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It was a beautiful day for a wedding. Clear blue skies, a gentle breeze out of the east, temps low enough to keep everyone from sweating through their Sunday finest -
In theory, anyway.
"Fuck," Wolfwood muttered. No matter how many times he ran the comb through his hair, his carefully-styled, neatly-straightened part slipped right back into a disheveled mop across his forehead as soon as he turned away.
It didn't matter - really, it didn't fucking matter, it was hair - but for once, just once in his goddamn life, he wanted to look neat and tidy. He wanted to put away the disaffected slouch and take this seriously. When he looked back at the photos they were paying too much for the squirt to take, he wanted to feel some fucking pride in himself.
"Ten minutes," he muttered to himself. He wet the comb again and raked it through his hair. His undershirt was stuck to his back with sweat; he'd peeled off his dress shirt and the coat, afraid he'd soak them right through. "That too much to ask? C'mon…"
He parted his hair. Swept it neatly to the side. Then, as he watched, the dry air sucked the moisture right out of the strands, and they began their inevitable slide back over his forehead.
"Fuck," he said, softly, with feeling.
Just hair - it was just hair - he groaned and let his head hang low, bracing his sweaty palms on the vanity.
"Heyyyy… you okay?"
The voice nearly made him jump out of his skin.
Vash was peeking in through the door. In one hand, he held a little tray of finger foods - hors d'œuvres, probably snuck off the plates in the kitchen which should not have been put out for public consumption, not just yet. He'd probably schmoozed his way past Melanie in that way of his.
"Can't you keep your paws off the snacks for two goddamn hours, blondie?" He snapped as Vash slipped in and toed the door closed behind him.
"Aw, c'mon..." Vash set down one of the cups of coffee he was juggling. With a smile, he offered the tray of snacks. "They're not for me. I know you didn't eat this morning."
"Who can eat right now," Wolfwood moaned. But he swiped a deviled egg and crammed the whole thing in his mouth in one bite, wiping his palms on his pants in a futile effort to dry them while he chewed. "Jus'," he said around a mouthful of egg, "I dunno what I was thinkin', asking him to marry me."
"Hmm," Vash said. All he did was sip his own mug of coffee where he was leaning against the vanity.
"It was a stupid damn idea. I mean, look at me." Wolfwood gestured at himself with another egg. "I ain't got the first idea how to be a good husband. I barely know how to be a - a fuckin' person, Vash, for fuck's sake, I… I'm gonna fuck this up," he finished weakly.
"You're really worried about this," Vash said, so absolutely unconcerned it made Wolfwood want to slap that coffee out of his hands and choke him until he begged for mercy.
"Yeah! I'm fuckin’ worried about it!" Wolfwood snapped. "Sweetest man I know is out there waiting to hitch his wagon to me, but I don't know the first thing about anything but - " He gestured widely. Murder. Maiming. Vash wasn't stupid, he could put two and two together. "The hell was he thinkin’, saying yes?"
"Hmm." Lips pursed against the rim of his cup, Vash stared over Wolfwood's head at the slow spin of the ceiling fan. "Maybe that you make really good omelettes?"
Wolfwood sputtered. "For fuck’s sake - "
"No, really! That breakfast you made me - " Vash kissed his fingers. "Made the entire day better. Honest."
Wolfwood stared him down, but Vash only looked back with those shameless eyes, placid as a reservoir unruffled by wind. He was the one to look away, down at the plate of snacks Vash had swiped for him. Deviled eggs, crackers and cheese, tiny sandwiches. In his head, he could see Vash again as he'd been that morning: Wan and drawn, the fresh streak of blonde in his newly-dark hair glowing like a live wire in the morning sun. He'd eaten the omelette Wolfwood set before him with fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
"It was just breakfast, blondie," he muttered.
"Really good breakfast," Vash corrected, ignoring Wolfwood's snort of disbelief.
"Vash, for fuck's sake..."
"You know a lot of stories," Vash steamrolled over him, "And you know when to pull them out to reassure somebody. Almost made me choke that morning. I laughed."
"Vash -"
"You have kind eyes," Vash said, implacable, immovable, "And gentle hands."
A sour tang rose on the back of his tongue. The eggs, back for revenge; he gripped the vanity with sweaty palms and swallowed against the knot thick in his throat. His hands wavered in his vision. Gentle hands - what was gentle about them? All he’d every done with these hands of his was inflict pain. The callouses roughening his palms were gained in service of death.
But Vash’s hair had been soft under his hand that morning. What had he been doing? He’d just wanted to see him smile again. Not to fix it. Just to lighten the load for a moment. He got it; he knew. What it was like to lose - what it was like to wake up with a hollow in your chest where you used to keep a sliver of somebody else.
What it was like, to feel like you didn't deserve the second chance.
"I've got blood on my hands," he said, and his voice came out softer than he'd meant it to be - instead of a refutation, it was a lament. "A guy like me… I'm not fit to hold him."
"He does too," Vash said. Then he slurped his coffee noisily. Once again, Wolfwood wanted to slap that cup right out of his hands.
"It's not the same, blondie," he snapped. "He didn't have a choice."
Vash had been inspecting the rim of his mug, tracing some infinitesimally minuscule crack in the glaze with the pad of his thumb, attentive but unconcerned - but at that, he lowered it. With the mug cupped between his palms, he fixed Wolfwood with those bright eyes again and said, "Neither did you."
Which wasn't true. It wasn't true. Any time, he could have walked away from the violence. He could have dropped his cross in the sand and disappeared, let No Man's Land swallow him whole. The Eye of Michael wouldn't have looked for him too hard; and he could have dodged them if they had. He'd always had a choice.
All it would have meant was turning his back on the orphanage. On Melanie.
On Livio.
Sucking in a shaky breath through his nose, Wolfwood sank onto the stool and dropped his face into his hands. In the cupped darkness of his palms, he could hide himself from those bright blue eyes, warm and relentless as the suns beating down on him. What did it matter? Whatever weight he'd been carrying, he'd chosen to keep putting one foot in front of the other. To do as he was told. If he'd been smarter, stronger, more determined; if he hadn't been such a goddamn coward -
Soft as the sand piled high outside, Vash said, "You deserve to be happy too, Wolfwood."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Wolfwood gasped through the constriction of his throat. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he balled them into fists and banged one against the vanity. He couldn't cry - the heat was trapped behind his face, radiating out from his watery eyes and the flaming planes of his cheeks, but he couldn't, wouldn't cry. Not now. "Shut up, idiot. You're just running your goddamn mouth."
Eyes turned up to the ceiling, Vash sipped his coffee like Wolfwood couldn't see that stupid little smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, maybe," he said, brow tilted thoughtfully, "But I dunno… you're not that bad."
"Not that bad," Wolfwood muttered to himself. Taking up the comb, he wet it and swept it through his hair again. No luck, of course - it slid back down over his forehead all the same. But maybe it didn't matter. He raked his fingers through the stubborn shag of it as Vash set his mug down and plucked the comb from his hand.
"Yeah," Vash said. He tucked a finger up under Wolfwood's chin, and Wolfwood lifted his face obligingly into the glare of Vash's attention.
The comb slid easily through his hair again. Vash curled a lock of hair around his finger and tucked it up into the mess of it. Naturally, it slid back down again; but this time, when he glanced into the mirror, the dishevelment looked artful, almost. Purposeful. The finger curl lay against his forehead in a sweep that spoke to care.
"Livio's a lucky guy," Vash said quietly.
Through the mirror, Wolfwood watched him set the comb down and take up his mug again. Like this, Vash's face wasn't his own - but the man looking back at him still smiled when he met Wolfwood's eyes in the mirror, that bright blue crackling with warmth.
There was a timeline where he hadn't had to choose. Where the choice had been made for him, one way or another; and another, many, where he hadn't been around to make the choice at all. It'd been so long since he'd been able to make a choice. A free choice. Since he felt like he had a future, a blank ticket of his own. Since he'd decided something for himself. Looking back at himself, Wolfwood touched the curl of his hair with careful fingers.
Though his throat still threatened to close up, Wolfwood managed to say, "Thanks."
"Mmm," Vash hummed into his cup. He'd looked away and was shilly-shallying with a finger sandwich, peeling up the bread to check the filling before caving and plucking it off the plate.
Then, muffled around his first bite, he blinked innocently down at Wolfwood and said, "Say, you really don't think I'm the sweetest man you know?"
Wolfwood swatted at him, and Vash danced away with a yelp.
"My coffee, you're gonna make me spill my coffee - Wolfwood, c'mooon!"
"Okay," Wolfwood said.
"You're ready?"
"Uh…"
Even from this side of the chapel doors, he could hear the organ playing - ready or not, there was no going back. Livio would be waiting for him at the altar. It was officially too late to change his mind.
"You look great," Vash said soothingly. With casual fingers, he straightened Wolfwood's tie and smoothed the lapels of his jacket.
"Thanks. Uh…"
"Arm." Robotically, Wolfwood stuck his arm out on command for Vash to loop his own through, and Vash said, "Okay, go, go, we'll be right behind you two." The girls posted outside the chapel - two of Milly's nieces - nodded with all the seriousness of their station and pushed the doors open. Music swelled around them; the girls fluffed their skirts, then stepped out into the sound, shoulders back and backs straight, hands already full of colorful confetti to scatter across the aisle.
Heart pounding in his ears, Wolfwood clutched Vash's arm to his side and waited. Each second stretched on into infinity.
"Okay, c'mon, time to get hitched," Vash finally whispered, and Wolfwood followed in lockstep when Vash stepped through the door and out into the crowded chapel.
All around him, the world warped into an incoherent blur of color and sound. Somewhere in the room, he could hear Meryl's camera clicking madly away, but the faces turned toward him from the benches were nothing more than a smear; he heard whispers under the music, but he couldn't catch any of the words. He couldn't feel his own face, let alone school his expression. His palm was going to leave a damp print on Vash's sleeve.
But at the end of the aisle -
Stood Livio. In his neat, pale suit, with his silvery hair drawn back in a ponytail at the base of his neck, he was everything Wolfwood wasn't - elegant, refined, handsome. He fit here, in the chapel done up with paper flowers and the orphanage's best crisp white linens pinned up in sweeping banners, even though he was vibrating in place like a puppy trying to restrain itself. Over the heads of the flower girls scattering their last fluttering handfuls of confetti as they reached the altar, Livio's eyes met his - and his brother lit up like the skies as the suns rose. The smile that split his face crinkled his eyes into gleaming golden slivers.
In the light of those eyes, the frantic thump of his heart skipped a beat.
He loved Livio's eyes. He always had. Under the icy fan of his lashes, they were bright, shining coins, luminous in Livio's pale face. When they'd first met all those years ago, they were what stood out to him first - expressive and vulnerable, soft, tender. Rare, precious gold to his own dull flint.
And they were fixed on him, like they always had been, with pure adoration. Livio pulled his grin in to a beaming smile, color sitting high on his cheeks in cherubic bliss, but his eyes didn't break from Wolfwood's as they approached. Before they'd even reached him, he held out a hand.
It didn't feel like he was losing anything when he slipped his arm out of Vash's and took Livio's hand. His warm, broad palm was callused, same as Wolfwood's - in the same way as Wolfwood's - but his fingers curled around his with the same tenderness he'd used with the tomas chicks they cared for as children, and as Vash stepped up behind the altar and into his role as best man, Wolfwood let himself be pulled into a crushing hug.
"Alright, jeez," he wheezed over Livio's shoulder. "Not so hard, Liv, you're gonna break my spine."
"Sorry," Livio whispered into his ear. When Wolfwood pushed him back, there were tears already welling up in those big, bright eyes of his. They sparkled on his lashes in fat drops., threatening to spill over.
"C'mon, crybaby," he said, and this time, like so many times before, his exasperation was feigned, "At least keep it together 'til we say our vows."
"Sorry," Livio sniffed again, but he was laughing as he wiped his face on his sleeve - the grin on his face was irrepressible. His fingers were damp when he took Wolfwood's hands again. Or maybe that was his own sweat dampening Livio's fingertips. He couldn't tell.
Probably didn't matter anyway. They were meant to share everything from this point on. Livio's eyes crinkled again, and Wolfwood squeezed his fingers as the priest - a real one - cleared his throat.
"We are gathered here today…"
Lost in the buzzing in his ears, Wolfwood let the words wash over him without bothering to follow the thread. Livio'd let him know when it was time - he was watching the priest with rapt attention, his eyes flicking back to Wolfwood now and then to catch him in that golden glow, his thumb sweeping slow and steady over the ridge of Wolfwood's knuckles, calluses rasping over his skin. It meant he could look as much as he wanted. His eyes trailed up the line of Livio's neck rising from the neat collar of his suit, the jut of his jaw, the sweep of his nose.
He'd get to see this face every day now instead of just thinking about it. He'd get to see those big, soft eyes blink open in the morning as the suns rose, and he'd get to watch as the laugh lines set in alongside his smile. As the years passed, he'd get to take Livio's hand in his own in the evenings and run his thumb along that callused ridge at the top of his palm, and maybe one day he'd get to marvel that it was from holding a shovel or a spade, or the reins of a bucking tomas, instead of a gun.
Livio caught his eye again, and his own creased with a smile. There was an expectant gleam in his eye, so Wolfwood smiled back - but Livio squeezed his hands and glanced at the priest, and when Wolfwood followed his gaze, the man was staring at him with the sort of patient, benevolent smile you'd grace a slow child with.
"Sorry," Wolfwood said, his ears heating as laughter rippled through the chapel, "What?"
"If you're ready to exchange vows?"
Fervently, Wolfwood nodded.
"I, Nicholas Wolfwood, take you, Livio…"
Stumbling along, Wolfwood parroted the words back to Livio. After a few words, the terror smoothed out - his palms were sweating in earnest in Livio's grasp, but Livio was beaming at him with that unbridled joy again despite the fresh tears budding on his lashes. Then it was Livio's turn. He stumbled, too; his fingers tightened on Wolfwood's, and he choked on his tears. But he caught the flow of it, and by the time he reached the end of the recitation, he was practically glowing, his eyes bright and wet in his gleaming face. The heat swelling in Wolfwood's chest wasn't the painful, cringing shame that had his cheeks burning a moment ago.
It was molten gold, pouring from Livio's eyes and into his heart.
And there was Vash suddenly, proffering the rings on that goofy little velvet pillow he'd insisted on, that shit-eating grin of his plastered across his face. Livio got there before Wolfwood did, plucking one of the rings from the pillow, and took Wolfwood's left hand in his.
Both of their hands were shaking, but Wolfwood lifted his ring finger for him to slip the ring onto as Livio said, "I offer you this ring as a symbol of our unbreakable bond."
Easy, right? He could manage that. But he nearly fumbled the ring with his sweaty fingers, and his tongue was thick in his mouth as he said the words. The ring caught on Livio's knuckle before he could slip it down against his palm.
When he looked up again, though, Livio was beaming at him like the suns themselves.
"I now pronounce you husbands in the eyes of God," the priest said, and if that phrase might have sent a shiver down his spine a few months ago, he could overlook it with Livio's sweaty hands clasped in his own again. All he could see was the smile on his husband's face. "You may kiss your spouse."
Before Wolfwood could react, Livio had his arms around his waist to pull him close. His warm, broad palm spread across the small of his back.
Then the world tipped around him, and Wolfwood yelped, clutching at Livio's shoulders as he was dipped low - clinging to him, Wolfwood stared up into Livio's eyes, that warm, gentle gold beaming down at him, practically sparkling in the sun shining through the chapel windows, a goofy grin stretched wide across his pale face. A strand of hair had come loose from his ponytail to fall across his forehead.
"You fuckin' goofball," Wolfwood muttered. His new ring, an unfamiliar weight, bit into his finger where he was hanging off of Livio's shoulders. He could feel the sweat soaking into the pits of his undershirt.
But up close, he could see that Livio's collar was likewise damp.
Throwing his arms around Livio's neck, he kissed his husband deeply as his family cheered.