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No man should be allowed to make fun of Angelina.
Sure, yes, the bike in question isn’t really Angelina, but her poor, inadequate replacement, Angelina mark two, also known as the cheapest bike Wolfwood could find that would carry him and his blond-haired idiot to their destination.
In theory, it should’ve carried them all the way to their destination.
And, yes, the man in question — Vash the Stampede, Humanoid Typhoon, etcetera, etcetera, now with his shiny new title as mankind’s first human Act of God, no less — is not really an ordinary man either. Vash knows it, Wolfwood knows it, the two of them dancing around the knowledge without saying anything because Vash would rather stick his head in the sand and Wolfwood… well, he has his reasons.
That doesn’t mean Vash has the right to make fun of Wolfwood for his engineering skills. Angelina the second did her very best, and it is neither her nor Wolfwood’s fault if her very best constituted of roaring to life only to cough, sputter and die a mere few days later.
Considering the price he paid for her, she has gone above and beyond the call of duty. Vash was being nothing short of rude there.
Seeing as it’s established that Vash is wrong — always, as a state of being, and also here in this particular situation, insulting Angelina II’s honor so blatantly — it is no wonder that Wolfwood, for a short, heated moment, slips up and loses it a little.
In other words, it is perfectly reasonable, when one man insults another man’s ride — or his engineering skills, whatever, it’s not that Wolfwood didn’t make an effort, it’s that she was fine when he bought her —
All in all, he can’t really be blamed for grabbing the front of Vash’s stupid white shirt, pulling him close mid-slander — while Angelina II’s carcass is still warm! — and yelling at him, "You can suck my balls, Needle-noggin!"
Really, perfectly understandable.
What’s less understandable is how, for one moment, Vash’s gaze, it… darts. Down there.
*
Vash the Stampede is a notorious womanizer, or so his reputation goes. And Wolfwood, well, he wouldn’t use that same word to describe himself, seeing as he is claiming to be a man of the cloth, and all that, but he has had his fair share of experience with the ladies, if one could catch his drift.
Which he thought Vash did, except. Except maybe he didn’t. Maybe he caught that drift and allowed it to carry him away, way farther than he should’ve.
For one moment Wolfwood watches Vash lick his lips and direct his gaze back up, meeting Wolfwood’s eyes, and… And the next moment Wolfwood pushes him away and Vash lets out the most awful, pitiful yelp as he falls to the ground, head down, legs up, spread wide and jumbled in what certainly is an inhuman angle.
Serves him right.
Of course, Wolfwood then has to tell Vash to get up, when Vash doesn’t make an attempt to move, and even then, he rolls over so maddeningly slowly that finally Wolfwood reaches out to grab his hand and get him up to standing.
It’s a strange sensation, touching Vash’s hand. No gloves, no distance. An uneven scar peeks from under his cuff, and all the skin around it is taut, pulled unnaturally. It unnerves him, feeling all that exposed skin, seeing Vash wearing his boring white shirt and his boring brown pants, evidence of the life he’s led visible where once it was hidden. Evidence of the price he paid for all of his stupid choices.
Vash just looks better in red, Wolfwood decides. It wasn’t so bad when they were riding the bike together, but now, when they’re suddenly, sadly, traveling by foot, side by side…
All he’s saying is, if Vash is going to stare at Wolfwood’s crotch when Wolfwood mentions such things, if he’s going to lick his lips just so and then not even offer Wolfwood a hand — in slowly wheeling Angelina II with them, of course — then…
It would’ve been nicer, to see him in red.
*
At nightfall, they make camp in the middle of nowhere, under the darkening wide-open sky. They share a ration bar, and then Vash curls into an impossibly small ball and simply nods off, like he has no care in the world.
Wolfwood wonders, if he had told him to suck his cock, instead of his balls, if… if he would’ve gotten that same response.
Probably, he concludes. Probably, in that moment, when Vash’s eyes met his, the green in them suddenly flaring, his usual silly, carefree expression wiped off in favor of something serious, fervent…
Semantics probably wouldn’t have mattered.
Vash snores softly, mouth open, exuding no self-respect whatsoever. He is even drooling a little, a precious waste of liquid, and Wolfwood has the sudden, irrational urge to lick it.
To think Vash would be so foolish to simply fall asleep beside him. Not that this is the first time he does it. Not that it isn’t in his nature, to be foolish.
Between the two of them, Wolfwood is the one who possesses all the sense. Wolfwood desperately wishes he had used a different turn of phrase when Vash decided to call him the world’s worst mechanic.
*
He can’t get it out of his head, no matter how much he tries. Worse, he can’t get it out of his body, getting up at the crack of dawn and trundling their way through the never ending desert, onward, onward, onward. The sun would’ve quickly become unbearable, if he or Vash were the kind who had things they couldn’t bear. Before, traveling by bike together often felt like the closest thing to insufferable Wolfwood could imagine. Wolfwood’s back sticky with sweat from the press of Vash’s front, too crowded. He thought that he hated the forced closeness. That combined with the heat combined with Vash’s meaningless chatter made the world feel like it was closing in on him, no one existing but them, a tiny dot in a sea of nothing.
Now that they’re not touching, and now that the thought of Vash’s lips around his cock has arisen from the void in his mind and made itself a home there, Wolfwood’s body is constantly itching for that remembered closeness.
For more than that remembered closeness.
Vash is easygoing, tactile, and dense. He’ll brush against Wolfwood accidentally every now and then, his elbow, his shoulder, short, meaningless brushes. When Wolfwood refuses to break the last ration bar — who knows how long they are going to be stranded in the desert?! — Vash even grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, which is a hundred different kinds of annoying but also makes Wolfwood’s body tingle, for a moment, just from feeling Vash’s hands on him.
He should get himself back under control, and fast.
Alternatively, he could simply ask Vash to do it.
*
It’s not that Wolfwood isn’t interested. He isn’t opposed to the idea of Vash’s mouth around his dick, or his mouth around Vash’s dick or their dicks, together, in some other… assorted… combinations. Dicks, in general, are not unwelcome. Vash’s dick, particularly.
For one thing, it would ensure that Vash would stop the fuck talking. Imagine that. That by itself is already so enticing.
For another, Vash has this charm about him — this irritatingly irresistible charm…
It’s his dedication, this annoying blend of finesse and goofiness, how he rarely takes himself seriously but when he does he is so completely dedicated, immersed in what he is doing…
Wolfwood just thinks that the man might be good at sucking cock if given the option, is what he’s saying.
But this is all in theory. In theory, Wolfwood is interested. In the abstract, he could imagine a world where he and Vash might. Where they might. Do that. And other things. He can imagine himself putting his cross down and stepping forward to face Vash, getting closer, closer, closer, until he finally presses into him and then…
The thing about imagination though, is that it is not reality.
*
On the second night, just the two of them and the vastness and the moons hanging in the firmament, one of them sporting a hole that wasn’t there until recently, Vash shamelessly whines that he’s cold, and scoots a little closer. Wolfwood is sandwiched between Vash and Angelina II and for lack of a better thing to do they share the ration bar, because that, also, is a way to keep Vash from talking. At least for a short while.
*
The following morning, as Wolfwood once again prepares for the lug that is wheeling Angelina the second by their side, slowly, slowly, slowly, Vash tells him, "You really care about this bike, don’t you."
He smiles when he says it, open and sweet, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, utterly free of pretense. As though he truly admires Wolfwood for possessing sentimentality towards an old piece of junk. Not enough to help Wolfwood with the burden, mind you.
It does feel nice to see him smile.
Wolfwood doesn’t reply, of course. He picks up his cross, shoulders it on the other side of his body. "Let’s go."
The needle-noggin follows him with what is almost a skip in his steps. Unbelievable.
Vash doesn’t get it, though. It’s not about care. It’s about pride. Purpose. Assuming they manage to reach a town soon, or are discovered by some passersby, even if Wolfwood has to abandon her, her location will be known. Angelina II would have the chance to be reused, repaired or salvaged for parts. If he leaves her in some unknown spot in the desert…
Discarded, abandoned, cast away. That would just mean she failed.
*
Vash’s cheery mood persists throughout the day. Every now and then, he will smile his stupid smile. It is as though when he forgets to pretend that he’s mad at Wolfwood for getting them into this whole mess, he is actually happy to just be out in the open. The two of them. No mission.
They can pretend there is no mission, for now, only getting to the nearest water source, reaching civilization again, finding help.
They could pretend other things too. Today is the day they run out of water, and by late afternoon, they run out of drive as well. They collapse into a messy heap on the sand together, and Vash grins at him and says, "Not much to do now, I guess."
Some things, they could still do.
Wolfwood is not the kind of man to tie himself down, certainly not to a hopeless dreamer like Vash. He doesn’t think Vash the Stampede is the kind of man to tie himself down either, though sometimes — in those rare moments a sinister expression passes over Vash’s face, like scant, wispy clouds in a summer bright sky — sometimes he wonders if that’s something Vash would’ve wanted.
Not in this world. Not here. In theory. Some other place and time.
In Little Jersey, Vash had something close to it, for a while. And he left it. To go with Wolfwood.
Of course, what Vash had there wasn’t truly real. Nothing ever is.
Anyway, they don’t have to make promises to each other in order to do stuff. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It could just be fun.
At this point, the loss of fluids probably wouldn’t even matter.
*
The next day, they wake up more disoriented and take longer to get up, and they collapse long before the sun has completed a full cycle through the sky. This time, Wolfwood thinks, the question of cock sucking has become irrelevant. He couldn’t get it up if he tried.
He doesn’t make an attempt to find out.
Later, once they’ve been found and revived and are yelling at each other in the back of that man’s truck, he knows that the moment has passed, for good. Vash, infuriatingly, wants to go to New Oregon. So they’re going to New Oregon. Stubborn ass who only ever does what he wants. Chasing a typhoon. Like Wolfwood is.
He looks at Vash’s lips and wonders. What if.