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For over a century, there have been few constants in Vash's life. Just stars and sky and sand, all stretched thin over this barren planet, steady and unchanging.
He enjoys stargazing when he gets the chance. There's something about lying back in the sand, head resting against his overstuffed bag, watching the stars without hope of them changing. Even better when he's had a shot of whiskey and his glasses are dangling off his ears, the stars swirling every time he blinks. Even better when he has company, and that company is Wolfwood.
Vash lets his head loll to the side, giving up on stargazing to indulge in his second-favourite hobby: Wolfwood-gazing.
Wolfwood has this way of sprawling where he lies, legs outstretched and one arm curled under his head. When he's relaxed like this, his eyes go half-lidded, sooty lashes grazing his cheek with every movement. When he blinks, Vash can see the stars reflected in his pupils, dark enough to capture them like a camera - the best of both worlds.
He's so beautiful.
Obviously. Vash feels like he should know that by now. But maybe Wolfwood's right that he never learns, because it catches him off-guard every single time.
Wolfwood isn't as vigilant around Vash as he used to be. Back when they first met, Vash couldn't so much as breathe in his direction without feeling eyes on him, piercing and vaguely suspicious. Wolfwood is a skilled gunman, after all; his senses are second only to Vash's, and he had no reason to lower his guard. But over time, he's softened, both of them spoiled by quiet nights in each other's company.
All this to say, Wolfwood doesn't react to being watched, not straight away. But he does notice eventually, and when he does, his eyes slide to Vash's like he knew it was happening all along, and simply allowed it.
Vash is several fingers of whiskey past drunk right now. Wolfwood isn't much better. Neither of them are in the mood to talk, too sleepy to deal with the hassle. So instead, they do this:
Wolfwood raises one eyebrow into a perfect arch: And what d'you think YOU'RE starin' at, Needle Noggin'?
Vash's lips pull into a pout: What, I can't look at you if I want to?
Wolfwood rolls his eyes, those dark eyelashes fluttering languidly: Creep.
Vash's mouth drops open: I am NOT a creep!
Are too.
Am not!
Are too.
Am not!
Wolfwood rolls his eyes even harder and shoves his palm in Vash's face, forcing him back from where they'd been growing closer and closer. As if to make up for it, he kicks one of his legs out even further, so their ankles hook together. It's always like this with Wolfwood; you have to keep pace. One step closer, one step back, the tempo of the dance strictly controlled.
Although - 'dance' isn't really the right word. With Wolfwood, it's always more of a shepherding. Wolfwood is leading Vash exactly where he's supposed to go, and that includes keeping this distance between them, a carefully measured game of inches.
They're allowed to bicker. They're allowed to drink together. They're allowed to touch, if it's by accident.
It's when they touch with purpose that the problems start.
As if hearing Vash's thoughts, Wolfwood sighs and turns away, looking back up at the sky.
"Shouldn'ta let you talk me into openin' that bottle of whiskey," he says, breaking their pact of silence. His voice is low and rough, warmed by the whiskey into something almost liquid. "Tha' was the real fancy stuff. The kinda shit you break out at weddings and funerals. Deserved better 'n a late night piss up like this."
Over his long life, Vash has seen his fair share of weddings and funerals. He much prefers the late night piss up.
"You gotta indulge in the good stuff every now 'n then," he says magnanimously.
When Wolfwood snorts, Vash picks up the bottle and doles out one last shot for each of them - just to keep them warm before they hit the hay.
Despite being much emptier than when they started, the bottle is still heavy, made out of some thick, crystal-cut glass. With his thumb in the way and his eyes all blurry, Vash can't make out the label, but he knows he probably won't recognise the brand. It's not the kind of thing the people of this planet waste resources on - meaning, this bottle's probably been around since the Great Fall, passed from human to human without being opened. Until now, anyway.
Wolfwood found it a few days ago, gathering dust in a store room of an abandoned town. The reason it was abandoned wasn't immediately obvious. The town was too clean for a shoot out, too sterile for disease, too intact for sand storms. Once Vash saw the burst-open shell of their Plant facility, though, he could make an educated guess: someone (Knives) had stolen their Plant.
Vash has been hounding Wolfwood to open the bottle ever since.
"Besides. You're a priest, right? You wouldn't be allowed to drink at - at weddings and fun'rals, anyway," Vash continues, going a little cross-eyed as he pours out the shot. Despite shooting him a disapproving look, Wolfwood takes the offered glass without a word. "You'd be on the job! So really, this 's the perfect time for you to enjoy it."
"I s'pose," he grumbles. Instead of downing the shot right away, he swirls it in his hand, waiting for Vash to pour out his own so they can drink them together. Such a gentleman. "Still. It's a sin to waste good whiskey, Needles, so you better not sick any of this up."
"I won't, I won't!"
"And 'm not dealin' with your hangover tomorrow, either. We leave at dawn, no whining. An' if ya vomit on Angelina, there might just be a funeral after all."
For whatever reason, that's the funniest thing Vash has heard in ages. He giggles to himself as he pours out his own shot, amber liquid sloshing with the force of his laughter. He pours until there's a healthy amount of whiskey in the glass. Then, he adds a little more for good measure.
"Y'know, if you're really that upset 'bout wasting this stuff, we could always pretend."
"Pretend what?"
"That we're at a funeral," Vash suggests, playful and a little morbid, the way he always gets when he drinks too much. He tries not to question why he's fixated on funerals specifically. Wolfwood's leg is pressed against his own, and the less said about weddings, the better. "You can - you can say the last rites, or whatever. Pretend we're burying something."
The silence is broken only by the gentle thud of Vash putting the bottle down again. When he speaks, Wolfwood's voice is unreadable.
"...What're we buryin'?"
"Oh, I dunno," Vash says airily. He swirls the glass in his hand, waiting for the right moment to down it. "M' pride? Pretty sure that's dead and gone by now."
"Can't bury something that never existed."
"Oh, har har. Well... What about a worm? There must be millions of the li'l suckers 'round here."
But Wolfwood is already shaking his head. "Funerals 're for people, Spikey. 'M not besmirching the good book by doin' a funeral for a worm."
A few weeks ago, Wolfwood did a funeral for a smashed-up doll, because a crying six year old asked him to. He did it with complete sincerity, only after double checking he couldn't fix the doll himself - and once it was over, Vash watched as he slipped a carved wooden cat into the child's pocket, some petty thing he'd been working on out of sheer boredom. Vash is pretty sure Wolfwood caught him watching. But neither of them brought it up, and Vash isn't going to break that trust now.
"Picky, picky," he sighs instead, still looking at the stars.
For a moment, there's simply silence, and a casual observer might think Vash has forgotten about the conversation, too drunk to carry it any further. Really, he's trying to swallow the words that come next.
"What about me?"
"...You hiding another bullet wound from me, Spikey?" Wolfwood narrows his eyes into a glare. "'Cos unless you do, I don't think it's worth buryin' you just yet."
"No, ahaha, nothing like that."
Vash laughs in that simpering way he knows Wolfwood hates, but he can't help it. He's not sure why he said it in the first place. Just that an awful, black feeling has been building in his chest ever since that desolated town, and it keeps getting worse with every touch-and-retreat Wolfwood gifts him.
There's a ghost hanging over them that shares Vash's face. Sometimes, Vash makes the mistake of looking at it.
"I was just thinking... why do funerals have to be after you die? Can't you, like... have one while you're still alive, get it outta the way, and just have that count? I mean, people die alone in the desert all the time, and there's no-one to bury them, so they miss out on the whole funeral thing, and I think that's just unfair. If I had the choice, I'd want to have one. And - and I'd want you to be the one to do it."
Whoops. Wolfwood told him not to throw up, but it seems Vash is spewing words anyway, coming dangerously close to all the things they don't talk about. Like how Vash isn't human, is one hundred and fifty years old, and doesn't even know if he's capable of dying in the first place. Like how Wolfwood is leading him to the one person who might know for sure, and Vash doesn't know if Knives wants him dead or something worse.
Like how Vash is so pathetic/desperate/yearning for Wolfwood, he'll take the funeral rites from him, just for an excuse to touch.
Like how Vash wants to be dead, sometimes.
Wolfwood is quiet for a long time. The only sign he heard Vash's word-soup is a deep sigh, like he's blowing out a ring of smoke - and Vash knows without him saying anything that Wolfwood's craving a cigarette.
"...Jesus Christ A'mighty," he mutters. "This is why you shouldn't drink so much, Spikey. Ya always get all philosophical on me."
"Ahaha." That laugh again. Privately, Vash doesn't think he's drunk too much at all. In fact, he kinda wants more, but he knows Wolfwood will wrestle the bottle from him if he tries. "Sorry."
"Don't apologise," he says gruffly, and this is why there's no winning with Wolfwood sometimes.
Abruptly, he sits up, going to rummage through Angelina's saddlebags, the urge for a cigarette clearly beating out his desire to look at the stars. Or, maybe he just wants something to do with his hands when he says, "You really mean all that? You want a - what, a pre-emptive funeral? Just in case you can't have one when ya bite it?"
There's a warning there, for those who understand Wolfwood enough to hear it. You know where I'm taking you, Spikes. Neither one of us knows what's gonna happen to you. You could die, an' I don't see Knives givin' you the kinda funeral you'd enjoy.
There definitely wouldn't be any nice whiskey, anyway.
"You know me. I like to be prepared," Vash says what might be the biggest lie he's ever told in his life. Judging by the way Wolfwood chokes and bursts out laughing, he knows it as well. "Wolfwooood, don't laugh at me! If this is how you act at a funeral, maybe you need the practice."
Vash would like there to be laughter at his funeral. Maybe that's why Wolfwood is the perfect priest for him.
"Spikey, if I did your funeral, there wouldn't be a dry eye in the house," he says grandly, slipping a cigarette between his lips. There's a few clicks of the lighter before the spark catches. "I'd pull out all the stops. Bury ya at least six feet deep, casket made 'a something better than cardboard, proper headstone and everythin'."
"Aw, shucks."
"If you can afford it, anyway."
Vash lets out a theatrical gasp, spinning to face him. "Money-grubbing priest, you'd make me pay for it? Does all this traveling together mean nothing to you?!"
"Hey, man's gotta make a living. I'd give ya a discount."
"Oh, how kind," Vash rolls his eyes. Presses his luck some more. "...How much?"
Smoke drifts towards Vash on the still air as Wolfwood takes a drag. For a while, he thinks Wolfwood is just gonna ignore him, and Vash isn't about to push. He closes his eyes instead, breathing in the rich smell of tobacco, when -
"Gimme the rest 'a that bottle and I'll do it," Wolfwood says finally.
His eyes open again in surprise. He didn't expect... Well, honestly, Vash doesn't know what he expected. He thought this would be too silly for Wolfwood, too sentimental. He didn't think he'd say yes. Even if he has a sneaking suspicion Wolfwood's only doing it to get the whiskey away from him.
Still. Wolfwood's hand is outstretched. Vash passes the bottle over, and their fingers brush around the neck.
"Right. Funerals," Wolfwood says briskly, suddenly all business despite the alcohol in his system. He hides the bottle in Angelina's saddlebags before shuffling closer. "We're doing things kinda backwards, starting with the fuckin' wake, but that's fine. Guessing you don't want me to actually bury you, either?"
"As much as you'd love that - no."
"Shame. How 'bout you lie down or somethin', then?"
Vash is already sitting on the sand. It doesn't take much for him to lean back, moving his bag out of the way so he's flat against the ground, looking up at the stars. He places his still-undrunk shot just a few feet away. Alcohol is wasted on corpses, after all.
"What, like this? Is there - hey, hey!"
Vash nearly jumps out of his skin when something wet drips down his face, Wolfwood using his fingers and his canteen to sprinkle water on him. The only reason he doesn't spring right back up is the sudden weight of Wolfwood's hand on his shoulder, holding him down.
"It's s'pposed to be holy water, but this'll do," Wolfwood says, taking a sip from his apparently holy waterskin. Vash pouts.
"Starting to think I should've just kept the whiskey."
"Corpses don't talk, Needle Noggin'. Zip it."
Vash thinks Wolfwood is enjoying this too much. He huffs under his breath, but otherwise does as he's told, sinking deeper into his makeshift grave. He nods to tell Wolfwood to continue.
"OK, that's the consecration done. Then comes the prayer. Our Father, who art in Heaven -"
Vash's silence doesn't last very long. "Does it have to be that prayer?"
"'Scuse me?"
"Does it have to be that prayer?"
"Sorry, am I gettin' heckled by the fuckin' cadaver right now? You ASKED me to do this!"
"Yeah, but it's my funeral, and I've never liked that one," Vash pouts. He's got his eyes squeezed shut, blotting out the stars in an exaggerated expression of death, as if that'll make up for being a very talkative corpse. "C'mon, you've gotta know another one."
There's a very suspicious silence up above him. Vash's mouth falls open.
"You don't, do you?"
"I do!" Wolfwood says defensively. Vash can hear the way he rolls his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, desperately thinking. "Just - gimme a minute..."
"God, you're terrible!" Vash says, secretly delighted. "What kinda priest only knows one prayer? And the most obvious one, at that -"
"Most of the people I'm buryin' aren't this picky, OK? Besides - it's not like you could do any better."
"Oh, I definitely could."
Vash knows several prayers, as a matter of fact. Most of them against his will. Religion is one of the few things that fell to this planet with him, and it's been his constant companion for one hundred and fifty years. That, and Knives was fascinated by religion when they were kids; for a long while, it was like he could only talk in Bible verses.
And now, Vash is remembering that he doesn't like prayers very much in general, actually.
"You know what - just forget that bit. You can skip the prayer."
"I'm not sure you understand the point of a funeral," Wolfwood grumbles. Still, he seems to recognise that they've brushed up against something that hurts to touch, because he doesn't argue any more. "Fine. No prayer. Leaves us a li'l light, though. It's your funeral. What else d'ya want?"
Vash considers. He's seen... so, so many funerals in his time. Too many. Most of them were short, simple affairs, the more intricate rituals lost to time and the Great Fall. On a planet like this, where people die so quickly, a funeral is more practical than indulgent. It's simply a way to remember, honour and dispose of the dead - and to confirm one thing.
"Can you..."
He swallows. It feels like the words are being squeezed from his throat again, forced out, no matter how hard he tries to keep them down - and Wolfwood's sweet, encouraging hum doesn't help. In a moment of weakness, his jaw unlocks, and Vash makes his second mistake of the night.
"Can you tell me it'll all be OK?"
Fuck. Fuck, what an embarrassing fucking question. It's like all the alcohol hits Vash at once, making his cheeks red and his eyes watery and his voice so small and uncertain, and he knows he's making a complete tit of himself, but he just can't help it. That black, turbulent feeling is threatening to swallow him again, just like his fake grave, just like the maw of his brother he's walking into, and he might be old but he feels so fucking childish.
He can feel Wolfwood staring at him, can practically taste the cherry of his cigarette burning down. It fills him with nervous energy and makes him ramble, like that dying ember is a countdown of seconds he has to make his case, before Wolfwood dismisses him entirely.
"Like... afterwards. After I'm dead. I know you priestly types believe in an afterlife, or whatever - actually, do you really believe in that? Like, personally? I don't think I've ever asked - anyway. I don't really believe in it, but it would - it would be nice, maybe. Just to know that. That everything will be OK. After I'm gone."
It's a truth Vash doesn't often acknowledge to himself: there's a very thin line between him and an eager grave, and that line is called uncertainty.
If he put a gun to his head and a bullet through his brain, would it actually kill him? Or would it just hurt like a bitch? He's never been brave enough to try himself, but plenty other people have tried for him, bullets hitting places that should be terminal - his chest, his throat. When that happens, Vash usually wakes up in the desert a few days later, hacking up the bullet and several chunks of bone. His body will never let him go so easily.
And even if it worked, what waits for him after death? Nobody knows. Maybe nothingness, which terrifies Vash even more the bullet he forced from his throat. Or, maybe the humans are right, and there's some kind of afterlife he could share with them. Considering his history, though, he doesn't think that would work out too well for him either. He deserves to burn for July alone.
And, the last question: can he afford to give up? Would the world truly, immediately, be a much better place, if only he wasn't in it?
Vash thinks he knows the answer to that last one. But he doesn't know for sure, and the question has been enough to keep him from trying.
But...
If Wolfwood says it's OK...
He'd feel better about it. He could go to Knives and accept what's going to happen with no fear, nothing tying him to this world. He'll do what he needs to do, and afterwards, he...
Something warm brushes Vash's cheek.
The shock of it is enough to make his breath catch. Whatever's touching him is rough and calloused - but gentle, barely grazing the surface of his skin. It's there for only a second, but it's enough to make Vash's eyes fly open, no longer the living corpse he was pretending to be.
Wolfwood is a lot closer than he was before. He kneels beside Vash's body, like a penitent at prayer. The look on his face is unreadable, but the pad of his thumb is wet, and Vash knows it's from the tears he didn't realise were flowing down his cheeks.
"...It won't."
Wolfwood's voice is tight. It takes Vash a moment to realise he's answering his question.
"It won't be OK. You might think it will be, but it won't. The world'll keep on goin', as shitty as it always was. It won't right itself just 'cos you're gone. Hell, it won't even care at all. The only difference will be that, anything you might'a done to make it OK, you won't get to do. An' if I know anything about you by now, Needle Noggin', it's that - you can do a whole lotta good. Vash. You always have."
The stars shine bright behind Wolfwood. Vash stares up at him with a mix of fear and wonder, the tears in his eyes making it all blend together - just stars and sky and Wolfwood. They spill over his lash line, and before Vash knows it, he's cracked right down the middle. He starts crying proper, taking deep, embarrassing, heaving breaths that taste like whiskey, and still fucking talking.
"I'm scared, Wolfwood -"
"I know, I'm sorry -"
They don't talk about what's coming that night, or any night. Wolfwood takes him in his arms and Vash hides there, just for a moment, pretending it's enough. There's no tomorrow. There's no end to this journey. There's no reason Wolfwood shouldn't be doing this, holding him close, Vash's arms around his neck and Wolfwood's fingers in his hair, digging into the roots where it's started to turn black. It's just them, a fake grave, and a sea of stars.
The next morning, Wolfwood holds his hand. He holds back his hair when Vash, inevitably, throws up. They head back on the road, leaving two untouched shots of whiskey to be swallowed by the sand, and a pretend grave with nobody inside.