tomorows

Truly, it's incredible what humans have managed to create out of so little. Take the sandsteamer Vash stands on now—built piece by piece from the remnants of ships that once fell from the sky. Vibrant stalls spill out across the walkway as he browses the market, each bursting with its own personality: the warm sizzle of street food frying in wide iron pans, shelves of tools and weaponry, shimmering under the sunlight, meant to aid bounty hunters in their next pursuit (he gives that one a wide berth), tapestries and paintings and intricate sculptures, creations born of steady hands and aching hearts.

But delicate metal rings—especially ones crowned with a gleaming red gemstone, shining like a drop of sunlight caught in ore—are rare.

Vash doesn’t usually stop for jewelry. Too flashy. Too impractical. Too… hopeful, and far too expensive for someone constantly on the move, constantly scraping by. It's the sort of thing someone with roots might buy. Someone with a future.

But this one.

This one stops him cold, and he finds himself reaching for it. Not because he needs it.

But because, for one quiet, heart-stopping moment, he imagines how beautiful it would look on your finger.

“See something you like?” the vendor calls, eyes twinkling knowingly.

Vash startles a bit, fingers already curled around the little ring. He looks up like he’s been caught red-handed. “Uh. Maybe.”

The vendor leans forward on their elbows, looking at him with a practiced eye. “That one’s not cheap, y’know. Real gemstone. Came from one of the old ship wrecks. Not many of those left.”

Vash turns the ring slowly in his fingers, watching the way it catches the light. It gleams like it's always belonged to someone special.

He swallows. “How much?”

The vendor names a price, and Vash winces. That’s more than a few meals. Maybe even a few weeks’ worth. Spending it all on something so small, so impractical to a man on the run, borders on reckless.

But he doesn't put the ring down.

“Need a box?” the vendor asks, already reaching below the stall.

“…Yes, please.”

“Box is extra.”

Of course it is.

He exhales slowly, taking out his wallet and counting out the last of his double dollars before he slides the bills across the counter. “Fine.”

The vendor chuckles, already easing the ring into a small, felt-lined box—careful, deliberate, as if they know just what kind of thing this is. “Romantic type, huh?” they say lightly, snapping the box shut. “Hope they’re worth it.”

“They are,” Vash says, almost too quietly.

The vendor hands over the box with a nod and a smile that, for all its mischief, carries a kind of understanding. “Pleasure doing business.”

Vash takes it like it’s something fragile. Sacred.

You’ve seen him at his best and at his worst—and somehow, impossibly, you’re still here. Still choosing to be by his side. And he wants to keep you there. He wants that more than anything.

It’s selfish. He knows that.

But even as he tucks the little box carefully into his pocket, feeling the familiar emptiness of his wallet in the other hand, he knows he’d have paid twice as much if he had to.

“Vash!”

Your voice rings out above the noise of the crowd, light and unmistakable. His head snaps up, a little too quickly. You’re weaving your way through the stalls, smiling as you spot him.

He panics, jamming the box deeper into his coat pocket, and he forgets about the wallet still hanging limply in his hand.

“There you are!” You reach his side, slightly breathless. “I’ve been looking all over. Where’d you run off to?”

“Ah, well, y’know…” He tries to sound casual, trying to hide the guilt on his face. “Browsing.”

“Browsing, huh?” You raise an eyebrow. “Find anything good?”

He shrugs, eyes darting to the side. “A couple things. Nothing crazy.”

You glance down. “Wait—how much did you spend?”

“…A lot.”

You stare at him. Then at the sagging wallet.

“Vash, holy shit, what did you buy?!”

Crap. Think. Think.

“Uhh… food.” He winces. “Snacks.”

You blink. “Did you save any for me at least?”

“N-No.”

“You glutton! I swear, your stomach’s bottomless sometimes!” you scold, but there's laughter behind your words, amusement softening the edge.

He chuckles weakly, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess I got carried away…”

You shake your head, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He smiles, helpless in the face of you.

No—he won’t ask you to stay. Not yet. He won’t ask you to tie your future to his uncertain one. That would be cruel. You deserve a life of ease, of peace, not one spent dodging bullets and bounties.

But if the day ever comes when he lets himself fully surrender to the quiet, burning want that fills him every time he looks at you, to the dream of watching the years shape your smile and your laugh lines, to the longing to watch how time paints its story into the lines of your face—he’ll be ready, with a pretty ring, nestled safely in his right-hand pocket.

Then again, maybe the moment he bought it... he already gave in.