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    Summary

    Through the yellowed curtains, the sun is freed from behind the storm clouds for a moment, bathing Wolfwood’s brown skin in red and gold. The fresh blood in Vash’s veins makes him warm; he reaches up his flesh hand to cup Wolfwood’s cheek. “You don’t hate me,” he says, and he believes it. “If you did, I’d be dead already.”

    Wolfwood doesn’t flinch like he expects—rests his cheek in Vash’s palm, his eyelids fluttering. His exhale is shuddering. Then he sits up, still straddling Vash’s hips, the stake rising high over his head, ready to plunge.

    “You’re right.”

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