together Vash grew to find it comforting. He forgets when he stopped asking Wolfwood to smoke outside.
As Vash does the final checks on his left arm, he feels Wolfwood come up next to him with his tinted glasses in hand. Vash lets his face fall into a soft smile and accepts it.
“Thanks for waiting, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood puts out the stub of his cigarette and rolls his eyes.
“There’s too many buckles on your goddamn clothes.”
Vash laughs. There’s no bite beneath the gruff demeanor that Wolfwood likes to wear.
“I need them to hold together my old man bones.”
As if for emphasis, Vash rolls out a couple deep cracks from his shoulders. The release of tension is pleasant, but Wolfwood winces at the sound and swats him.
“Gross, you should see a doctor about that. Let’s get going gramps.”
The bike parked out front is only lightly dusty from their journey into the town. They load their things onto it, and Wolfwood pulls Vash into the seat behind him, calloused hands taking Vash’s scarred fingers into a steady grip. At this time of day, it’s still cool enough for Vash to enjoy the broad warmth of Wolfwood’s back, so he breathes it in and settles against him, looking out towards the horizon as the engine starts. There’s an inevitable kind of pain and suffering that hangs over the path ahead, but for now the road is quiet; they are rested, fed, and not alone.
In the eternities within this singular moment, Vash is content.