For Me It Was Love
  Turbuggy  

Just how much time had passed since they had first sat together was unclear. Pieces of handmade confetti littered the ground around their feet, all jagged edges and bright colors. They looked so stark against the debris, and yet their presence made the sand a meadow. A landscape dotted with hope, with love. Vash couldn’t help but wish to get lost in it, but found its comfort just out of his reach. Far away in another life, where his tomorrows were filled with the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke.

He couldn’t sit here forever, no matter how desperately he wished the dunes would open up and simply swallow them both whole. At the very least, that way, they could stay together. But it was never that easy, was it? Never that simple for a man doomed to carry the weight of folly on his shoulders— tethered to this planet by his past mistakes. A song repeating, eternal atonement. Eventually, Vash would need to dry his eyes, rise once more to his feet, and return to his flock. There were wolves out there, after all, who feared only one shepherd.

But Noman’s Land could wait, just a moment longer.

“There you are.”

Vash’s eyes broke away from the street below, falling instead upon the face of the priest. Wolfwood’s features were adorned with a grin, a lit cigarette pressed between his teeth. He gestured with the bottle that he held in his hand, before seating himself next to Vash. From the top of the motel’s roof, the citizens below looked so very small. Sometimes, Vash imagined himself reaching out and plucking one from the street, holding them in his palms. Sometimes he felt so very big.

“I’ve been lookin’ all over for ya.” Wolfwood took the cigarette between his fingers, blew the smoke from his mouth. “I’m gettin’ pretty sick of having to track you down, y’know that?”

“I know.” Vash’s gaze was back on the town again, elbows resting on his crossed legs, supporting his hunched position. “But I didn’t ask you to look for me.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” The distinct pop of a cork earns Wolfwood another sparing glance, in time to see him spit the stopper over the edge, allowing it to descend into the street below. “Here.”

Condensation soaked into Vash’s glove. He peered down at the bottle for a moment, before tossing it back and taking a swig. He came up coughing, which elicited a laugh from the priest— a sound that sent Vash’s heart aflutter. It wasn’t often they were permitted quiet moments like this, just the two of them, bathed in the silver light of the moons. It was nights like this that could go on forever, in another life.

“This is expensive stuff.” Vash passed the bottle to Wolfwood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “What’s the occasion?”

“Can’t a man soothe his vices now and then?” Wolfwood huffed, took a drink. Judging by the exaggerated breath that followed, he was pleased with the quality. “You’ve been wearin’ that face again— can’t stand lookin’ at you. Figured some booze could loosen you up a bit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vash retorted, sitting up straight and fully looking at Wolfwood now. Blonde brows were knit in annoyance, bottom lip stuck out to emphasize the sentiment.

“Just drink, Spikey.”

Again, the bottle exchanged hands. Again, and again, slowly warming in the heat of their palms. The night went on, the atmosphere lightened, and Vash felt his troubles ease, for a time. He looked to Wolfwood, framed by the inky black of the night, sleek and shrouded as he was, and knew him. Knew bloodstained hands that healed, a grieving heart that loved. A sinner repentant. Thoughtful, selfless.

The kind of man who bought expensive alcohol to cheer up mopey dumbasses.

“Not a bad night.” Wolfwood’s voice broke Vash from his reverie. “Sky’s clear.”

“Yeah.”

Smoke rose lazily from the priest’s mouth, curling up over his lips and dispersing into the cool night air. Vash wondered where it went, once it ceased to exist. “You’re not half bad company,” a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, “when you’re not pissin’ me off.”

“It almost sounds like you like me.” It was a tease, only half sincere. Vash took a drink, and passed the bottle back.

“Maybe I do.”

Blue eyes flicked in Wolfwood’s direction, but the priest wasn’t looking at Vash, now. Seemed it was his turn to focus on the stillness below them, gaze following the paths of the few poor stragglers still wandering the streets under the blanket of night. Something in the atmosphere had shifted with that single reply— Vash could feel it. It was heavy with regret, with uncertainty and sorrow. It made his stomach twist, forced him to look away from Wolfwood, cast his eyes upward. It really was a clear night.

“Y’ever think you could get used to this?”

“What do you mean?” Vash posed the question, but dreaded the answer he already knew.

“Quiet?”

“I tried.” Not a cloud in the sky. “Then you showed up.”

“Sure,” Wolfwood tipped the bottle back, huffed. When Vash caught him out of the corner of his eye, his expression was flat. Distant, in a way that betrayed him. “But you know that ain’t what I mean.”

Vash could feel his heart aching. Deep down, he did know. He understood what was happening, could predict what was coming. It made every fiber of his being scream, urge him to run and to never look back. Fight or flight, imminent danger, hidden beneath the blanket of a cloudless sky. This had been inevitable, hadn’t it? A prophecy set in stone the moment their paths had crossed. Vash had known it to be true, as it always was. He had simply held onto the hope that the unspoken would be enough.

“Think the Humanoid Typhoon could ever settle down?”

“You know I can’t.”

“It’s hypothetical, Spikey. Just answer the question.”

“I gave you my answer.”

Wolfwood chuckled, and though Vash wasn’t looking at him, he could hear the distinct lack of humor in it. “You’re a real piece of work.”

Alcohol burned Vash’s throat as he gulped it down, two swallows. The bottle was getting lighter, now.

“Y’know what I think?” Wolfwood didn’t wait to hear his friend’s answer. Didn’t expect one. “I think he could.”

Though Vash held the bottle back out for Wolfwood to take, it wasn’t accepted. The priest took instead another long, drawn-out puff of his cigarette, and blew the smoke out in a great cloud before him. “Think the Punisher could, too. Feels right.”

Vash wasn’t present in the deafening silence that followed. He was somewhere else entirely, where the words that hung in the air around them now, spoken but unspoken, could not reach him. It was easier to run— better. Humans couldn’t afford to be this reckless. Vash couldn’t allow it.

It wasn’t until Wolfwood spoke again, that Vash became aware of the absence of glass against his palms. “What do you think, Blondie?”

Vash could feel his friend’s eyes on him, searching. He couldn’t bear to meet them. “I think the feeling will pass,” he said, and the eyes were gone.

Bottle was pressed back into the hands of the Humanoid Typhoon, and for a moment, Vash merely stared at it, their shared fingerprints against the glass. He peered into the slender neck, could smell the burning tang of the last sip of alcohol. No matter how hard he tried to chase the thought away, he could only eye the top as if its cold rim were the lips of the man seated next to him. They had touched this surface, at the very least, just for a moment. Not long enough to leave the lingering taste of cigarettes, but enough to conjure the thought of it. Vash took the final swig, and he swore he could feel the smoke fill his lungs.

Vash’s fingers ached, but still, he dug. Tossed back the sand to reveal the hardened clay beneath, broke it away and hollowed out a home. This was what he deserved; to kneel upon the ground, to scrape at the dirt until his nails tore from their beds— a pain near nonexistent in the shadow of his grief. Tears stained his cheeks, dripped and disappeared between grains of sand. Had Vash’s efforts not been enough? He had so desperately tried to shield his friend from this, from the destruction that followed him. It shouldn’t have ended like this. Hadn’t he any self-preservation? That damned priest, why couldn’t he have just stayed away?

The hole was deep, and Vash was tired. He stared down into it, with its walls etched in sorrow, and for a moment, considered crawling inside to rest. It was growing late, the suns making their lazy descent beyond the horizon, and the air about Noman’s Land was beginning to cool. It sent a chill down Vash’s spine, and he wondered how the days could keep moving forward with such indifference. Didn’t they know it was over? Didn’t they know the story was finished, before it had even begun?

Would the planet remember a priest, once his skin had turned to sand, and his bones to clay? An angel would remember him, long after.

Vash hesitated to touch Wolfwood. Couldn’t bring himself to place his hands onto him, trembled in fear of himself. How could he think to hold him now, so long past the days of alcohol and hypotheticals? He was a delicate thing here, and Vash anything but. Perhaps, if he stayed this way, the story would not have to go on, and Vash would not have to know how it felt to break him. But Wolfwood deserved more than that. After everything, he deserved to rest. Deserved to be tucked into bed, safe and warm at home, where he was loved. If Vash could give him anything, he would give him that.

Wolfwood’s skin was cold now. His head heavy against Vash’s chest. He could still smell the metallic tang of blood on his clothing, the lingering scent of cigarettes. Carefully, as though not to wake him, Vash shifted the weight in his arms, cradled him with love unspoken. Wolfwood was heavy, and weightless— everything and nothing at all. Each step had Vash’s boots sinking in the loose sand, leaving only a single set of footprints behind.

Vash knelt before the bed he had made, and it looked up at him hungrily, expectantly. He cursed it. He held on tight to his heart, curled in around him, hid his face against the priest’s still chest. White feathers bloomed under the darkening sky, lashed and coiled around the pair, shrouding them both and obfuscating the hole in the ground. Tremors gripped Vash’s form, and he felt so very big. Felt as though he had plucked this human from the street below, held him in his palms. He knew he needed to return him, now. But goodbye was so damn hard.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say, please don’t leave me. Instead, he said nothing at all.

Wolfwood was laid out on his back, head lowered onto the dirt with reverence fit for a saint. But Vash’s trembling hands were not anointed, and this was not heaven. He could hear the way his breath caught around the lump in his throat, felt new tears wet his cheeks, burning in the cool evening breeze. With fingers bruised and bloody, Vash brushed the hair from Wolfwood’s pale face. Caressed him in the way he had always wanted. The danger of his touch had gone now, and yet it offered no comfort. It hadn’t mattered, anyways, had it? That was the thing about devotion; it wasn’t as easy to break.

Vash’s movement was fond and feather-light as he brushed the priest’s eyes closed. It tore him up inside to see the absence of light behind them, and yet he wept for the loss of them. He didn’t want to ever forget those eyes, or the determination they had held until the very end. Kind, in a world unkind, and so full of sorrow. Broken mirrors.

With his arms crossed over his chest, and a hand on his heart, Nicholas was tucked into bed for the last time.

What do you think, Blondie?

And the feeling remained.