to the future —

Not entirely, he knows that guilt can't just evaporate like that, but...

He closes his eyes, rubbing his face. "Jeez, you really are different. Same but," he lets his head roll on his shoulder, looking up at the Stampede, eyebrows relaxing, relief playing on his features. It's not complete, it's not whole, but it's enough for him allow himself to indulge, maybe a little.

Even if it's not sinful, he's still a sinner. But maybe that's alright.

"Fuckin' hell. I'm glad to hear that. The guy 'fore you, he...Well, not with me, but he definitely...You know, put his own feelin's aside, an'..." It did worry him, sometimes, deep down. But there was so much there that worried him, about himself, his own feelings. "I never wanted to hurt him like that - don't wanna hurt you like that."

He doesn't take another drink, instead indulging in the light feeling. "Didn't mean to get heavy, I jus' wanted to know, well, you know. Thank you." He chuckles, covering his face.

Sounds like proof his past self hadn't treated Wolfwood well. He was still responsible for those trespasses, even if he didn't remember them.

"Careful. Not sure I'm much better than him." He could at least give the undertaker that much of a warning. "Might even be worse, some ways."

A shake of the head. Better or worse, different or same, Vash doesn't want to waste any focus on solving what's become indefinitely uncertain.

"You've changed too, y'know? Or, rather, you're... different from how I've known you, too." Spirale was heavenly compared to Noman's Land. Being made to live with his past self on this lonely ship for those same years that their desert planet counterparts were separated... it's shaped much of who this Wolfwood's decided to be.

"You like it?" He can't decided on how he feels about that revelation, but he does shift over, closing the gap between them on the couch. He doesn't want the Stampede to think it's a bad thing.

"It's more like. Fuck, I haven't known what to do since you got here." It's different, now. It's the same in a lot of ways, but different in so many ways as well.

It's tugging at his heart, it's keeping him steady. He's not sure which way he's going or not. He wants to say (he didn't like it much), but he holds his tongue. It's comforting, in one way, to know that they're different. And in another way, it's a dagger in his chest.

Instead, he lets his head lean on the back of the couch, looking up at the Stampede. He's way more assured, but it makes Nicholas feel unmoored in comparison.

"I don't think you should leave that judgment to me, first off. Or that flirting's sinful." Vash keeps sitting where he is, neither retreating or making any move to touch Wolfwood. The other man closing the gap felt a bit forced, the way he seemed to try and wring courage out of himself with alcohol just now. "You ought to trust yourself more. Though I get that that's easy for me to say."

He tries a smile at that, but it doesn't hold up for long against deep, aching concern.

So of course he takes the shot, quietly, intensely, wine being given at communion. The bullet hits home, and the alcohol burns down his throat. Done, he stares intently at the Stampede, brow furrowed.

Yeah, that was enough of an answer for him.

He's not sure what to do with that information, now that he has it. And he's not even sure the answer he wanted to hear, feeling far too many conflicting emotions.

Mourning with one inhale, moving forward with an exhale.

He frowns, wanting to see Wolfwood relax a little after being given what he's asked. It must have been bothering him badly, to be settling for alcohol he doesn't like.

He's completely put himself in the losing situation (when wasn't he). And now it's do or die. And he promised not to die.

"I mean, what the hell man - you know well as I do it wasn't a dream, it was the Stars fuckin' with our heads. Not that I wouldn't-" Fuck. "That's besides the point, look, it's one of the only thing I can remember, and I just wanna know where we're at, and-"

He grimaces, begrudgingly admitting, very quietly under his breath:

"Happy to hear that," he whispers back.

The teasing look in Vash's eyes gives way to a fond adoration, before he tilts his head to take his shot. Wolfwood deserves an answer.

His tongue swipes out to nab the rest of the Bride from his lips, the stolen drink simultaneously raised up in an ostensible offering to the other man. But Vash isn't letting go of the glass. Intent on tipping it all into Wolfwood's mouth himself, his expression stays as focused as he is when placing shots.

When the gunslinger pulls back to replace their glasses on the table, he also returns to where he was initially sitting, figuring that Wolfwood would want some space.

"This stuff sucks, fuck. I should've gotten something better."

Being so hasty as to not even watch Vash take his first shot made more sense, then; it was more about giving himself the liquid courage to say this at all. It worked, at least!

"Meaning you've never dreamt about me doing that t'you before? Or maybe you've never dreamed about me, altogether." Was that a pout starting to show on Vash's face? He is starting to look a little put-out, even though he leans over to reach for the bottle.

Undrunk shot in his other hand, he refills Wolfwood's glass, setting the bottle down with a hum. When the undertaker would reach for it, Vash would intercept the move by stealing the other glass, momentarily preventing Wolfwood from taking his owed drink back.

He's mortified, he's also not sure that the Stampede would have gotten drunk quick enough for him to not just chicken out. Exhaling, he turns, gaze intense.

"Yeah."

Do what?

(Hold it together, Wolfwood.)

Picking up one of the shot glasses, he hands it to the Stampede, conspicuously avoiding eye contact, settling on his chest, and then tilting his head so he's looking fully away.

"Anyway. I'm pretty fuckin' sure you were hittin' on me. Which makes me offerin' you a drink ass-backwards, 'cause I'm pretty sure you owe me one for whatever the fuck was goin' on with those ghosts." Not that he wasn't as far as his hazy memories go, already dealing with that.

"That's not a question, by the way," says Vash, once he thinks the undertaker's had enough silent mortification.

That, and, well, if he's gonna stare may as well be close up.

"I've got a question fer ya, 'though it's probably just seemin' like some bullshit fer ya." He starts pouring the shots, the tips of his ears warm with embarrassment.

He'd probably laugh, especially since ultimately the shared dream was harmless, if it didn't all but emphasize the Stars' abilities to enforce every and any impossible whim upon Spirale's reality.

"And here I thought you were gonna hit me with somethin' difficult."

"Y'know, Rem told me once that I was always too serious. N' maybe it's just time, or the food puttin' me in a better mood, but it feels like I oughta' pass it on t'you. That it'll make you an old man early, n' all."

Though they may clash, each colour still holds steady; remorse, mourning, acceptance, hope, understanding. They swirl there, distinguishable in their varying measures, no harsh, unnatural rigidity to be found attempting to block any of them out. Age settles into his eyes; but it's comfortable there, lacking the pull it usually carries around their corners.

"First of all-- I want them, yes." The loss still hurts; the knowledge of just where the two of them had stood, where they could have, still stings. The foot they'd been left on had been unwantedly unsure, and now there's no real way to ever make it entirely balanced. But this-- this closure, surely, in some way, has to sit somewhere aligned with that path. Another being-

For both his past self and this future-alternate to look out for him, despite anticipating the grief he'd bring... Well, he's got much to learn, still—even with how old he already is.

"You really... feel that way, huh." His head's slowly bowed, as though rushing thoughts bear physical weight. Hands stay in his lap, knowing there's no warmth left to steal from the underside of the bowl in front of him. "Thank you. I just didn't want to let that chance for you to go without gettin' pointed out."

When he straightens up, Vash still looks unhappy and anxious, even if the other's words have helped to lighten his heart. No question the other Plant has meant every kind word, however hard it is to internalize, let alone accept. There's still an unease and doubt he holds closer to his heart, easy for the other to read, since it's been put to print for 152 years: how is it possible to move into the future when the past wounds so deeply?

Because he's trying to bring some drinks into the living room, but he can't stop staring. Christ on a motorcycle, he'd been intimate with the guy, and he's seen the scarring, but...

Phew.

Whatever the fuck had changed, either between them or for the Stampede himself, he was a lot more comfortable walking around shirtless. It's not the scarring - he knew about that a long time ago - it's...

Well, it'd been a while, and it was new, and-

He clears his throat, interrupting himself and getting the Stampede's attention, holding up shot glasses. "Booze?"

He's doing his fucking best here.

It's a little nice to see Wolfwood squirm, so Vash decides not to reach his hand out to take a glass, though he's merciful enough to tilt his head toward the unoccupied part of the couch.

Alcohol was something Vash rarely indulged in. The offer coming from his rather skittish roommate makes it all the more intriguing, too.

He tilts his head at the question. "Nope. Never heard of them. At this point, I doubt that there's any transplants here from where I came from, other than me. So, no relation to anyone that you would know."

There's a touch of bitterness in his voice. He still has mixed feelings about being alone on Spirale. He's only human, he can hardly help feeling the pain of it-- even if he doesn't actually want anyone else dragged into this, especially not anyone he knows.

"Noman's Land. It's a desert planet." Vash repositions himself where he stands, then tilts his head. It's a gesture to indicate that he'd walk in the same direction Raiden was going, despite that being where he'd come from to begin with. "We have Cities, n'smaller towns besides. Pockets of people, n'hard living. Humanity's been scattered across, 150 years after the SEEDS fleet was rigged to—... To crash."

Something's wrong; the Stampede only notices after relaying the facts so truthfully. It was far more than he meant to say. And yet he can feel his tongue try to shape the rest: I was the one who crashed the ships.

Back home, this kind of thing would have been only for very rich people. Meryl's certain.

When Vash asks what's on her mind, the former insurance agent gives him a small smile. "Guess my glum mood can't escape you, too, huh?" She asks as she takes a bite of the pineapple part of her flower. She doesn't flinch or make a face, so it's safe to assume she's enjoying the fruit.

"That's... Incredibly unlucky. Sorry about that, Meryl."

He pauses to chew, taking in Meryl's feelings. An irrational part of Vash wishes that placing any fault on himself could help the matter, that perhaps he'd taken up too much of Meryl's time, and besides, he could handle the blame, if it meant she'd feel better.

No: it's a mean twist of fate.

Sour. Vash swallows, then straightens up; with encouraging eyes, he's putting an effort in to gently extend his sympathies, without the cheeriness being contrived. "I wanna know, if you'll tell me more. What kindsa fun things would you want t'do together? She part of the Banana Split Enjoyers Club with you?"

"You trusted me, and so I repaid that trust in kind," he replies. "That is how our relationship has always worked—if not between mentor and client, then at least between angel and charge."

"I had the impression that you didn't wish to worry your companions, which is why you requested private sessions with me."

The same worry rears its head soon enough—he's been warned off, though with calmer caution than the anxious words of the Plant's previous self. Aurelius finds it gratifying that this part of Stamps has stayed consistent all along.

Yet there was something off about the other angel's words he couldn't quite place; the closest he could get to thinking was the concept of time being the only real agent of change, and irresistably so at that. Even then, wasn't there some degree of truth to that kind of thinking?

"I could see them being defensive of my past self," that much he'll allow freely. "Since replacing him, though, I doubt you'll get as much attitude anymore. So, there's that."

It's a surprise to imagine the lot of them as moody and willing to speak on his behalf. Had his past self ever asked for that from them? The Plant can't help but let out a lone, bitter laugh. He's not as sure his spirit is worth that much. Vash thinks to voice it, but decides against it in the end, having enough sense to know it'd be an insult to Aurelius' judgment.

He’s still Vash. He’s still their friend. Even if he can’t remember it, Chara’s Soul remembers.

“Oh.”

They pause, before turning their hands over; indeed, between the parts of their hands already carefully plastered in colorful bandaids, their palms had been scraped too. Wordlessly, Chara offers one hand to him first — keeping the other in their lap. A habit.

He's slower to treat this scrape, knowing well it requires more focused care than the one on their shin. It brings to mind the myriad times Brad had to tune his hand back to proper sync.

"Would you like for me to change these out?" The other bandages don't escape his attention. If Chara would lend their permission, Vash would remove and redress them with fresh supplies. He'd otherwise leave them be.

"Our encounters were sparser than I'd liked," Aurelius replies. "Though it was memory loss that brought you to seek me out, we focused on other topics during that session."

"You were concerned over your powers for a while—specifically, your mastery of them. I was to walk you through that under controlled circumstances...well, you seem to have moved beyond such concerns now."

He looks up with a curious smile.

His last experience in the world he'd been taken from was the first use of that power since he'd taken away the metropolis of Lost JuLai. It wasn't a matter of going out of control; that "wing" had been forced out, twisting and undulating like the rest of his limbs. There was little resisting that mad puppeteer.

He's anxious to keep talking. It'd make the memory pass quicker.

"But you're not like me." Brows knit together. The Plant doesn't sense that the other man is anything like an Independent, despite his looks. "Wait. Why would I come to you, and not...?"

And not the other Vash? Was Aurelius even aware about this alternate self? Or had this mentoring relationship formed by the other Vash's suggestion? He's at a total loss.

"I... I'm still dangerous. Even if I've got a better handle on it now." Better to forgo any pretending that he's human, then, though it stings to admit it. Warning Aurelius properly took priority; it's by pure accident that it sounds anything like a threat. "What do I owe you, then?"