LOVE&PEACE

for  warm  drinks,  kitchen  conversations,  &  warm  hugs.

you  didn't  have  to  bring  me  anything.

you  always  know  exactly  how  i  take  it.

it's  still  warm  -  take  mine.

you  can  stay  here,  as  long  as  you  need.

sit,  i  made  enough  for  both  of  us.

today  feels  like  a  quiet  kind  of  day.

let  me  pull  the  cookies  out  of  the  oven.

your  hands  are  freezing.

you  fell  asleep  on  the  couch  again.

i'll  be  here  when  you  wake  up.

you  can  tell  me,  or  we  can  just  sit  here.

i  have  no  idea  what's  in  this  but  it  tastes  good.

i  needed  this.

it's  chilly  out  there.  stay  a  little  longer.

i  didn't  make  any  plans  today.  just  this.

you  looked  like  you  needed  something  warm  to  hold.

there's  an  extra  blanket  on  the  couch.

i  didn't  have  the  heart  to  wake  you.

this  room  looks  beautiful  when  the  sun  comes  through  the  window.

for those hard conversations you have to have sometimes. romantic, platonic, familial, & a few others!

i  don't  know  how  to  say  this  without  hurting  you.

you've  been  so  different  lately...

i've  been  trying  to  say  this  for  a  while  now.

i  know  i  messed  up.  i  just  need  you  to  listen.

did  you  fall  out  of  love  with  me?

you  don't  have  to  forgive  me.

at  what  point  did  you  decide  i  wasn't  worth  the  effort?

why  didn't  you  tell  me?

why  is  love  in  this  family  always  conditional?

please  just  say  something.

i've  spent  my  whole  life  trying  to  be  enough  for  you.

i'm  scared  if  we  talk  about  this,  we're  going  to  fall  apart.

do  you  even  want  to  fix  this  anymore?

you  were  supposed  to  be  the  one  person  who  wouldn't  give  up  on  me!

tell  me  what  to  do.  tell  me  what  you  need.

if  this  is  the  end,  i  want  to  hear  you  say  it.

i'm  scared  you're  only  here  because  it's  easier  to  stay.

i  can't  keep  pretending  nothing  happened.

you  left  me  to  clean  up  the  pieces  of  what  you  broke.

you  act  like  you're  fine  but  i  can  tell  you're  not.

i  can't  keep  holding  this  in  anymore.

it  feels  like  you  don't  need  me  anymore.

was  it  easier  to  ghost  me  than  admit  you  gave  up?

say  it.  say  you  never  loved  me.

when  did  we  stop  being  on  the  same  side?

sometimes  i  wish  i'd  never  met  you.

loving  someone  isn't  supposed  to  feel  like  this.

why  is  it  so  hard  to  talk  to  you  without  feeling  small?

i'm  tired  of  being  the  one  who  holds  it  all  together.

if  you  cared,  you  would've  stayed.

His hand squeezes Vash's once, then bunches the handkerchief and pushes it lightly into the blond's palm before he slowly, carefully turns around. Handling Vash like this may as well be as dangerous as disarming a bomb or being in a glass art store with a backpack on. If he fucks up now, there's a pretty good chance the Stampede bolts like the crack of a whip.

Wolfwood is forced now to meet those brilliant blues like they're an oasis in the desert and he's ten days out of civilization on every side—sun shining on water—blue. So blue. If he looks close enough, maybe he'll see those enigmatic markings that he could get lost in while tracing them like he would a maze. They put his dull, gray eyes to shame and then some. Still lost in thought, Wolfwood gingerly takes the same hand he had before and holds it without the added task of blotting blood. The scratches are already healed.

He takes a deep breath, shaking nearly enough for one to believe he's cold. Wolfwood knows he's hesitating. His eyes flit down to Vash's lips before returning shamefully to his eyes. "Don't think you have the wrong idea about anything I just said. There's only one way to interpret it. If you won't believe that I'm selfish, then..."

The undertaker's brow furrows with determination as he gently takes hold of the side of Vash's red, red face, softly bringing him up from his slump. He makes eye contact one more time, then tilts his head subtly to dive in for a kiss, closing his eyes as though if he opens them Vash will disappear. He keeps their lips close, his face still tilted to the side to avoid eye contact if he does open them again.

It's unbelievable to him immediately that he just kissed Vash. Vash the Stampede. The man he led to his own doom, to JuLai's doom—that guy. Regardless, whether Vash leaves or not, Wolfwood needed to do that. He was not going to let the blond go without doing it once. No regrets.

Wolfwood is the one who turns, takes his hand, holds his gaze. He doesn’t squirm or shrink. Perhaps it’s difficult for the man to do so when Vash is likely looking like a wet dog, sulking and every bit as pathetic as he feels. It gives him time to study his face, and he does. Wolfwood has the face of a man who deserves to live in peacetime, doing whatever it is brings him joy simply for the sake of it. Crow’s feet and smile lines would suit him. Vash’s fingers twitch and curl where Wolfwood holds him, palm so warm it feels borderline numb. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

Surely Wolfwood’s shaking isn’t. Vash squeezes his hand, his own chest feeling tight. He’s waiting for the push, the shove, but it doesn’t come. He may have to correct himself forever, because Wolfwood doesn’t shove. His hand fits so nice against his it distracts him, eyes jumping between his eyes and their entangled hands. Calloused, seasoned for survival. They mirror each other in that way.

His attention refocuses when Wolfwood speaks again. Before Vash can question him, Wolfwood holds his face and something in Vash shatters at behind held in such a gentle manner, his heart jumping into his throat as Wolfwood guides him up. He doesn’t catch what Wolfwood is doing until lips press against his own, Vash’s eyes fluttering just shy of shut. It’s over before he can catch his breath.

Vash makes a pitifully soft sound, staring beyond Wolfwood’s dark fringe. Someone wants him there with them. Wolfwood wants him here.

As he attempts to grapple with being wanted, something both a concept and a fear Vash has dealt with since the dawn of his time on this planet, he feels something hot and wet roll down his cheek. He sniffles, turning his head into his shoulder before he really loses it to sheepishly wipe it away.

He tries to keep his eyes from welling up. His voice fails him, but it’s pointless anyway, he’d be given away by the crack he knows would come should he try to vocalize anything. Besides, Wolfwood was practically baring his soul to Vash with action, shouldn’t he do the same?

Stars above does he want to.

Vash. Watching him. What a cruel joke it is that someone as incredible and too good for this world as Vash wants to see more of him—of Wolfwood—doing mundane things. It's cruel because he wants it too, wants to see Vash take things slowly, just one day at a time. He wants to see Vash make shitty coffee each morning and happily eating meals.

Worst of all, his mind, against his will, has wandered to the idea of placing a hand to Vash's side just to feel his warmth. In bed some nights, Wolfwood imagines what it would be like to sleep with him—not just sharing a bed in a cramped motel, but to really sleep with him, holding him with one of them sidled against the other. He... shamefully has let the thoughts go further than that—leaving him scorning his brain as he takes care of the problem it caused.

This... Vash wanting something... is unheard of. Wolfwood's not sure he's ever heard of Vash wanting anything but for others to distance themselves from him. To say he wants more of something? To be close? What is he...?

He doesn't grab the handkerchief, and in fact matches Vash's step back to place them barely a breath away from each other. Wolfwood still hasn't turned around, but he does lean into the grip on his arm as if seeking comfort, then places his hand over top Vash's to keep it there. He's not sure whether he does this consciously or subconsciously.

"So... you wanted to ditch me so you could watch me live my life from far away," the undertaker thinks aloud, putting puzzle pieces together, "Assumin' that without you in my life, I'd have one to live..."

Wolfwood, for whatever reason, attempts to imagine himself getting close to any other person like he has with Vash. He's touched plenty of other people to shake information out of them or to get his target alone, so he has an idea of—well, he should have an idea of—what he'd want in a partner. Nothing comes to mind, and when he finally forces himself to put someone there, it's Vash. Of course it is.

Ugh. Okay. Something else.

A job. Well, he's got blood staining his hands, so he'd still be in the business of killing. Probably a guard or a bounty hunter.

Or... the Eye comes back and grabs him up. That's the most likely situation. He wouldn't say that's greener pastures. They'd probably have him go back out and find Vash or do his job as an undertaker. As punishment for not returning immediately, maybe they'd just kill him or send him off to die.

All the while, Vash would be watching. Failure after failure, he'd see those sad eyes in his dreams and Wolfwood would know that Vash would just blame himself. Vash knows what'll happen, has probably thought about all of this too, but wants to decide that it's worth the risk if it has a chance at making him happy.

"It's funny," Wolfwood eventually continues as the kettle begins to heat itself with a slight hum, "I... can't really picture myself doin' all of that without you there. Seein' you do all of this mundane stuff has... also made me wanna see more of it. Of you. It's confusing. Scary. Never thought like that in my life, didn't think I'd get that far. Um..."

It feels like he's admitting far too much—like he's revealing his hand, taking off a mask. It's too real. He can feel a harsh blush stretch across his cheeks to his ears.

Vash’s entire body goes rigid when he feels Wolfwood’s hand over his own. The warmth of his calloused fingers permeated through his glove. That panicked, ugly feeling in his chest that sprouted out to his legs just before the stars began to fade at the horizon line is tampered even more, beating Wolfwood’s anger. It’s still present, he fears it might always be, but it’s a pathetic simmer he can push to the corner of his mind right now.

He should want to recoil, pull his hand away and save Wolfwood the trouble, but…he can’t. He can’t, and Vash is cornered in a way he never believe he could be, eyes wide and on the verge of breathless. He isn’t facing the barrel of a gun or running from his life—he’s staring at life ahead of him, and he has the audacity to want it. Cautiously, quietly, but wants it. Whatever it looks like, he just wants Wolfwood in it.

Maybe he’d known this for a while now.

He gapes at Wolfwood, the gut reaction to say of course he could, should, live his life without him only cut back by the hold on his hand the other still has. Instead, he watches Wolfwood ruminate, halfway convinced this little moment of gentle sharing is over and he’ll correct himself and tell Vash to get lost.

Fang to cheek. Vash nips at the inside of his cheek to right his train of thought. Even he is exhausted by himself, sometimes.

Apparently, that is the correct choice, because Wolfwood continues to ground him. “You…” Vash’s hand presses more against Wolfwood’s arm, fingers tightening around the handkerchief, “I’m not convinced you’ve ever done anything selfish in your entire life. I don’t think you have a selfish bone in your body.”

Vash slouches as if he’s being beckoned by the creaky floor to sink into it. Wolfwood wants to see him happy. Wants to be there. He never would’ve thought Wolfwood would be affected in the same way.

If life weren’t so dire, Vash surely would’ve grown up to be the world’s biggest sap. For a second, he pictures it. A calm, simple life, much like the past few days had been for them. Under a solid roof, eating regular meals, having so much free time to exist they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Maybe play cards until dawn, splitting a bottle of whiskey rye and a box of crackers while Wolfwood’s cigarette lays forgotten on an ashtray.

It’s a sweet dream, and stars above does he yearn. It contrasts with the reality they were mere minutes away from diverting to and Vash’s stomach churns against the thought. Vash sags even more forward, enough so his bangs brush against Wolfwood’s shoulder. “Don’t. Please, don’t say things like that. I’ll get the wrong idea. You can’t be too nice to me,” Vash says in a soft laugh, no bite to his bark. He’s dangerously close to falling apart despite himself. “I like the sound of that too much."

"You're such a dumbass," Wolfwood starts, hissing through his teeth and thrusting his gaze down and to the side, "Never thinkin' about the consequences of your own actions, as usual. Drives me up the wall on a normal day, but this straight up pisses me off."

Naturally, his fist tightens within his folded arms; the other hand grips his own arm with enough intensity to leave five finger-shaped bruises tomorrow. Without a cigarette to occupy his thoughts, he settles for biting his own bottom lip.

"You wanna leave? Then leave. Not gonna stop you," he snaps with all the ferocity of a wolf gnashing its teeth, "Point A: You're not just dressed to make your escape, you were halfway out the door. B: Maybe in your spiky head leaving isn't ending your fantasy, somehow, but to me? That's you telling me to fuck off—which, okay. Noted."

His eyes lash back to meet Vash's hosting a glare befitting a beast, yet hiding something gentle, something hurt, something scared inside. Wolfwood enjoyed this too. It has to end, both of them know that, but the undertaker had been hoping to carry on as they were—not dumped in some lone house in the middle of nowhere.

"Third," Wolfwood growls, "There are no such things as greener pastures for me, Blondie. This is it. This is all I have. I can't live a different kinda life. Can't go back home—I don't have a damn home. I searched years for you, damn it. Searched every fuckin' day 'til my legs felt like they'd fall off, and sure, whatever, not sayin' you need to stay—but don't say you're leavin' for my sake. Don't you dare say that."

His nails dig into his own arm until spots of blood boil up from underneath three of them. Dropping them to his sides, he turns a cold shoulder to face the hallway to the stairs, prepared to let Vash do whatever he wants to do while he pretends to sleep.

"Don't go pretendin' you're doin' me a favor and just fuckin' admit that you're runnin' 'cause you're scared. You're scared and you wanna do anything to hurt yourself without sayin' so."

The familiarity doesn’t curb the edge of the sting of Wolfwood’s gaze. Vash sits rigid, uncomfortable, poised as if his body can’t process whether he’s about to get up or sag into the rickety metal chair. He just lets Wolfwood dish out everything he wants to and takes it like a brick wall. A crumbly, disintegrating brick wall. His eyes are wide and mouth slightly cracked, fists tightly closed atop his knees. It’s a fittingly pathetic stance for someone who is in deep shit.

When Wolfwood turns his back to face away from him and says exactly what Vash doesn’t want to hear, he flinches. Let’s them sink in on account of him being too stunned to say anything at all for a moment; Wolfwood was right. He is scared. He’s scared of everything now that it feels he really has something to lose.

Vash is on a fast track to securing the title of “No Man’s Lands’ Biggest Idiot” if it wasn’t already taken.

He realizes with a terrifying finality that if they parted now, if Vash gave into his selfish cowardice, it would be the last time they’d ever see each other. For some reason, that reality hadn’t reached him before now, as if in his fantasy land they would always eventually wind back around. Or he’d get good news about Wolfwood living a good life from the grapevine and toil that he isn’t a part of it, but ultimately resigned to fringe understandings.

What a mess. I’m an ass, he thinks.

It’s then that Vash sees the blood trail down Wolfwood’s arm. “You’re bleeding—“ he shoots out of his chair, patting for something, anything in his coat pocket. He fishes out a handkerchief without a second thought and is invading Wolfwood’s space in an instant. Vash doesn’t think about it until it’s too late and he’s shoving the cloth against Wolfwood’s arm.

Deflect, deflect, deflect. His actions are worthless unless he actually does something meaningful, right?

Vash takes a step back but keeps the cloth where it is, firmly waiting for Wolfwood to grab it. “You’re right. I’m jumping the gun here. I run, and I’m great at running. Seems like it’s the only thing that keeps people around me alive. Keeps me at a distance. I can’t mourn what I never had. When people die, or leave, or whatever—if I’m never there to know, it can’t hurt.”

He shifts, stiff as a board, eyes fixated on Wolfwood’s back. “I do want better for you, though,” he says quietly. “It kept me up at night, being here. Watching you do mundane, everyday things under the cover of this place felt so novel. I…” Vash trails off, the uncertainty of admission creeping up the back of his neck.

Screw it. Who cares if Wolfwood knows how much he watches, notices, absorbs every little thing he does and he thinks Vash is the biggest weirdo on the planet. If they’re tiptoeing around the end (even though Vash takes full responsibility for crashing them into the edge), then he may as well say whatever comes to mind.

Dawn crept up from behind the soft cover of night faster than Vash had hoped it would. The stars were just beginning to dim at the horizon when he tugged his boots on and silently passed through the halls.

Old, creaky floorboards of cobbled-together scrap wood gave him away twice. Vash flinched both times the floor groaned underneath his tread, as if the floor mocked his cowardice to slink away under the cover of darkness while most people would still be peacefully sleeping.

The front door came into view. Vash's fingers itched against the canvas straps of his rucksack. Just as he reaches for the exit, Vash senses a presence behind him.

The footsteps pass by the washroom, continuing towards....

—that bastard.

It seems that he's espied the latter of the two situations he watches out for. In that case, it's time for Wolfwood to get his ass out of bed before he's got a category 5 typhoon event on his hands. Well, out of his hands. Out in the wild.

Without bothering to put on shoes or a shirt, Wolfwood sneaks through the shadows much like his quarry and makes it in time to find Vash at the front door of the small house. It seems like he's leaving. He is leaving.

"Wakin' me up would've been a courtesy compared to what you're doin' now," Wolfwood tries to maintain a calm tone... but he can't lie, this does hurt coming from Vash. "Leavin' without sayin' goodbye to me? What am I, chopped liver?"

There's no use begging for the Typhoon to stay. That's why the undertaker follows him and suggests paths to take and places to go. This is just... well it's personal. It hurts in a way that it shouldn't.

He instinctively reaches for his pack of cigarettes, then remembers he's not wearing a shirt. Just gray sweats. Nothing else. They sleep separately, so he may as well dress however he wants. Tsking, Wolfwood instead resorts to folding his arms and leaning against the wall. Despite himself, there is no hiding the clear pain written all over his face.

Vash can feel his resolve crumble. This, too, is selfish, he thinks.

He sighs, deep and unsteady. The rucksack falls unceremoniously off his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch when it hits the wooden floor with a loud thud.

“No, you’re not chopped liver. You’re—“ his reason to keep fighting? A reminder of everything in humanity Vash holds dear? The life filtering through the cracks in his being, filling them with renewed purpose?

He chokes. Holds his tongue, unable to bring himself to say those things. They’d sound dirty out of his mouth, tainted, despite how true they are. Doesn’t even know if Wolfwood would believe him.

He should leave. It’s for the best. For being older than a century, Vash still doesn’t know how to face people he cares about. His right palm itches, a bodily cue to scram, but he doesn’t. How can he leave now? Not when Wolfwood’s hurt is written on his face so plainly.

The word “partners” cuts deep. That puts the final dollop of pressure that makes him crack. Vash hangs his head for a moment, eyes scanning the kitchen.

He spots a kettle and reaches for the water jug on the counter, filling it enough to put on the pot. He fires up the stovetop, dropping the kettle to boil atop the coil perch before turning to face Wolfwood.

He’s tired. It shows on his face, the purple under his eyes etched where his typically brightness would be. He doesn’t say sorry, just mirrors Wolfwood’s lean against the counter while he waits.

Vash’s gaze falls to the floor. He could spend hours picking apart the seams and cracks, analyzing the chipped edges and imaging the life this little hideaway used to have before they found it abandoned. The couple days of rest was good, necessary, allowed them to decompress in ways typically unaffordable to them. It’s partially the reason for his flightiness gripping him so tightly—the mundanity of living quietly, even if only for a brief time.

"I do talk to you!" he snaps back, letting Vash drag him off his arm by the hair. So many things he's been saying and it turns out that maybe Vash just hasn't heard any of it ever– "I've been screaming at you for years!"

And the entire time he'd thought–had believed the silence–has there ever been a time when Vash was on the other end? He doesn't know. Has Vash ever understood anything at all? "I thought you were ignoring me this whole time, but you don't even hear me, do you?"

(The echoing, empty silence in little Vash's head, terrifyingly alone in his own mind–a steel door between himself and everyone else. Only ever cracked on his terms. His brother's brain may not be exactly the same but he doubts that the baby version of his brother was the anomaly in this.)

He's genuinely thought this whole time that Vash understood, had heard what he didn't say, heard what he'd slipped between them in the silence instead of in the words but no. Not a damn thing.

(A crash, laughing as the ships fell because she's dead instead of here with them and he'll scream otherwise. Is screaming, in the space between himself and Vash, asking Vash why she hadn't loved them enough to stay and his brother abandons him in the sands instead of answering–)

"Do you even remember how we were before Rem ripped us apart?" A question, a demand. He needs to know, but does Vash even remember that far back anymore? Or is this another piece of him he's discarded to replace with other people? (He remembers, startling clarity of the world from two perspectives. The strangeness of only one half being addressed at a time instead of both halves, the difficulty of trying to be a singular person where Vash had seemingly had no trouble–the unease.)

He used to have a twin brother. Vash can't recall how many times he's phrased those words that way. Sometimes it was better to speak about Nai like he had perished in the Great Fall with Rem. At least, that way, he would never have to face a boy he didn't know, with wild eyes and eerie laughter.

The strength in his grip on Knives' hair dissipates. Vash stares at him, gaping, unable to catch his breath at the revelation. He'd been calling to reach out to him, and all the while, Vash thought those echoes he ran from where the makings of his own guilt sent to choke him. "You...? No, I didn't hear you, because I ran away. I kept running. I thought I was losing my mind--that was--?" Vash shakes his head, pushing Knives further away.

Vash has grappled with those ghosts--that voice--since the Fall. He never paused to think if Nai was trying to connect to him. His ability to maintain connection in his younger years was shaky at best; it wasn't until after he learned to properly help their sisters that he understood what it felt like.

The remnants of the dying's pleas must have clouded his judgement, or, maybe facing Nai in any way was the judgement he ran from. It'd be fitting.

The anger returns swiftly with Rem's name. Vash grits his teeth, immediately ready to lurch to defend her. "She didn't tear us apart! We don't know what happened--she was trying to protect us! Protect you!"