Work Text:
this fic actually has a sibling, but can be read as a standalone c:
given the way you make me feel
i want you more
if you're not sure
baby i'm yours
Love comes easy for Vash.
Despite not remembering a lot of things ever since he gained consciousness in Lina and Sheryl’s house, the one thing that he remembers for certain is his penchant for love. To love. In fact, it doesn’t really take up much cognitive load to learn it. It is as easy as breathing, as moving his limbs, as blinking. Never once has he stopped to ponder over its notion, to weigh it up with something as trivial as, for instance, anger. Why would he, when it is the only emotion that blooms from the depths of his soul in perpetuity whenever he sets his attention on anything that breathes around him? The mundaneness of something as profound and hefty as devotion is what spurs him to open his heart and give.
To Vash, love requires no effort at all. So he can’t wrap his head around why Nicholas D. Wolfwood struggles to see through – according to that man – his “self-sacrificing tendencies”. A state so redundant that Vash can’t help but take smidgeon of offense.
Nicholas. Now there’s another man that’s easy to dig into.
Rugged, weathered and eyes leaden with sorrow behind those maroon shades that do so little to conceal his load. For all his languid sneers and detached grunts, this man thrums with vigilance that is otherwise impossible to perceive from anyone else – from any other human, that is. Yet this is a human just like everybody else. So painfully and beautifully human, with rusted attempts to be and act like one, as if he has entrenched a resolute belief that he is anything but. Vash, on the other hand, thinks Nicholas is perfect with his flaws.
Which is also why Vash deems him easy to love.
He may not remember who Nicholas is, but the familiarity that this man exudes is enough to lower Vash’s guards around him. It hadn’t taken Vash long to seize him up that one scorching afternoon; after a quick toilet break in a pub found Lina outside being surrounded by a group of three men, inching closer to the girl with roguish grins before a man in a black leather jacket and cowboy hat stepped between them, his back to Lina and heaving what appeared to be a wrapped cross his own size. From Vash’s vantage point, he could make out the man’s fingers fiddling with one of the strap buckles holding the cloth together, and he knew he had to rush to their aid before hell could break loose.
And it had taken Vash calling out Lina’s name for the cross-bearing man to whip his head around, cigarette falling limp in his mouth. While the three men had taken this distracted opportunity to start wreaking havoc, drawing their sidearms and fists and toothy grins, Vash was quicker. In a flash, he steered Lina into the stranger’s side and disarmed the men in three rapid succession, leaving them keeling on the ground with broken wrists. By the time Vash returned to Lina and the new stranger, she had hugged and berated him for taking three armed men while he himself only had one arm. Meanwhile, the man with the huge cross and cowboy hat simply appeared slack-jawed, which Vash had then perceived as mere bewilderment at being helped out of nowhere.
“Thank you for protecting her,” Vash had expressed with a sheepish smile, hand still on Lina’s shoulder. “She can be a bit … unruly.”
“Says the one guy causing trouble everywhere!” came Lina’s retort.
But all he received in response from the other man was a pair of raised eyebrows and a splutter of, “Needle-noggin?”
Of course, that was before he learned his real name was apparently Vash instead of Eriks, and that the cross-bearing man knew him once upon a time. While Lina had been wary of him at first, Vash could somehow feel and believe that this was someone that he could trust right off the bat, despite being able to see his sins laid bare. On the man’s part, though, he had struggled to fathom Vash’s existence at all, to wrap his head around the fact that Vash, for the life of him, just couldn’t remember who this guy was even if he tried racking his brain for answers and old memories. The shades might obscure the man’s eyes well, but something akin to ache and hurt weighed the frown of his eyebrows, the tense clenching of his jaw, the way his fingers started to fidget.
So when Vash summoned the courage to ask, “Have we met?”, it took about ten glazed blinks from the other man before he produced a crumpled paper and silently shoved it into Vash’s hand.
It was a photo, worn and torn around the edges as though it had been pasted and peeled off from flat surfaces multiple times over, yellowed from weather indicating it had spent too much time under the suns, yet it was … recent. Dating only two years previously, judging by the scrawled numbers at the back. Vash immediately recognised himself in the photo, his hair short and spiked up to one side, eyes shaded behind orange-tinted sunglasses and donning a red coat as he held a curled peace sign to the camera. In front him, directly to the camera, was no doubt the man with the cross, still wearing the same maroon shades, but with no hat in sight and had a simple black blazer on. A troublesome grin was plastered on his face as his hand hovered near the camera, as though making to grab it, while a petite young woman in a blue beret tried to stop him. On the left side of the photo stood an older-looking man in a brown coat just in front of her, looking about done with some off-camera shenanigan that was probably started by the cross-bearing guy himself.
He learned their names, then; Nicholas D. Wolfwood with his equally wolfish grin, then Meryl Stryfe whom Nicholas liked to refer to as “pipsqueak”. When he got to the drowsy-looking guy in the brown coat, a few seconds of silence ticked by before Nicholas uttered his name; “de Niro, I think. Yeah, that’s it. Roberto de Niro.”. Vash didn’t miss the way Nicholas averted his eyes before he said it, as if bracing himself for something – a harrowing memory, perhaps. Really, it didn’t take a genius to figure out something unfortunate had befallen this Roberto person, but Vash understood immediately that he shouldn’t prod into the matter any further. Besides, the reluctance to delve into it was already evident through Nicholas’ closed-off stance.
Still, had it not been for Lina prying into the issue, she would probably not have been able to make the connection between the spikey-haired man in the photo to a bounty poster she had passed by a few weeks ago to Eriks – to Vash.
$$60,000,000,000.00.
A lot of wrangling had ensued then, with Vash immediately trying to retreat, and Lina clinging to him and crying, insisting that he was safe here with her and Sheryl, that she did not see him as a threat at all, that she would fight anyone who tried to get the bounty. And Vash, whose head was still reeling from the amount of information being dumped on him face-first, who still couldn’t grasp that he had a moniker “the Stampede” nor that he was a wanted man this whole time, insisted that there must be a reason a bounty that massive was pinned on him.
Vash the Stampede.
Suddenly he had an inkling whatever fate had descended upon Roberto might be linked to him.
So Vash, whose heart was always filled to the brim with love, sacrificed one more for Lina and Sheryl before he decided to leave the town with Nicholas, forever grateful that they had been taking care of him lying comatose in their house for the past two years. Two humans, who had the opportunity to hand him over just so they could live a more luxurious life, yet they flat out rejected because …
Not because they thought Vash was innocent – they didn’t know the full story. No. It was their love that did it, despite being fully aware that keeping a wanted outlaw would put their lives in jeopardy. That was the kind of sacrifice that Vash couldn’t let anyone do for him. It was too much, too insurmountable of a liability to the point of being futile. He could live a thousand lifetimes and never be able to repay that kind of debt, not unless he took the initiative to retreat. And he did exactly that.
And anyway, a hunch had always lived inside him, unravelling tendrils of whispers saying that he wasn’t meant for the simple, docile life. That instead he belonged outside with the barren, merciless expanse of No-Man’s Land. Indeed, his body is forever governed by frenzied speeds and overarching paces that are unsuited for an idle town. Should he stay longer, people would eventually be swept into his cyclone.
He still didn’t know who he was exactly, or whether he had families or friends or lovers. That was a territory he considered to be too perilous to step into and poke around, because he knew – he knows – that he wouldn’t like the answers to them.
Perhaps losing his memories was the only viable option for him after all, yet even he couldn’t be granted that kind of indulgence.
But Nicholas …
That man seems to understand him better than himself, is familiar with his presence, has probably explored his nooks and crannies and established whether there are some aspects of Vash that might need fixing, has long since assessed what each tilt or shift of his body language implies. At times, his hands would hover near Vash’s body just a little closer, and his gaze would linger long enough before Vash could level him with an equal one. All of these little things have caught Vash’s attention and made permanent residence in his head from the moment they left town. And they have been the sole reason that motivated Vash to ask him a harmless question for the first time, “Do you just keep this picture with you everywhere?”.
Only to earn a grunt in response. “A man’s business is a man’s business.”
He had studied the photo again, sitting hunched at the sidecar of Angelina II (“What happened to Angeline I?”; “Nosey as ever.”), eyes tracing his own spikey hair. Suddenly Nicholas calling him “needle-noggin” made so much sense, what with the natural way the syllables rolled off his tongue. “We were close, huh?” Vash spoke then, muscles and bones cramping within the tight space of the sidecar all afternoon as Nicholas tore through the dunes.
Nicholas didn’t say anything for a while that Vash thought he wouldn’t get any answer at all. But the man eventually grunted, “I guess you can say that.”, which was forcibly a vague response for someone who tried to paint himself cryptic – like that wouldn’t further fuel Vash’s inquisitiveness.
Be that as it may, Vash finds it so effortless to fall into step beside Nicholas under countless tumultuous occasions, as if their bodies have long since learned each other’s complementary features. Caught in a crossfire, and they were back-to-back before Vash could even conjure the thought of calling him; tangled into instances of arguments about morale, and it would take one dumb joke for them to be on equal terms; witnessed moments of innocent townsfolk getting assaulted, and suddenly they would work in tandem as they intervened – Nicholas with fists and Vash with words.
And yet, and yet, even with all these incidents further convincing Vash that he and Nicholas make a really good team together, he can’t help but notice the way Nicholas would draw back when things start to cascade into a comfortable pace. Gaze averted whenever he gets caught staring for too long, fingers curled into fists every time Vash moves closer, chin ducked when Vash aims a smile at him.
It had been three weeks since he left Sheryl and Lina’s home when he finally gathered the courage to ask another question. It wasn’t much of a courage to begin with, really, considering Nicholas’ drunk state as he balanced himself on a rickety chair in an inn they’d fought tooth and nail to get. “Why are you scared of me?” Vash had queried through the fog of his buzzing brain, which had seemed to propel Nicholas into a moment of sobriety judging by the abrupt quirk of his left eyebrow.
“W’makes ya think that?” he’d countered in that indolent manner of his, a bearing so laidback it could fool anyone who hadn’t seen him in action.
“It’s in your eyes.”
Nicholas did it again then; averting his gaze, ducking his chin, except this time his ears had matched the colours of his shades. Vash had found it rather endearing when he did that, but he couldn’t live with the notion of Nicholas fearing him. “Well,” said Nicholas, taking a swig out of his cheap bottle of whiskey with his cigarette balanced between his fingers. “Ya thought wrong, blondie.”
Vash had learned the pattern of pet names too. While “needle-noggin” topped the charts as the default one, he noticed that “blondie” was often used when Nicholas was getting relatively emotional. Whether that man is aware of that patterned habit or not, Vash silently cherishes it, mostly out of fear that Nicholas might drop it all altogether should Vash one day decide to be an idiot and point it out.
Still, none of his input had placated Vash. Somehow, it was important – vital – to him that Nicholas was comfortable around him. That he would be willing to lower his guard around someone whom he was supposed to be close with. Because if there was anything he had learned over the course of a month spending his time with Nicholas, it was they were supposed to be two peas in a pod. But then Vash didn’t want to appear desperate in front of someone who was already struggling to make himself look robust. Granted, Nicholas wasn’t doing a very good job hiding himself, but Vash didn’t want to tear his pride.
So he had sat there beside the tipsy Nicholas in tacit understanding, relenting as he traced his finger on the lip of his empty glass. It’s okay, he had thought to himself, chest squeezing with a phantom emotion. After all, what was one more sacrifice to Vash?
But just as he had started to relinquish his feelings, the man beside him slurred, “Ya may be scary, Vash. But m’not afraid.”
The way his name sounded from Nicholas’ lips sent tingles all over Vash’s skin, kindling that phantom emotion into a brief flare, only diminishing as quickly as his curbed memories. Nicholas hadn’t said it to sound valiant or bold. Instead, his voice was swathed with such earnestness that it was on the verge of unfurling the man and his buried anguishes altogether, divulging an underlying meaning that he had fought so hard to keep at bay.
While Vash was dimly aware that it might be the alcohol thinning his inhibitions, he appreciated the honesty nonetheless, even if it felt like he was interfering with a secret with Nicholas’ conscience.
“Is that why they put a bounty on my head?” Vash had questioned lightly. “I’m scary and dangerous? That’s it, right? Why they call me the Humanoid Typhoon?”
Apparently, those sentences had set off something within Nicholas, because soon the man put down his bottle on the table with a resounding clack and twisted to level Vash with eyes that were so filled with—
“S’not your fault, blondie,”
And when Vash’s face contorted with perplexity that gradually morphed into dread, Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the area between his eyebrows.
“Shit.”
“Nicholas?”
“Please,” Nicholas had looked at him again, his shades long gone to reveal the longing in his eyes. “Just – Wolfwood. Please.”
“Okay. Wolfwood?”
And perhaps it was because Vash had been staring for too long, or that Nicholas – Wolfwood – was losing his inhibitions bit by bit, or because Vash’s head was running rampant on the thought of how easy it was to fall for someone like him, that he barely reacted when Wolfwood leaned forward and caught his mouth in a kiss.
It had been quick and sloppy, slipping at an awkward angle before Wolfwood pulled back and rested his head on Vash’s shoulder. “Thought you were dead, needles,” came his slurred voice, muffled against the dip of his collarbone. He had curled his fist into the smooth fabric of Vash’s borrowed shirt, but it contained no strength as the man uttered one more confession before slipping into a deep slumber, “God, I’ve missed you.”
Up until now, Vash still isn’t unsure of what his relationship with Wolfwood had been like before he lost his memories. Well, the puzzle pieces are there, but Vash isn’t the most confident – or optimistic, let’s face it – when it comes to assessing how well people perceive him, not when he’s already too deluged with self-deprecation to begin with. Granted, when Wolfwood roused from his drunken state that night a couple of weeks ago, the man returned to his default grouchy self as though nothing had happened at all. Vash decided then that the kiss would be stowed away in oblivion, unbidden by a relentlessly coherent mind. It is only out of respect for the walls Wolfwood had built around himself that Vash doesn’t mention exactly how he had managed to get all tangled within Wolfwood’s embrace the entire night, blaming it on the alcohol and frigid night air.
But if there’s another thing that Vash can get out of this, it is that he doesn’t have trouble evaluating his feelings around Wolfwood.
Of course, he can grant Wolfwood the credit for trying to appear unlovable, what with his snarky comments and chain-smoking habit. An idiot Vash may be, but he’s not blind. Those charcoal brown eyes have revealed too much, and it isn’t exactly Vash’s fault that Wolfwood himself is easy on the eyes too; so brazenly handsome and solicitous – so human – for someone who asserts an unwavering stance on being morally corrupt.
It is no surprise that Vash has found himself drawn to everything about Wolfwood; from the stubborn set of his jaws coming undone whenever Vash makes a compromising solution, the rasp in his voice softening around children, his steely gaze glazing over when he’s trying to calm Vash down after finding him thrashing around in his sleep – courtesy to his nebulous amnesiac nightmares. For someone so chiselled, Vash sometimes wonders whether Wolfwood is aware of how gentle he can be. Because by the looks of it, he seems deadest on believing otherwise, and it makes Vash want to dip into the depths of his soul and pry apart any thorny veins that have clawed their way into his unblemished heart.
It’s so easy to love Wolfwood.
No, literally, Vash thinks dreamily as he watches Wolfwood approach him with a bag of something baked and sweet wafting out of it. The suns were already setting by the time they arrived in town over an hour ago, so they decided to divide and conquer; Vash taking care of getting some rooms while Wolfwood set out in search of food.
“Ya haven’t eaten, right?” says Wolfwood, handing the bag over.
“Have you been observing my meal schedules today?” Vash simpers, just to be a little shit.
“Don’t know if ya noticed, but you’ve been holed up in that sidecar for a whole damn day, needles,” Wolfwood deadpans. “’Course I’d notice.”
“I’m okay, though,” Vash pats his stomach like there would be a display indicating he’s still fully charged. “You can have them, being the driver and all.”
“Hm. Guess I’ll have to throw these doughnuts out then.”
Almost eagerly, Vash peers inside and feels a grin break across his face. “Exactly my favourite flavour!” he says brightly, completely unabashed as he wastes no time to ransack the glazed doughnuts.
Wolfwood’s face is contorted between a half-grimace and amusement as he watches Vash scarf down a doughnut in one bite. “Jeez, slow down, needle-noggin,” he comments. “Nobody’s tryna steal them from you.”
Vash remembers his manners. “You want one?”
“Eh, not much of a doughnut guy,” he shrugs. “Already grabbed myself a sandwich along the way anyway.”
“More for me, then,” he grins mouthful, somehow casting aside his moral conscience altogether.
Wolfwood’s lips quirk into a soft smile that he tries so hard to morph into a sneer. “You’re sharing with your hair, too?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve got – icing … all over …” Wolfwood reaches out and brushes away strands of blond hair that have gotten plastered to his cheeks. There’s a small frown forming on his eyebrows when the strands stubbornly come undone, so he tucks them behind Vash’s ears, completely unaware of how red they’ve become. “Can’t ya tie your hair more properly?”
“Have you tried tying your hair with one arm before?” Vash challenges, more out of indignance than mere curiosity.
“Yet you’ve always managed to singlehandedly knock down men twice your size,”
“Because I can see them in front of me,” Vash reasons. “Besides, my hair never looks for trouble.”
Wolfwood squints at him, unconvinced. “I beg to differ,”
“Okay, you try doing it with one hand then!”
“Oh yeah?”
Vash realises he’s made a mistake – a huge one – as Wolfwood moves behind him to assume the stance of a hairstylist, gently cradling Vash’s unruly ponytail within his palm. The man’s warm breath fans across the nape of his neck, followed soon by the ghostly caress of his stubbled jaw on the exposed skin there, sending shivers all over Vash’s body. Soon his wrist rests on the back of his neck, fingers working into his hair.
Wait—
“Are you— you’re cheating!” Vash accuses, swatting Wolfwood’s face away from his hair when he realises the man has used his teeth to pull the hair tie free while his other hand is clenched around the ponytail.
“Your fault for not setting ground rules, needles,” Wolfwood says smugly, chuckling when Vash lets out a relented scoff. “Okay, you’re right. I can’t do it without hurting your pretty lil’ head.”
Like a fool, Vash is momentarily awestruck by Wolfwood calling his head pretty.
“Here, lemme fix it …”
And oh doesn’t that feel nice, to have Wolfwood’s fingers sift through his hair and scalp as he gathers all loose strands and ties them up into a neater ponytail. Vash has considered getting a haircut, but he lets himself indulge with the fact that nobody will recognise him immediately like this, what with his clear glasses to add to the anonymity – it’s no wonder nobody has made the connection between him and his bounty posters yet. Glasses. They work wonders.
(A small, greedy part of him yearns for Wolfwood’s gentle touch, hoping if he could just keep it like this, the man will take it upon himself to find ways to hold him.)
“Thank you, Wolfwood,” Vash smiles serenely at him afterwards. “And for the doughnuts, too. It’s rare to get these flavours, you know.”
Wolfwood ducks his head, face completely obscured by the brim of his hat. “Well, they’re your favourite, aren’t they?”
The man doesn’t give Vash the opportunity to feel remotely charmed before he steers Vash in the direction of their inn. It is only when they’ve entered their room that Vash says, “Tell me more.”
Wolfwood pauses at the process of lighting his cigarette to throw Vash a puzzled look. “Tell you what?”
Vash sits down on the bed, facing him with his back straight, as if he’s preparing himself for a bedtime story. “About myself,”
“About—?”
“Like, what I used to do – whether I still have those habits now …” he says, gesturing aimlessly at himself. “Whether I’m still the old me, you know?”
Wolfwood observes him for a few seconds, numerous contemplations flashing in his eyes. As for Vash, he is already bracing himself for a negative response, simply settling for a change of topic predictably looming just around the corner of Wolfwood’s head. Though, he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case, having grown accustomed to Wolfwood’s reserved nature and his tendency to eschew anything remotely close to personal. In fact, he’d easily empathise with any refusals coming from the man, even if deep down Vash longs to gauge how well Wolfwood knows him.
When the silence starts to stretch really thin, Wolfwood perches his leg on the stretcher of his chair and takes a drag out of his cigarette. “How bad is it?”
Change of topic. See?
“’It’?” Vash echoes, slightly more interested in the vagueness of the statement rather than his grim vindication.
Wolfwood gestures vaguely at Vash’s head. “Your … memory,”
Subconsciously, Vash’s hand lifts to touch the stump on his left shoulder. “I can’t recall a life I had before waking up in Sheryl’s home,” he tells him truthfully. “There are dreams every now and then … but I can’t tell which one of them is real or not.”
“Like what?”
It’s Vash turn to squint at Wolfwood now. “You’re changing the topic!”
“I’m expanding on a topic,” Wolfwood counters. “If any, you’re the one deflecting the question, needles.”
Vash can’t help the laugh bubbling out of his mouth. “You’re full of shit, Wolfwood.”
The man blinks at him, amusement curling at the corners of his eyes before he raises his forefinger and points at Vash. “That.”
“What?”
“Since when’d you cuss?”
“Hey, I cuss!”
“Not often – not out loud, anyway,”
As much as Vash wants to refute the claim, he lets Wolfwood have it if it means getting his questions answered. “How often did I used to cuss, then?”
At this, Wolfwood’s ears turn that adorable deep shade of maroon as he takes a deeper drag out of his cigarette. He blows the smoke out the window and suddenly looks so interested in the warped windowsill. “Can’t ya ask a more normal question, like, I don’t know – your favourite fuckin’ colour?”
Vash shrugs. “Easy. It’s red.”
“Oi, thought I was the one answering the question?”
“You’re not even answering mine!”
“Then, change the topic!”
“Something wrong with me cussing?”
“No?”
“You’re a bad liar, Wolfwood,” Vash snickers, coming around to crowd into Wolfwood’s personal space.
The man grunts under the weight of Vash’s unrelenting gaze. “There’s a whole ass space right there, needle-noggin’,” says Wolfwood, spreading his arm towards the empty chair, though he isn’t making any effort to scoot anywhere.
Vash hums. “I like yours better,”
Wolfwood scoffs half-heartedly, cocking an eyebrow up at Vash as if in a challenge. “Want me to tell ya more ‘bout yourself?” he says lightly. “Here’s one; you’re as annoying as before.”
Vash feigns a contemplative expression. “I’ve been told I’m rather charming,”
Vash is pressing his buttons on purpose, and it seems to be working, if the quiver of Wolfwood’s smile-restrained lips serves any indication. Eventually, the man caves in with a huff of laughter. Seeing this, Vash’s lips widen, chest blooming with warmth. Wolfwood is very mesmerising like this; when he is stripped of his inhibitions and lets the rest of his mask fall open for viewing, muscles loosening up in adherence to his emotions; when he grabs the reins of his own integrities rather than let his hardships decide how he should act.
There are not a lot of things that Vash wants in his life – besides striving for love and peace, that is. Even if he does crave something, it isn’t for himself, not when he has laid his heart bare for those who might need it. Besides, one body can’t carry such a monumental force. And God knows the whole planet needs something as naïve yet so colossal as harmony. For someone who has recently just started rediscovering himself, Vash is certain that no matter how badly he’s damaged, the seedling of hope budding inside him will remain a constant as long as he lives.
Yet, as he stands in the shoddy inn room in front of Wolfwood, Vash can’t help the longing winding through his ribs in search of the heart’s cradle, drumming away along his pulse points to string together a rhythm of emotion so abounding he might suffocate on it. He might cry, actually, thinking about just how much he wants—
“Hey, blondie,”
Vash shakes himself from reverie, not realising Wolfwood has stood up and is now standing so close that Vash can count the fine hair dusting his jaw. “Hm?”
“Anyone ever told you to tone down your staring?” Wolfwood’s voice is soft as he says it, the perfect kind of raspy that makes Vash want to—
“What are you gonna do about it?”
“Bold as ever, aren’t you?” Wolfwood tilts his head aside, cocking an eyebrow like he’s trying to seize him up.
Vash’s eyes follow the man’s movements as Wolfwood takes the cigarette from his mouth and stubs it into the ashtray. While he’s busy doing that, Vash intently watches the way his thick ink-black lashes flutter over his cheekbones, trails the curve of his long nose before finally settling on his lips. One corner of his mouth, Vash notices, seems to be permanently hooked in the ghost of a sneer, ready to put up a derisive façade at any given moment. But very few people have witnessed how wide and lovely his smile is when he lets himself feel.
“Y’know,” Wolfwood notes, settling his gaze on Vash. “Last time someone looked at me like that, he got laid.”
Suddenly feeling encouraged, Vash takes a risk. “Do I know this person?”
Wolfwood shrugs one shoulder, appearing nonchalant. “I guess,” he says. “But poor guy’s havin’ trouble remembering himself.”
“That’s unfortunate,”
“Sure is,” Wolfwood heaves a dramatic sigh. “So unless you wanna end up in my line of desires, blondie, lower your gaze.”
Sensing the direction of this conversation, Vash stands his ground, jutting out his chin for effect. “I don’t mind,”
Which is all it takes for Wolfwood to forgo the rest of his inhibitions. With a step forward, he grabs Vash by the back of his neck and kisses him so hard Vash’s vision explodes into a nebula. The sudden force knocks him into a wooden dresser, and instantly his arm snakes around Wolfwood’s waist like that’s the only source of balance he can find purchase with. Vash pulls him closer until he’s leaning back on the narrow surface of the dresser, until the comfortable weight of Wolfwood’s chest presses against his. He doesn’t waste any more second entertaining the nudge of Wolfwood’s lips, angling his head and inhaling the smell of cigarette – and is that cheese – like his own body is responding to muscles long trained to do this.
Vash can’t help but sense the urgency in which Wolfwood’s hands explore him, clinging to his body as if fearing Vash might vanish into thin air at any second, his mouth hot and dripping with want. And Vash worms his way into that aching, trying to root out all his problems and see whether he shares a similar catch. Suddenly, that night a few weeks ago bubbles up at the back of his head, its presence unwarranted as Vash inadvertently recalls the way drunk Wolfwood laid his head on his shoulder and told him how much he missed him. I thought you were dead.
So while his kisses are lined so profoundly with desperation and hunger, Vash takes it upon himself to soothe Wolfwood by placing his palm on his underjaw, guiding him into a gentler stride. A low whine reverberates from the back of Wolfwood’s throat at the gradually protracting pace, but he falls in step nonetheless as he inclines his head for a better angle.
With Vash kissing him back, nose pressing into his warm cheek and feeling stubble grazing his jaw, Wolfwood’s other hand settles on the dip of Vash’s waist. His fingers are splayed out and digging into the fabric of Vash’s shirt, rucking it up in the process. It takes Vash a few seconds to realise that this man is trembling.
So Vash pulls back momentarily and immediately finds Wolfwood’s eyes glossing over with unshed tears. Knowing how much this man hates being seen in a state he deems “vulnerable”, Vash leans forward and presses a kiss at the corner of his mouth, quietly relishing in the way Wolfwood lets out a shaky exhale. “I’m here,” he whispers, leaning into the tightening of Wolfwood’s embrace. “I’m here, Nick …”
He has just barely turned his head when Wolfwood’s mouth finds his once more, this time mellower despite the tension that lingers like dying embers. “You’re really here,” Wolfwood mutters against his mouth.
It’s not fair that Wolfwood is the only one enduring some kind of grief between the two of them, while Vash’s two-year coma chipped away at his memories. Even now as Wolfwood presses himself further against Vash, he still can’t conjure any semblance of recollection about their previous relationship. Of course, the only thing keeping Vash grounded is the very notion that Wolfwood is someone whom he won’t have trouble falling for.
“I’m really here,” Vash whispers back.
A hesitant tongue nudges his bottom lip, drawing a sigh from Vash’s throat as he opens his mouth wider to indulge in the craving. So with Wolfwood braving his way in, Vash’s hand skims his arm, fingers teasing beneath the cuffs of his sleeves that it’s hard not to miss the way Wolfwood shivers against him.
“Tell me to stop,” Wolfwood rasps against his mouth as his own fingers scuttle beneath the hem of Vash’s shirt. “Vash, tell me to stop.”
At this point, Vash has hoisted himself up on the dresser and brackets Wolfwood closer with his knees folded behind his thighs, not wanting to stop just yet because apparently, he’s as desperate – as needy – as Wolfwood. One of Wolfwood’s hands has slid beneath his shirt and is now settling on the metal grid over Vash’s heart, his touch so gentle, so warm. When callused fingers brush into his hair, Vash leans into it like a touch-starved creature, letting Wolfwood slant into him; his mouth, his jaw, his neck, murmuring praises like “angel” and “sweetheart” and “you beautiful thing” – none of which Vash deserves in any shape, form or sentiment; all of which send his mind into orbit anyway.
The longer Wolfwood whispers those adorations against his skin, the harder it becomes for Vash to ignore the hot, prickly sensations squeezing his throat and stinging the back of his eyelids. God, he knew he might become a sobbing mess, but not like this when Wolfwood is busy admiring him with his mouth. But soon enough, Vash’s emotion gets the better of him, prompting him to nip the bottom of Wolfwood’s lip, drawing a sharp breath from the man himself.
“Sorry,” he whispers, pecking it to make up for his abrupt wanton edge.
Wolfwood’s ever-gentle hands are now cupping his face and looks into his eyes, one corner of his mouth quirked. “Always apologizin’ for something, aren’t ya, sweetheart?” he says softly. “I’m all yours, Vash.”
Which is how they end up on the bed a few minutes later, with Vash straddling Wolfwood’s lap and running his mouth down the column of the man’s neck, that phantom emotion finally set ablaze in his chest. Wolfwood’s fingers are still nestled in Vash’s hair, his mouth still murmuring worship, completely caved into Vash’s wants like he has been here before. Like he has touched him in all the right places before, drawing out sighs and whimpers from Vash’s throat and swallowing them all in.
He doesn’t know what has come over him to pin Wolfwood down like that, to trace his thumb along the man’s lips, to drink the desire for emancipation from Wolfwood’s gaze. It is only when he sees the tears spilling out of the man’s eyes does he finally succumb to his own phantom aches – still burning, still raging – nuzzling his nose into the dip of Wolfwood’s collarbone and inhaling his ash-ridden, sun-bitten skin.
“S’wrong, angel?” Wolfwood chokes out, bringing up his knees to bracket Vash in place this time.
Vash shakes his head, burying his face further into Wolfwood’s neck with his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry I left,” he murmurs.
Those strong arms engulf him once more, prompting Vash to lie pliant on top of him. “Do me a favour, won’t ya, sweetheart?” he says thickly. “You had nothin’ to do with anything that happened before.”
“But I don’t … remember …”
“Do you trust me?”
Without a doubt. “I do.”
“Then believe me when I say this,” Wolfwood tilts Vash’s chin up to face him, eyes glassy and pleading. “None of it is your fault. If any, it’s mine.”
In his chest, Vash feels his heart break a little. Frustration seeps through and gnaws at his bones, once again festering a sense of feebleness inside him. If he could only just remember—
“Nope, don’t do that,” Wolfwood shakes his head.
“Do what?”
“I know how your brain works, needles,” Wolfwood lightly knocks a knuckle on the crown of Vash’s head. “You’re tryna shoulder the blame. And I ain’t lettin’ you do that.”
Vash frowns. “You don’t know what I’m thinking,”
“Try me,” Wolfwood sets his jaw. “Let’s see; you were gonna dig around my words and trace it back to before you lost your memories, then you were gonna find ways to justify the shit I did and pin the blame on yourself, ‘cause you believe you’re more expandable than me and everyone on this godforsaken planet since you believe that we all have a chance at salvation. How’d I do?”
Vash’s retort dangles from the tip of his tongue, staring at Wolfwood with defiance even though he knows very well the man has got the upper hand in this argument this time. So instead of coming up with a rebuttal that might only downplay Wolfwood’s efforts at being a sympathising gentleman, Vash mumbles, “I was going to say that you don’t have to shoulder it alone.”
The blink Wolfwood aims at him is so slow that Vash can’t help but squirm a little. “C’mere,” the man murmurs, pulling Vash back to his chest. “Ya should take your own advice, sometimes, sweet one. You’re breakin’ my heart.”
“Sorry.”
The sigh that the man lets out lightly ruffles Vash’s hair. “Can’t never win with you, can I?”
This time, the apology hovers at Vash’s mouth. So instead of entertaining the thought any further, Vash says, “Is that all of me?”
“Hm?”
“I asked you earlier … whether you can tell me more about myself,” Vash explains, his finger idly tracing circles around the rosary on Wolfwood’s chest. “To see whether I still do them now.”
“What, being a stubborn jackass?” Wolfwood flicks Vash’s earring. “I’d say pretty much.”
Vash chuckles, yelping a bit when he feels Wolfwood’s fingers pinch his side.
“Guess I could go on,” Wolfwood hums. “But that’s a topic for another night.”
Vash braces his arm across Wolfwood’s chest and props his chin there. “Tomorrow?”
And there it is, the warm smile pulling at Wolfwood’s mouth as he brushes the pad of his thumb against the mole beneath Vash’s left eye. “Tomorrow, then.”
It is so easy to love Wolfwood.