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Wolfwood is known to skirt the brink of death, to tiptoe the line between beginning and end. He does so with a clumsy gracefulness that is becoming a priest, dipping his face into waters of life before death can grasp his collar and pull him down with its sharp, jagged, and unforgiving talons.
Vash knows this. He knows the way Wolfwood chooses to live; dauntingly, unabashed, almost careless in his endeavors.
When Vash unceremoniously stumbled into Wolfwood's life that day, all cheers and smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, he knew right away that Wolfwood saw through his defenses.
But at that moment, Vash, too, saw right through Wolfwood; he saw a primal, soft, and loving man, obscured by bared teeth and furrowed eyes.
Vash was afraid to reveal his wishes and his desires, his truest thoughts stayed concealed beneath layers of scar tissue and faux happiness–so to him, the sight was beautiful; terrifyingly, hauntingly so.
Vash saw it that evening, laid bare, unfurled on the gritty sand.
Akin to Yeshua weeping at the tomb of Lazarus, Vash sat kneeling next to his priest, Wolfwood's tanned, scraped hand clasped by both of his own.
With blood caked on his face from Razlo's final blow, his hair burning a holy white-gray hue from his brother's transfusion, a tender solace bore its way through Wolfwood's features–of acceptance, or perhaps absolution.
His eyes shone with a goodness that Vash always knew were there.
Wolfwood tightened his grip around Vash's palm. A promise.
Vash returned the motion, pliant and gentle, like something fragile lay between his hands, stained with sweat and gunpowder. Yes, Nicholas. A covenant.
Later, when the moons had risen and fell a couple times more, they rendezvous with Ship Three and the girls. Vash's memory flashes of fluorescent lights; of many moments in clinical, hospital-like rooms, waiting anxiously with bated breath as Nicholas fades in and out of consciousness.
When Nicholas is in a more stable condition, they move him to a more comfortable room near the back of the ship; it's dimly lit with bedside lamps, and well-furnished in the style of the old technology. Vash spends most of that time right by his bedside, straightening the bedsheets whenever he momentarily stirs, his hand secretly resting atop Nicholas's own under the guise of moonlight.
When Nicholas finally opens his eyes to a fuller consciousness, he sees Vash smiling with his whole face, tired eyes shining a brilliant watercolor blue–as if he'd been watching and waiting for hours.
Greeted with such a sight as this, he doesn't say a word; he bites back his venomous tongue, sickly sweetened from Vash's influence, and wordlessly scoots over.
Vash's pupils get smaller, eyebrows raising in quiet surprise, a lilt of a hum sounding between closed lips.
Nicholas sighs, a hint of an affectionate groan at the end, and pats the spot next to him.
“I know you haven't slept. Lay down.” His voice is a raspy sound, crackling from lack of use.
Vash nods slowly, moving to slip off his shoes and to finish unbuttoning his bulky jacket. He sets it aside before climbing into the bed. Long, lanky limbs tangle together in an awkward pile; one of his legs lay abandoned, left to hang off of the side of the bed.
If Nicholas weren't so exhausted, he'd laugh at Vash's pitiful attempt to not touch him.
Instead, he focuses his attention on a barely-visible scar on Vash's cheekbone–a light, jagged line raised above his skin. His eyes linger on the scar, onto the moon-shaped mole on his cheek; he gazes at the stars in Vash's peering eyes, counting the constellations hidden there, bright and hopeful.
God, Vash is so good. The thought screams at him every time he lays eyes on the man. He could never–still can never–understand his self-sacrifice for a world of people that pray for his demise, who rejoice as they mar his body with new scars.
Vash is too good for this world anyway, no matter how much he's mauled for it. He'll still smile in the face of retribution for the sins he never commits, bearing the weight of humanity on his back, evidence obscured under layers of vibrant fabric–this world's messiah.
As Nicholas continues to lose himself in the nebulae behind his moonlit irises, he can't help but think Vash is his messiah, too. A divine angel, sent down from the sky to show him the warmth he longed for. From a battle that he was fated to die in, Vash was his savior in his darkest hour.
“You're staring.”
Vash speaks for the first time since Nicholas awoke, and it's then that he notes the timbre of his voice–lower than normal, thick with unshed tears–and of course Nicholas is staring, with his beautiful, weeping angel in front of him.
“Tongari…” The nickname rushes out of Nicholas's mouth.
Vash's mouth quivers, eyes wavering up and down. He's pitiful, almost petulant in the way his face scrunches up to hold back tears; and yet, Nicholas wants to bring him in towards his chest, arms tangling cool, metallic cobalt together with warm skin.
The word comes out clumsily, as to be expected. Nicholas has never said anything like this, his kindness awkward and out of practice. The softly uttered word trips on his tongue, gentleness cracking under his gruff, weary voice.
Even still, he says the word, and he hopes to God that it conveys what he wants.
“...angel?”
Remember, our covenant?
Vash smiles warmly at the utterance, tears streaming down raised cheekbones, a beautiful brightness like sunrays emanating through every corner of his smile. He relaxes by his side, his arm stretching to lay across Nicholas's torso. His fingertips graze the skin above the hem of his pants where his shirt has ridden up, warm, calloused hands brushing against Nicholas's hip.
“...Nick.”
Yes, our promise.
A few hours pass before Vash stirs from his dreamless sleep. The moons are visible from the window, illuminating Nicholas in a tender moonlight. His face, highlighted with glowing silver, looks youthful without the smug grin or scowl that he usually bears. Sooty grey lashes rest calmly under closed eyelids.
His hair shines the most under the moonlight, silvery and new, a permanent reminder of what he's been through. The light bathes him in a dreamlike haze such that Vash hardly believes he's really there.
Vash considers his options. Perhaps this Nicholas is an illusion that his mind cooked up to protect him from a true, much more devastating scenario–or, maybe this is the afterlife, and they both died that day, or–
His eyes dart back to Nicholas's bangs, divinely framing his face in a halo. Against his better judgement, he takes a strand, feeling the softness of it through worn fingertips.
Huh. He certainly feels real.
Gently, he tucks the silver strand behind his ear. He wants to press a kiss there; wants to trail kisses to his chest and bury himself there, absolved from the sins trailing behind him, praying at the altar of his divine priest.
Vash's movements must have stirred Nicholas from his rest, because before he can further entertain his thoughts, dark eyes illuminated from slivers of moonlight open to gaze back at him.
Vash's lips quirk upward in an apologetic grin. Before Vash can finish pulling away, Nicholas steals his hand back and presses it flush to his cheek.
“...you're warm,” is all he says, voice drunk with sleep. Like a cat, he nuzzles into his hand.
“Your beard is scratching me,” Vash simply says, too overwhelmed for anything else. The sensation of the short, familiar hairs tickling his palm makes his eyes prick with tears; it feels so tangible, so vividly real.
The infinitesimal distance between their faces feels even smaller, now–a few more centimeters, and their noses would be brushing.
“How are you holding up?” Nicholas asks. Vash's eyes dart to meet Nicholas’s own again, who seems to be looking anywhere but his lips, his head a little closer to his than before.
“I'm good.” A lie. His mind is on fire trying not to give in to his impulses. He swallows. “I should be the one asking you that.”
“M'sore,” Nicholas hums resolutely, “...but, I'm happy.” He’s inching even closer, and Vash catches him in the act this time. Their noses bump together. If either of them were to say another word, their lips would touch.
Vash takes the dive. “...yeah?” he mumbles, a featherlight spark of warmth against his lips.
“Yeah.” Nicholas whispers. A surge of warm breath fans against his face. A fire.
Anxious breaths intermingling, Vash faintly smells days-old tobacco when Nicholas briefly wets his lips with his tongue.
Until now, Vash could never quite remember what a kiss felt like. It has been years since his last–all of them, fleeting moments in dark motels with silhouettes of strangers, over well before the sun came up the next morning.
He figures, then, he shouldn't have to remember anything–not with the definition right in front of him, the purest form of devotion brushing against his mouth.
Nicholas's slightly chapped lips press to Vash's. The kiss, delicate in every way, is everything Nicholas isn't. His mouth moves patiently and unhurriedly, leaving space in between every gentle press.
Vash softly sighs, reaching further to wrap his arm around Nicholas's waist and pull him flush to his body. He returns the kiss with fervor, locking his lips wetly with the other, earning him a surprised gasp against his mouth.
Nicholas drinks him in through a nip to Vash's lower lip, the holiest communion. In return, he receives a tongue slipping into his mouth and a gentle hand cradling his face, tilting his head ever so slightly.
“Nick,” Vash gasps, breath hot in his mouth.
Nicholas pulls back immediately. He takes a sinful pride in the look on Vash's face; flushed red, breaths light and short, eyebrows raised and impassioned.
“Yes, angel?” Nicholas has never heard his own voice sound so sweet; it's almost like a low, doting purr.
“You're really here, right?” he asks, and there's that petulant look again, disbelieving and innocent.
Nicholas reaches for Vash’s hand, and almost as if in exoneration, their fingers naturally clasp together. Nicholas is suddenly very self aware of his own worn hands, painted in generational sin, bearing the stains of the Eye of Michael.
Vash doesn't seem to mind, thumb tracing a pattern in the skin of Nicholas’s hand, eyes drooping shut with a relief he’d never seen on his face ever before.
It’s all too precious for Nicholas, so he leans in, taking his angel’s lips once more.
Vash figures, then, that the taste of ambrose must be of cigarette smoke and alcohol; of gunpowder and gritty sand and a pleasant hint of something like maple syrup.
It's quiet, with nothing but the slick sounds of lips pushing and pulling, teeth clicking unceremoniously; of Nicholas's deep, brassy groans harmonizing with Vash's low, soft whimpers.
The noises Nicholas are making sets something primal ablaze in Vash, but he keeps it to himself, wary of his companion's exhaustion; instead, he gently rocks Nicholas to lay flat against the mattress, propping himself up with his prosthetic. He posits himself over Nicholas, his knee finding repose between his legs, and cradles his cheeks with his hands. Nicholas immediately pulls him closer, hands finding his wingblades from above his shirt.
Stubble grazes his scarred hands as he dips down to kiss him again and again. His heart swells with each gentle press, every one a reminder of this reality–that Nicholas is tangible, is breathing and warm beneath his touch.
And, every time Nicholas kisses him back, it feels like a conversation; an exchanging of words long overdue.
I'm sorry it took so long for me to help you the other day, Wolfwood.
You came right on time. You saved me.
I'm sorry I hid away for two years.
I would have kept looking for much longer than that. You can't get rid of me that easily.
Do you promise?
Of course I promise, tongari. That's why…
Nick…?
That's why I had to hold on. I wouldn't leave your side.
Our covenant…
Yes, angel, the one we made when you held my hand under the moonlight.
Nick…
I'm sorry I gave you such a scare.
I would have done anything to make sure you were okay.
I'm sorry that it took me so long to realize that you're my…
Your… what?
You're my love.
…I love you, Nick.
I love you too, Vash.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Vash finally parts for air. Nicholas instinctually chases after his lips, before realizing that he, too, must breathe. Such a simple realization, from the two of them exchanging fervent, mingling breaths–they need each other to breathe.
Vash slowly blinks from above. His lips are swollen and red–from Nicholas’s point of view, Vash truly does look like an angel like this.
Vash the Stampede. The ‘humanoid typhoon’. Nicholas couldn’t think of a more unbefitting name for a man with nothing but kindness in his heart–for a man who holds a sinner in holy arms like he’s worth saving, halo shining like sunlight, so radiant that it’s blinding.
Nicholas has seen and tasted heaven–it’s looking down upon him with a patient smile.
A silence overtakes them as their eyes meet, their foreheads barely touching.
“Nick,” Vash says warmly. Nicholas doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sound of his name leaving his lips.
“...promise me you'll stay.”
Nicholas chuckles softly, hands tenderly cradling his shoulderblades. “I think that was promised a long time ago, tongari.”
And joy radiates from Vash’s eyes because he knows the vow has already been exchanged, a wobble in his lip as if to say, you’ll never leave my side.
And Nicholas nods, cheeks aching from his persistent smile, as if to say, and you’ll never leave mine.
A promise?
Yes, our covenant.