#nothinglikegod

The Eye of Michael.

Nai goes deathly still as the world finally stops ripping itself apart, hunched into a ball with his head buried in his arms; as the roaring in his ears finally dies down he risks lifting it.

He doesn't recognize the place he's in. Probably because of the rubble. Also the fact he's in what looks and feels like the side of a crater.

It was a small town, just one Plant tended to by a small team and the town grown up around the bulb's housing. It was out of the way, not on any of the nearby trade routes, only remarkable for its proximity to what was left of the town of Jennora Rock.

But it still had an inn, a couple bars, a market near the bulb. There were families who had grown up there, raising new generations. In the mid morning hours, before the suns hit their highest, hottest arrangement, the market was bustling with people going about their day, doing chores, visiting, buying supplies for the day's dinner. A new face was noticed and remarked on, especially a young man in a suit, carrying a cross on his back.

But priests were priests and no one marked him as anyone of note, at least not enough for his presence to cause any waves. Vague curiosity at most.

Unfortunate for the other unique figure making his way through the market, steps slow and agonizingly careful. The man leans on a cane a little too short for him, shoulders hunched to make his broad form a little smaller, imposing white coat replaced by a worn duster of brown leather. But nothing will disguise the shock of blue hair, even if it is limp and dull from lack of care, tangled and longer then it had been before.

He doesn't notice Wolfwood, too busy carefully winding his way through the stalls and foot traffic. It's only when he pauses, leans against a building to breathe, that he looks around.

Legato almost misses him but, as usual, it's the Punisher that draws the eye. The psychic's eyes find his, lock, and the man freezes like a Tomas about to be hit by a bus. In the next moment though he's turning and, by all appearances, fleeing outright.

Not that an attempt to flee from Nicholas Wolfwood has a chance of succeeded, not when the other man can hardly maintain an awkward, coltish run on legs that only halfway obey him. Gone is his stalking grace and by all appearances gone is the power to simply force Wolfwood to stay away. From terrifying right hand of a god to skittish prey animal attempting to flee from a predator. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

He can't let it go. Normally he'd just take the hint, assured there'd be an opportunity to talk about it later, maybe, but this time... He just can't.

Anger will stoke the flames, won't it? Bring the energy back, the focus, be impossible to ignore? They both have anger, hold on to anger in different ways.

And they're both tired. Exhausted. It's unfair of Vash to prod, desperately unfair to prod in this way--

He does anyway. He can't let this go, can't let it be dismissed out of existence. It's low and it's bad and it's wrong, and it's a transparent attempt to pry the conversation back open. It's pathetically desperate and above all else, worth trying. "And you call me a coward, Wolfwood."

By now, the rumble of the Ark’s engines is nothing but a distant drone. If he were to close his eyes, that sound would immediately encapsulate him. Just like it had for the many months he spent in that holding cell in the belly of the ship. Unable to move, nothing so much as the twitch of a finger or wiggle of a toe. 

But he isn’t paying attention to any of those things. 

There are better places to stop, not quite so exposed to the elements nor the climbing keen of wind snaking its way around ridges of stone. The overhang of sandstone he has dragged them beneath offers some degree of protection. Atrophy never quite took hold, not with the constant strain and struggle under Legato’s hold for the past few months, but he is severely weakened all the same.

Not so weak as Wolfwood now, riddled with bullets and so much blood. 

Blood that gleams in the light of the fading sun. Red. Dark on dark, outlines of frayed fabric haloed in gold. Bright, too bright on white. Hair, matted with sweat. Dust and sand. Inescapable, here, on No Man’s Land. Sticking, coating, browning everything it touches with an embrace from the desert. 

Burial by sand. 

And he feels…

Fear and resignation, each vying for supremacy as he leans close, balancing against one knee while reaching out to hover his right hand just over the flared opening of Wolfwood’s shirt. The muscles in his thighs are twitching, quivering from the mere effort and his breathing escapes between parted lips in short, dry huffs.

Wolfwood hasn’t moved.

Down then, he drops his hand, turning Wolfwood’s arm to rest his fingers on the inside of his wrist.

Free from what? The Ant farm? WHO BROKE THE ANT FARM.

They stick out their tongue, hands spread wide with their thumbs touching at their temples. Their fingers wiggle, taunting the other in a childish display of true immaturity.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — » （ ✗ ）

Alcohol was present in his system but the action was not just impulsive curiosity but on purpose. The sound of his laughter, the look of his smile ... He wanted to steal it all away in the moment and as he forced his hands into Wolfwood's and presses a kiss to his lips.

The feeling melting his entire body against his for a moment as he hums and smiles and kisses back, as Vash pulls away he notices his other hand raising to touch where his face was, a slight ping in Vash's chest wishes that he did not move in that moment just to be even closer to Wolfwood.

He wanted to return to those lips that tasted like smoke and alcohol with a twinge of something sweet - that slight taste of longing for the other. Vash looks towards his hands and realized that he did take his cigarette, in a rebellious thought he puts it to his lips and inhales slightly only to remove the cigarette and start coughing. The blonde stumbles forward and puts it back inbetween Wolfwood's lips.

❝ -- Sorry, here you go, hottie. ❞