Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wolfwood is in a bit of a pickle. A predicament, one could say. 

Nicolas D. Wolfwood, college dropout and certified garage band bassist, is a generally likable dude. He doesn’t think anyone would ever label him as nice, but he knows to keep his nose out of other people's business. He doesn’t tell his friends when they’re doing something stupid because he doesn’t really give any fucks what they do with their life, and also because it’s pretty funny to watch trains get wrecked in slow motion. He respects boundaries, makes great music, and he's the life of any party he's in. 

Wolfwood is generally a great dude, overall. There’s no reason why anyone should dislike him, really. 

And yet. This is the third time that one of his bandmates decided to leave after only jamming with them for five weeks, not even caring about the fact that they now fucked over their entire band. This time, it’s right before a gig, essentially fucking them over because they’ll be performing without a lead singer. Again.

Kento’s parting words to Wolfwood as he stormed out, implied that it was more of a Wolfwood problem than a band problem, too.

“Fuck you, Wolfwood!” Kento points at him, face red with fury. “You think you’re so much better than everyone here. Well, you know what? I fucking quit. Run the band by your goddamn self, bro.”

Wolfwood applauds himself for managing not to drop his cigarette from his mouth because he was quite slack-jawed at the random outburst. He tries his best not to be offended. He actually liked Kento, he thought they were chill, but it appears that Kento didn't share that same sentiment.

He blinks slowly, looking at Livio and Legato, but their expressions are largely unhelpful. Livio just looks at Wolfwood with exasperation and Legato’s barely concealed smirk only manages to piss Wolfwood off. It almost looks as if they already foresaw this event happening. 

Still, he decides to ask.

“What the fuck was that about?”

“Don’t mind it, Wolfwood, I doubt you have enough brain cells to compute it.” Legato, their guitarist, waves him off. “You’ll just hurt your head trying to.”

“Excuse me, Blueberry?”

Legato, who Wolfwood likes to call Blueberry or Motherfucker depending on his mood, is their band’s guitarist. He’s the exact shade of condescending prissy bitch that Wolfwood tends to hate, always considering himself as superior because he’s a trust fund baby and has no qualms about flexing that on the rest of the band. He’s living up the tortured artist aesthetic to the max; drinking and smoking it up, always surrounding himself with pretty boys to fuck and fuck over, and then writing sad songs about it afterwards.

Legato pisses off Wolfwood to no end, but he’s got a killer riff and matches Wolfwood’s tune perfectly. His lyrics aren’t half bad either when he isn’t too high off his ass to write them. So, Wolfwood tolerates his bullshit for now.

“You’re excused,” Legato drawls. He gets off the stage, setting his guitar down to take a swig of water. He sneers at Wolfwood, something wide and smarmy that makes Wolfwood’s skin crawl. “Honestly, maybe we should kick you out of the band instead of having to search for a new bandmate every month because you’re such an insufferable asshole to be around.”

“Fuck you, Blueberry,” Wolfwood seethes, teeth digging into his cigarette. “I’m the leader of this band, you ain’t kicking my ass anywhere, but I can take yours outside.”

“Ooh, so scary.” Legato throws his hands up in mock fear. “Scary Wolfwood resorting to violence like he always does.”

“Guys,” Livio interjects, face pinched. “Can you not? This isn’t helping.” Livio turns to Wolfwood, his expression somber. “Legato kind of has a point, though, Nico. You’re too volatile.”

Volatile is certainly an interesting synonym for asshole, but Wolfwood will take it. 

“Whose side are you even on, Livio?” Wolfwood grumbles.

Livio is his best friend, has known him ever since he was little, and he’s a literal saint. Stupidly kind to a fault, always putting up with both his and Legato’s bullshit, and stands in as their de facto manager since neither Wolfwood nor Legato are functional enough to do it themselves. He’s the guy who books their gigs, breaks up their fights, and acts as Wolfwood’s voice of reason whenever he steps out of line.

The fact that Livio is criticizing him now tells Wolfwood that he’s majorly fucked up big time.

“The side that keeps this band going,” Livio tells him. “We can’t keep performing without a drummer, Nico. You need to stop over-analyzing every little thing other people do.”

“Kento wasn’t good enough,” Wolfwood argues. “I was just giving him a push in the right direction. It’s called constructive criticism –”

“No, Nico, it’s not. You really are too harsh,” Livio replies.

“Yeah, I don’t think saying that ‘Your voice is so pitchy that it makes me wanna take Livio's drumsticks and wedge them through my ears till they bleed’ is typically considered constructive criticism,” Legato deadpans from the corner.

The hell? It’s not like he said anything outlandish or out of line. Kento didn't even sound like he was making music fit for human ears, more so for animals that have hearing at a different frequency than them. Is he not supposed to say anything when his scratchy voice and creaky vocals were literally ruining the sound of their music? Yeah, fuck that shit. 

Besides, Kento never said anything. He always just accepted his criticism with a nod and a smile, so how was Wolfwood supposed to infer that as him being passive aggressive? Yeah, sure, his eye would twitch sometimes or he'd whisper something inaudible under his breath that sounded a bit like a demonic curse, but he always thought he was just shooting the shit. 

Honestly? If anything, Wolfwood is the victim in this story. Dude could have at least given them a heads up before jumping ship. Now, their whole band is fucked over indefinitely, without a lead singer. Once again, they'll have to depend on Legato to do the vocals, even if his sound is a bit too breathy and light for the kind of music they make. 

It's also not a good image for their band that their lead singer keeps changing every few weeks. Changing faces and varying voices in the band makes it harder for people to invest, to really give their music a chance. 

“Fuck off, Blueberry.” Wolfwood gives him the bird. He scoffs, turning to Livio. “It’s not my fault that I want what’s good for this band.”

“That’s not true, Nico,” Livio replies softly. “You know that we all care.”

The Undertakers, a band that Wolfwood started when he dropped out of college little over a year ago, is Wolfwood’s pride and joy. It was his only chance, his only dream as someone who couldn’t make it in school for music, to make his dream work elsewhere. If the education system wasn’t in his favor, he’d fucking prove to everyone else that he could make it elsewhere. Who even needs a college degree to make good music? He’d make it work.

So, obviously, Wolfwood brought on Livio first, because he’s his ride or die. That, and nobody can hit the drums better than him. Legato was a coincidence, watched him play a crazy good solo at an open-mic night that Wolfwood and Livio had been performing at, and Wolfwood had no qualms about walking up to him and asking him to join his band. Wolfwood has a good ear for this kind of shit, trusted his gut. And well, unfortunately, he was right. Legato was a fucking great guitarist, and despite how much they clashed together, Legato has never left.

Yet, they can never find a lead singer who’s willing to stay.

Sue Wolfwood for having standards apparently. 

"Whatever. Fuck Kento anyway." Wolfwood rolls his eyes. He shoves his hand in his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes. He spits out the old one, not caring where the cigarette butt lands, as he lights the next one. He takes a very much needed drag, letting out a wispy sigh. "What now?"

"I'll ask Meryl," Livio replies, taking out his phone. "She might know someone."

"Not Meryl," Wolfwood groans. 

"I thought you liked Meryl?" Livio asks, leveling him an unamused look over his phone. 

Wolfwood doesn't really like anyone, but he supposes Meryl is alright. She's the Grade A bitch to Wolfwood’s Grade A asshole who keeps him in line when Livio is too nice to do so himself. 

"Meryl is fine, but I don't like the people she runs with," Wolfwood replies. "All pretentious motherfuckers." 

"Like you?" Legato interjects again, snickering from the corner. 

"I'm the realest bitch there is, Blueberry."

"Meryl says she knows a guy," Livio interjects loudly, cutting them both off. "His name is Vash." 

Wolfwood doesn't miss the way Legato’s smirk immediately melts off his face. He raises an eyebrow, but ultimately ignores him, because he doesn't actually give any fucks about Legato. He's sure that if he has anything noteworthy to say, he'll say it or cause a bitch fit over it. His stony silence, however, is enough agreement Wolfwood needs. 

"Sounds like a pretentious asshole." Wolfwood sighs. "But sure, the bar is in hell anyway. Tell Meryl to have him come in for an audition whenever he's free. We need to vet them better." 

"Or you could be a little nicer," Livio responds, to which Wolfwood ignores him. He strums his bass pointedly, pretending he can't hear him. 

"Can I go home now?" Legato asks. 

"No, dipshit, we still have to practice because we've got a gig tonight." 

Like that, Wolfwood puts both Kento and Vash out of his mind, losing himself in the music instead. 

Performing on the stage fills Wolfwood with a rush of adrenaline he’s hard pressed to experience anywhere else.

Standing on the stage, the lights shining down on him, people’s gaze transfixed on him. Sweat running down his forehead. His heartbeat accelerating into overdrive. People chanting the band’s name, his name, their words reverberating in the small venue. A spell. It enchants him. His fingers keep running over the strings of his bass, the sound amplified, feels it resonating and syncing to the beat of his heart drumming in his ears.

That adrenaline gives him life. The euphoria that follows a show well done is what keeps Wolfwood going. It’s only when Wolfwood is standing on that stage, adrenaline thrumming through his veins and high on that euphoria, does all his problems slip away. He stops caring about roommates, rent, and the austerity of his own life.

No, when he’s on stage, Wolfwood feels like the protagonist. Like he’s actually worth a shit.

When he’s on stage, Wolfwood feels like he’s in a trance, can’t focus on anything but the bass guitar in his hands and the music flowing out of it. But after it, clothes drenched in sweat, an exhilarated grin painted on his face, he starts to drink in the little details of the venue he’s performing in. The size, the turnout of the crowd, his bandmate’s expressions.

Tonight was another hit, at least for the small scale of their modest garage band, if the volume and intensity of the applause are any indications. Wolfwood smirks, saluting the crowd, hearing a subsequent uproar from the crowd. Their band has been taking off a bit. They’ve upscaled from doing gigs at open-mic bars and people’s backyards to small venues with shitty lighting. Their Instagram and Twitter pages have finally hit follower counts in the thousands instead of the hundreds, too. They’re growing, maybe not to stardom, but Wolfwood wants to be optimistic that maybe they can make something out of this.

With a fixed lead singer, perhaps stardom wouldn’t be too far off.

Turning to his bandmates after their last number, however, he’s met with varying reactions. Legato looks like he’s about to pop an aneurysm. Livio looks indifferent. He shrugs at Wolfwood as if to say ‘Don’t look at me. I don’t know what’s up with him either’ .

Wolfwood follows Legato’s gaze, transfixed on someone in the crowd. Wolfwood doesn’t often take notice of their crowd, sees them as a mass of heads, a vague entity rather than a body of individual people. Fans is a word that leaves a bad taste in Wolfwood’s mouth, feels inherently culty in its own way, but he guesses that’s the only word to describe the throngs of people staring up at them with starry eyes as they scream their names until their throats are hoarse and used. In that crowd, Wolfwood’s eyes land on who he assumes Legato is trying to bury with the force of his glower, seeing a head of messy blonde hair and baby blue eyes that are partially obscured by his shades.

Ahh, it’s Blondie, Wolfwood thinks distantly.

See, Wolfwood doesn’t typically notice people in the crowd, but there’s just something about Blondie that made him stand out to him. Maybe how pretty he is, or perhaps how he always wore his sunglasses inside. Reminds him of a plastic Barbie doll in that way. But it’s also because he’s one of their regulars, has been attending each one of their gigs since their third or fourth gig, always watching closely with rosy cheeks. Expression unreadable around his signature sunglasses that he never takes off.

Huh. He thought that maybe he was one of Legato’s boy toys, he’s always been the one in the band who had a thing for sleeping with groupies. Judging by the intensity of his glare, he might not be wrong.

But then Blondie’s blue eyes find Wolfwood, blue eyes boring into his, and Wolfwood feels like he’s being seen through. As if he’s an open book, being read by this pretty stranger in the crowd, and it’s disconcerting.

He tears his gaze away from him, plastering a grin onto his face as he speaks into the mic.

“Thank you to everyone who showed up tonight. Hope y’all enjoyed the show as much as we did,” Wolfwood says, since Legato is entrenched in his stony silence and Livio hates public speaking. “Hopefully, next time we’ll have some new beats to share with you guys.”

Legato doesn’t wait before immediately storming off stage, Livio following probably to mitigate the damage. Wolfwood turns back to the crowd, already dispersing and thinning out, and finds that Blondie is still standing where he was. Still watching Wolfwood.

Strange.

Wolfwood ignores him, going off stage too to drop off his bass guitar. In the distance he hears something shatter, Legato screaming and yelling, and Wolfwood decides he doesn’t give enough fucks to deal with Legato’s melodrama tonight. The show was a good one, all things considered since Kento walked out. Wolfwood is still riding that euphoric high and he doesn’t need Legato’s bullshit to sour his mood. He’s sure he will be fine, he’s got Livio with him, after all.

Rather, he’s glad this place has a bar attached, because he’s definitely going to need it.

After every gig, Wolfwood typically likes to drink and smoke to placate the adrenaline rush running through his veins, so he doesn’t immediately crash and burn right after. With the high highs, comes the lowest of the lows with him, so it’s better to mitigate it before the crash.

He navigates his way to the bar easily, ordering his usual whiskey, enjoys the way it burns his throat on its way down. He lights a cigarette, taking a slow drag, starting to feel the adrenaline high crashing down around him. His fingers twitch around his cigarette, wishing that it could last him a little bit longer, that the fumes he’s inhaling would help fill the void in his chest more substantially.

Wolfwood curses under his breath.

If he loves the feeling of being on stage, the fleeting euphoria that never lasts more than a few moments once they’ve given their final number, then he abhors the after. The after when he has too much unbridled energy he never knows what to do with, too many jumbled thoughts in his head he can’t untangle, his stomach knotting and heart heavy with emotions he can’t decipher.

It makes him wish he was better at writing songs. Maybe if he could write the feelings, translate them into words, he wouldn’t always need to crash so hard after each gig he performs at.

Someone sits next to him, and Wolfwood pays them no mind. Ignores the heavy gaze fixed on the side of his face. If they want to say something, they can, but Wolfwood won’t force it out of them. He hates small talk.

Moments pass by, Wolfwood sighing, a cloud of smoke falling from his lips. He swishes the whiskey in his glass, taking a languid sip. The ashy taste of smoke contrasting with the burning flavor of whiskey makes for an unpleasant mixture that Wolfwood is quite obsessed with.

“Um…Wolfwood, right?” the person beside him finally breaks the silence. “From The Undertakers?”

Wolfwood finally decides to regard his companion for the night. He doesn’t turn bodily towards them, that shows he cares too much, but casts them a glance from his periphery. Ahh, it’s the Pretty Boy Blondie from earlier. Interesting. His voice is more soft-spoken than Wolfwood thought it would be, raspy around the edges. It sounds nice.

This isn’t the first time he’s been approached by a fan, but it doesn’t happen often enough for Wolfwood to say he’s used to it. He’s certainly the unapproachable one in the band. Legato is the pretty one, arrogant in a way that people seem to find attractive, so he gets the most fucks out of the band. Livio is a sweetheart, kind and doesn’t speak a lot, but he kills it on the drums. He probably gets asked for the most autographs and selfies in the band.

Wolfwood is usually left behind in their dust, but he doesn’t really give a fuck either. He doesn’t like most people, anyway, doesn’t need them to like him either. As long as their band is getting the attention it deserves, he doesn’t care about his own popularity within its framework. 

“Yeah, that would be me,” Wolfwood replies. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been a fan of the band for a while,” Blondie responds, his voice turning breathy as his cheeks take on that rosy hue that Wolfwood often spots from atop the stage. Up close, it’s a darker shade, matching the red trench coat he’s wearing. “So, I wanted to…get you a drink.”

Wolfwood perches his chin on the palm of his hand, studying Blondie behind his shades, lips tilting upwards as the urge to tease starts to rise.

“But I already have a drink.” Wolfwood shakes the cup in his hand. “What then?”

Blondie straightens on his barstool, as if electrocuted. He smiles sheepishly, his hand finding the back of his neck, rubbing it in what must be a nervous tick. God, he was right to think of him as a pretty boy, he thinks. Because goddamn is he pretty up close, Wolfwood’s eyes flicker to the beauty mark at the corner of his eye, the glossy pink lips. Watches his tongue lave over his bottom lip, wetting it. Wolfwood’s eyes linger on the movement for a moment too long.

“Then I’d offer to get you another one,” Blondie replies. “Just want to chat with you a little bit.”

If Wolfwood didn’t know any better, he’d think that he’s being picked up at a bar. This doesn’t happen often, because usually he’s the one doing the picking up if he’s in the right mood for it, but the roles are rarely ever reversed. He could swear he used to see Blondie hanging on Legato’s sleeve, so why is he coming to him, and not Legato? Legato is certainly the prettier one between them, the more noticeable one with the blue hair.

Still, he’s curious, so he finds himself nodding once.

“Sure, why not?” Wolfwood shrugs. “I’ve got time to kill.”

Maybe the conversation will help distract him, pull him away from the shitty post-concert comedown feeling in his chest. He hasn’t had enough whiskey to make him tipsy even, only one glass, but a second drink could help him get there.

And really if a pretty boy like him is treating him to free alcohol, then who is he to say no?

“Nice,” Blondie breathes. “Cool. Awesome.”

Wolfwood snorts at his apparent awkwardness. Blondie certainly isn’t much of a conversationalist, and it’s obvious that he hadn’t rehearsed what he would say on his way over. The blush high on his cheeks and the fidgeting; too much unkempt energy pooling over into the twitch of his fingers, the bouncing of his knees.

It’s a bit endearing though, Wolfwood admits to himself.

“You were…” Blondie swallows, gathering his thoughts together. “Pretty cool up there. You’re really good at the guitar.”

“Bass,” Wolfwood corrects. Compliments from noobs who know nothing about music don’t often weigh much to him, but he’ll try to keep up a front in front of his…fans. “Thanks.”

“Yeah!” Blondie replies, smiling widely. A genuine smile, a pretty one that takes Wolfwood by surprise. “I’m Vash by the way. I’m an artist – I’m mostly a digital artist but I dabble a little bit in everything! I’m trying to brush up on my painting and photography, and sometimes I give tattoos on demand at my brother’s tattoo parlor. I also like to sing.”

Wolfwood takes a decisive sip of alcohol to hide his snort. Whenever people claim they can do a little bit of everything, Wolfwood automatically assumes that means they’re shitty at all of it. It’s not necessarily true in all cases, Livio for example is amazing at the drums and his day job as a teacher, but it holds true generally.

Still, something Blondie - well, Vash, apparently - said tugs at the recesses of his memory. A bell ringing somewhere, a tug of familiarity he can’t place his finger on. He’s not tipsy yet, but there’s a buzz that’s softening his thoughts around the edges, making him unable to retrieve the information he needs right now.

“Riveting,” Wolfwood drawls, though he honestly doesn’t care at all. He cocks his head to the side, scrutinizing Vash closely. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Vash startles at that, laughing loudly as if Wolfwood said something hilarious. Wolfwood blinks at him quizzically, waiting for his laughter to taper out, but he laughs for entirely too long. A fake sound that grates against his ears.

“Of course not!” Vash replies, patting Wolfwood’s shoulder as if to placate him with his gloved hand. His hand lingers there for a few beats too long, his warmth bleeding into the fabric of Wolfwood’s thin button-down shirt. His eyes flicker to it, wondering if his initial suspicion wasn’t as far off as he’d assumed. Vash recoils his hand as if burned, cradling it to his chest. “This is our first time talking. Though, I guess I should be flattered you remembered me from attending your other shows.”

What about Legato, though? He brushes his fingers against his chin, wondering if he’d imagined Vash hanging on Legato’s sleeve; if perhaps he’d mistaken him for another pretty blonde. Doubtful but it could be possible.

There’s also the possibility that he’s misreading this whole encounter, seeing it as something that it’s not.

“Yeah, possibly.” Wolfwood takes a drag of his cigarette, watching a puff of smoke materialize before it immediately dissipates, but the scent of burning ash still remains. “Then, Blondie, will you tell me why you’re actually here?”

Then again, what does it matter if Vash belongs to Legato? It’s not like Legato is his bro in any way, so Wolfwood doesn’t have any code to honor with him. If he wanted to take one of his boy toys home, Legato could bitch and cry about it all he wanted later, Wolfwood still wouldn’t have any fucks to give.

And if Vash doesn’t actually want him, well, Wolfwood is sure he can change that.

“Pardon?”

“Well,” Wolfwood says, letting the word roll off his tongue languidly. “You came here, bought me a drink, and are grasping at straws with the small talk.”

Wolfwood smirks, stubbing the cigarette in the ashtray, watching the orange embers fizzle out in the pile of ash. He turns towards Vash fully finally, his knee bumping against Vash’s with purpose, their warmth bleeding through the fabric of their pants. He watches Vash suck in a deep breath, catching in the deep of his chest.

Bingo.

“Don’t you think…” Wolfwood trails off pointedly. “That we should just cut to the chase and get to the part where you’re asking me to go home with you?”

See, the thing is, if there’s one thing that can almost match the euphoria Wolfwood feels on stage, then it’s a good fuck. He doesn’t often go for it, because good and satisfying fucks for him are rare and few in between, but there’s just something about Vash. The way he seems to bend and melt into his touch, his pretty smiles, and his eagerness to please Wolfwood. It spells for a good night, a wild one, especially if he lets Wolfwood have his way with him.

He wants it, wants to make this pretty boy pliant for him, cry his name until his raspy voice is hoarse and broken.

“I - that’s not why I approached you.” Vash swallows. “I - fuck - I swear that’s not -”

Wolfwood places his hand on Vash’s thigh, waiting for him to push it off, but he doesn’t. If anything, his thigh only flexes under the touch, prompting him to squeeze. That feels nice under his fingertips, makes him want more, to see more.

“Are you sure about that, Vash ?” Wolfwood whispers, leaning in close. “There’s no need to play coy with me. I don’t like beating around the bush.”

Vash pauses, opening his mouth and closing it repeatedly as if lost for words entirely. Wolfwood is possessed with the strongest urge to claim those lips as his own, but not yet. Wants Vash to admit it first, to come out and say that he wants Wolfwood, that this is why he came in the first place.

Then, then he will let himself taste Vash, see if he tastes as sweet as he looks.

“I can’t take you home because of my brother.” Vash swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “But I…I would go with you anywhere you wanted.”

Wolfwood feels a smile grow on his face, already enjoying the way Vash so freely submits to him. He considers this, going through all his options rapidly. He isn’t as well-versed in hookups as say, Legato, but on the rare event that he takes someone home, he usually made sure it’s not his own home they’re going to. Especially if this Vash is a fan, he probably shouldn’t have him knowing where he lives.

But motels cost money, which is more than Wolfwood wants to spend for a good fuck. And he supposes he could take Vash out to the bathroom, but the stench and the sound of people pissing in the urinals and vomiting in the neighboring stalls would kill his boner. And well, Vash looks too pretty for getting fucked in a shitty bathroom stall. Though, he supposes that would be part of the appeal. Just not for tonight.

Granted, Wolfwood doesn’t really care to fuck the same person twice, so he’d have no way of exploring that thought anyway. Well, perhaps if he gets along with Vash, he’ll ask for his number so they can have a do-over. Shelves the idea away for another time.

“My place is close,” Wolfwood eventually replies. “Five minutes by bike.”

He gets up, waiting for Vash to foot the bill since he so graciously offered to treat him to a drink. He shoots a quick text to Livio, telling him that he’s going to head out on his own and to grab his bass guitar with him on their way out. When Livio asks him if everything is alright, Wolfwood doesn’t answer, shoves his phone into his pocket.

“I, okay.” Vash nods, throwing some dollar bills onto the bar. More than what the drinks were probably worth, which makes Wolfwood’s eye twitch. “Guess this is happening.”

Wolfwood wraps an arm around the small of Vash’s waist, hugging him close to his frame, grinning widely.

“Oh, Blondie, I’ll be sure to treat you to a night you’ll never forget,” Wolfwood promises.

The ride to his flat has never felt so long and simultaneously short at the same time.

Wolfwood presses the gas, wind blowing in his ears, hair whipping behind him noisily. He’s going a bit faster than he should, just barely passing the change of the traffic lights to get to his place faster. Wolfwood pays them no mind as he rips past cafes and shops he has memorized by hand now, landmarks he normally wouldn’t notice because the ride is so short, but he notices them now. He’s hyper-aware of Vash, too, makes Vash’s arms wrap tightly around his middle, small yelps and shrieks falling from his lips. The vice grip, however, betrays a strength to Vash’s deceivingly lanky frame. It’s kind of hot. He likes a man who could bench press him if he so desired to. 

They’re parking before they know it, standing in front of his apartment building. 

Vash looks shaky as he disembarks from Wolfwood’s bike, Punisher, tripping over his own two feet. Wolfwood snickers, eliciting a pout from Vash. 

“Do you always drive like a madman?” Vash asks. 

“Hmm. Sometimes, I guess it depends.” Wolfwood shrugs. He leans in close, inhaling Vash’s refreshing scent, making sure to drop his voice to a whisper as he presses the words he’ll say next directly into Vash’s ear. “It helps when I want to get my dick wet by a pretty boy.”

Vash makes a strange sound, a cross between a whimper and a moan, but he nods. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Vash replies, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

Wolfwood laughs at that, entering his apartment building. Vash is quiet now as he follows him, no longer trying to find the words to fill the air between them, and that only seems to add to the thickening tension. Tension so thick that Wolfwood can feel it thrumming underneath his skin, can almost taste on his tongue. Wolfwood barely resists the urge to jump his bones on the stairs. No elevator because of how shitty and dilapidated it is. They climb the stairs, two steps at a time, tension rising exponentially with each step. 

Each time he chances a glance at Vash, trying to glean if he’s gotten cold feet or not, he finds that he’s still there. Always two steps behind, stars in his eyes as he watches Wolfwood, but a tinge of something else. Something undecipherable.

Once they reach the door of his dingy flat, Wolfwood comes to a halt, hears Vash’s boots come to a stop behind him. Only one step behind him this time. Wolfwood turns to him, sizing him up.

“You still want this, dollface?” Wolfwood asks, taking a step closer.

“Yes.” Vash swallows. “I want it. Want you.”

Those are the magic words, aren’t they? Wolfwood’s grin takes a feral edge to it, beckoning Vash closer.

“Then you best not regret it, yeah?”

Vash nods. Once he has Vash in his house, he doesn’t care to flick on the lights, already pinning him to the door as he kisses him roughly and without warning. His sunglasses dig into his face, Vash’s sunglasses askew on his face, but Wolfwood can’t be assed to care right now.

He feels Vash melt against the door, knees buckling underneath his weight, as Wolfwood keeps him pinned there with a hand to his waist. He nips at Vash’s bottom lip, eliciting a winded gasp from him, which Wolfwood takes to push his tongue inside. Moves his tongue against Vash’s, sucking on his tongue the way he does to his favorite lollipops, swallowing his every gasp and moan.

Vash tastes sweet, like he’d been sucking on candy or chocolate prior to the concert, which contrasts harshly against the taste of whiskey and cigarettes on his own tongue. He loves it, wants to taste more of it, kisses Vash harder.

Vash, for his part, takes it. Takes everything Wolfwood has to give, his fingers fisting weakly into the lapels of Wolfwood’s blazer, bringing Wolfwood in ever closer. So close, that their bodies might as well be plastered against each other. Wolfwood obliges him, pressing their hips together as he raises Vash’s thighs to wrap around his waist. Vash squeaks at the sudden movement, but the firm grip of Wolfwood’s hands around the thickness of his thighs, digging into the muscle there has him groaning into his mouth. Their vice grip around Wolfwood’s own waist has his eyes rolling back, grinding against Vash’s hips, wanting. Needing.

He pauses, however, because where he expects to find hardness, he finds nothing. Just hot warmth. Odd, but Wolfwood doesn’t pay it much mind. He’s sure that if he were to push his fingers beneath the hem of his pants, he’d find him wet and leaking underneath his fingertips.

They break apart, breathless, a line of spit connecting between their lips. Vash’s sunglasses are all foggy, too, making it hard for Wolfwood to see those baby blues behind them but he doesn’t mind the visual this offers. Vash’s lips are swollen where Wolfwood bit at them, glistening with spit, already looking so ravaged when all they’ve done is make out. 

“That was nice,” Vash says breathily.

“We’re just getting started, dollface.”

Wolfwood moves his hands upwards, shifting Vash ever so slightly so that he can grope his ass, kneading it between his hands. With his mouth, he finds the golden earring in Vash’s ear, tugging at it with his teeth. Vash moans more audibly at that, a gnarly sound coming from the base of his throat, sounding like it’s being wrenched from the depths of his chest. Wolfwood loves it, loves how guttural it sounds. Moves downwards to nip at Vash’s throat, doesn’t hesitate to leave his mark on his throat, right over his black turtle-neck. Something that would be difficult to cover up.

Vash’s hips shift against him, greedy and wanton, seeking pleasure. Wolfwood pins him harshly against the door, before he thinks better of it, shifting to carry Vash in his arms instead.

“Let’s move to the bed,” Wolfwood says. “I want to see you.” And fuck you.

He shucks off his shoes haphazardly, navigating his way blindly over discarded socks and ratty clothes that haven’t been washed in eons, until he finds his room. He winces, noticing how filthy his room is in the moonlight, but Vash doesn’t seem to notice it, too preoccupied with peppering kisses against his collarbones that are exposed from his button-down shirt.

He drops Vash onto his messy sheets, climbing atop him.

“Strip me,” Wolfwood instructs. “Then I want you to strip.”

Vash falters for a moment, but he nods. Sits upright, hands trembling slightly as he pulls Wolfwood’s blazer off. Then he reaches for his black button-down shirt, gloved fingers slipping as he pulls at the buttons clumsily. He looks nervous, which has Wolfwood cock an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Only sits back languidly, lets Vash find his own rhythm, brushing his fingers through his blonde strands and the dark undercut underneath it. It’s heavily styled, but the strands are soft underneath it.

A shuddery breath falls from Vash’s lips, but he continues to unbutton Wolfwood’s shirt diligently, gloved fingers tracing against each patch of skin. Light, featherlight, as if he’s not quite sure if he’s allowed to touch more than Wolfwood explicitly allows him to. So docile, so submissive.

“You can touch, y’know,” Wolfwood tells him. “I won’t bite. Too hard anyway.”

Vash smiles at that, something small, but he nods. Leans in to kiss Wolfwood’s throat, his collarbone, doesn’t mark him like Wolfwood did, but he does suck. Wet kisses, needy kisses pressed into his skin. With each button undone, Vash goes down deeper, kissing down Wolfwood’s chest. He kisses Wolfwood reverently as if he wants to please him, worship his body, and Wolfwood can’t say he hates it. Wraps his fingers within Vash’s blonde strands, bringing him in closer, letting out a shuddery sigh.

Vash takes his shirt off, marveling at the sight he sees before him, fingers immediately finding purchase on his skin. Tracing over the tattoos that line Wolfwood’s skin, greedy, as if he’s trying to drink them all in.

“Your tattoos are gorgeous,” Vash whispers. “So intricately done.”

Wolfwood can’t help but get a little smug at the compliment, flexing a bit under Vash’s watchful eye.

Wolfwood gets his tattoos done at Millions Knives, a famous tattoo parlor downtown, which costs a hefty penny. Nai is a bit of a weirdo, Wolfwood thinks, a wack job. Scary too. That said, nobody else does tattoos as well as him, so Wolfwood continues to get them done there. He always has a way of turning Wolfwood’s jumbled thoughts and haphazard designs into something profound, beautiful, inking him so that he himself looks like art.

“Happy you like’em,” Wolfwood croons. He caresses Vash’s cheeks, so hot underneath his touch. “You’re pretty gorgeous yourself, pretty boy.”

Vash seems to preen at that, glowing in the moonlight, a dopey smile forming across his cheeks. It suits him. So pretty, Wolfwood thinks, as Vash leans in again. Kissing Wolfwood’s lips slowly, languidly, a bit too soft for what the moment calls for. He hums into Wolfwood’s lips, so content, and it’s contagious. Makes Wolfwood’s own skin thrum with the attention, stomach swarming with gross giddy feelings. Vash kisses down, gloved fingers mapping out his tattoos, lips moving down his chest and sternum to his abs.

When Vash hits the buckle of his belt, nose buried in Wolfwood’s happy trail, he pauses. Unsure. Wolfwood tugs on his hair.

“Don’t stop,” Wolfwood says, voice strained. “Wanna fuck your mouth.”

Vash nods at that, face burning hot in the silver moonlight, fingers clumsily grasping at his belt buckle. He frees Wolfwood from his pants, hesitating before tugging off his black briefs, leaving Wolfwood entirely naked. He’s already hard, which is embarrassing because they haven’t done a whole lot and last he checked, Vash wasn’t there yet either. It’s not his fault, though, he’s just tense. It’s been a long time since he’s last gotten laid and Vash is so pretty, so sweet, that it’s adding an extra edge to Wolfwood’s arousal.

That quiet voice at the back of his head telling him that he’s defiling Legato’s boy toy makes Wolfwood’s cock twitch.

“’m gonna start now,” Vash whispers.

He moves to take off his sunglasses, but Wolfwood stops him.

“Keep’em on,” Wolfwood says. “I like it.”

Vash swallows, nodding again, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose before they slip. He goes down, puffing out a breath on Wolfwood’s cock, warm and hot. Makes him twitch. Vash is careful, experimental as he presses a kiss to the tip of his cock. Chaste, sweet, teasing. It makes Wolfwood wonder if it’s intentional, especially with Vash gazing at him over the rim of his sunglasses, as if gauging Wolfwood’s reaction.

But then Vash’s kisses start to become wetter, more open mouthed, fingers playing with his balls; and the thought leaves his mind. Vash licks the slit, tongue laving over it, before he takes the tip in his mouth and sinks down. Wolfwood lets out a groan, tangling his fingers in Vash’s hair, reaching the scalp. He uses his hair as leverage, forcing Vash deeper down his cock, seeking that deliciously tight and hot warmth around him. Vash’s nose hits his navel, blinking rapidly as his sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, tears starting to form at the corner of his eyes.

Wolfwood wants to push him further.

He thrusts shallowly, feeling himself hit the back of Vash’s throat, his throat constricting around his cock. Vash doesn’t seem to mind too much, however, blue eyes a shade darker than usual. He groans around Wolfwood’s cock, the sound reverberating against his cock, pushing Wolfwood further on edge. He’s drooling so much, making his cock drip with it, and Wolfwood loves it. Making him rougher as he pushes Vash deeper onto his cock, till he’s crying freely, spit falling from lips and down his chin.

Debauched, ruined, messy. Beautiful. His.

It’s that thought, especially the last one, that has Wolfwood pulling Vash off his cock as he tugs his cock once, twice, until he’s coming all over Vash’s face. He looks a bit shocked, as come catches in the strands of his hair, painting his sunglasses in streaks of white. He gasps at the suddenness of it all, and Wolfwood smirks, gathering the come on Vash’s cheeks into one generous dollop and forcing his fingers into Vash’s mouth.

“Swallow, baby,” Wolfwood tells him. Vash obliges him, eyes sliding closed as his lips wrap around Wolfwood’s fingers, sucking on the digits the same way he just did his cock. His tongue wraps around his fingers, feels him swallow the come. Wolfwood’s cock twitches. “Good boy.”

Wolfwood pulls his fingers away, a thread of spit connecting them to Vash’s mouth, which Vash greedily follows. Wolfwood ignores him, pulling Vash into his lap instead, and bringing their lips together once more. He's a bit of a narcissist, loves the taste of himself on Vash’s tongue, the salty taste contrasting against Vash’s sweetness. Vash melts into the kiss, into Wolfwood, touching him everywhere he can. Hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, chests pressed together so their hearts beat as one, their crotches pressed together, the loose material of his cargo pants chafing against Wolfwood’s cock which is still half-mast after coming so hard. 

How is Vash still not hard? He’s acting so needy, so eager to please and be pleased by Wolfwood. It's what he looks for in his partners, what gives him the most satisfaction. Thrives on that neediness. But when Wolfwood reaches between them, petting Vash, he still can’t feel his boner.

The hell? Could he be…?

Wolfwood’s fingers find the hem of Vash’s sweater, teasing it as he lets his fingers roam underneath, touching the skin. Vash breaks the kiss, panting against Wolfwood’s mouth, arching into the touch. 

"I know I told you to strip," Wolfwood says, hand moving upwards to tease at Vash’s nipple, hiking up his sweater further. "But now I want to unravel you myself. See what makes you fall apart." 

Vash stills at that, staring at Wolfwood with dazed eyes. He looks perturbed, eyebrows knitting together, bottom lip protruding. He's pouting. A stupidly cute look on him. 

"I think you'll like me better with my clothes on."

"I very hardly doubt it, Spikey," Wolfwood replies. He pulls off Vash’s red jacket, letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground next to all his other discarded garments there. "Let me see you."

"But -"

"You're beautiful, baby, don't doubt yourself," Wolfwood whispers against Vash’s lips, kissing him again. This time as a distraction, so he can silence his protests, pushing Vash’s shirt further up. He breaks apart to pull it off his head, come-soaked sunglasses in tow, finally drinking Vash in the moonlight. 

Then he pauses. 

Somehow, he hadn't expected the prosthetic metal arm glinting in the moonlight, nor the scars scattered across his chest. Wolfwood cocks his head to the side, watching Vash curl in on himself. Embarrassed. Insecure. 

"Still like you better with your clothes off, dollface," Wolfwood says in direct response to Vash’s earlier comment. His tone is soft, lips tilting upwards with promise. "Love the metal arm, though, that looks fucking sick ."

"Yeah?" Vash smiles at Wolfwood, something shaky and hesitant, as if he's trying to gauge the sincerity of his words. 

Wolfwood nods, smiling properly. 

"Obviously," Wolfwood responds, lips tilting upwards into a smirk. "Want me to prove it?" 

"And how will you do that?" Vash asks, a surge of flirty confidence filtering into his tone that takes Wolfwood off guard. "As a musician, I'm sure you know that talk is cheap." 

Touché. 

"Wasn't planning on using words, baby," Wolfwood responds. "Let me show you."

He pushes Vash back onto the mess of his sheets, crawling over him as he peppers kisses into his skin. Against his ear, his piercing. The crook of his neck where he'd left a bruise that's already starting to blossom into a deep shade of indigo. The crevice between his collarbones. His sternum, over his rapidly racing heart. A nipple he takes between his teeth, feeling Vash's back arch underneath him, writhing in the pleasure Wolfwood so graciously offers him. While his mouth is preoccupied, he lets his fingers wander, mapping out the constellation of scars and freckles on his body like it's a new sheet of music for him to memorize. 

And it's driving Vash fucking nuts. 

Wolfwood feels Vash rock his hips against the thigh he placed between his legs, his back bending, a cacophony of winded moans falling from his lips. His voice is so gone, raspy and used from abusing it around Wolfwood’s cock, forming what might just become Wolfwood’s new favorite song. 

“Wolfwood, wait, I –”

When Wolfwood reaches the hem of Vash’s pants, he takes them off, his protests falling on deaf ears. The lacy red underwear is something he hadn’t quite expected, let alone the dark red spot in the center. Nor had Wolfwood anticipated that Vash didn’t have a dick inside his pants. His eyes flicker to the scars on Vash’s chest, suddenly connecting the dots.

Oh damn.

“Pretty cunt you have here,” Wolfwood drawls, pressing his fingers against the wet spot on his panties. “You’re so wet, baby, you’re literally dripping.”

Looks like Vash actually was into it, Wolfwood thinks to himself.

“Oh God,” Vash groans, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t.”

“I’m flattered, but that’s not actually my name,” Wolfwood can’t help but snigger. He opens Vash’s legs wider, bending down between them as he nuzzles that wet spot. “But I can give you a feeling that will err on religious if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Wolfwood licks a long strip against the wet fabric of Vash’s panties, his tangy wetness exploding on his tastebuds, completely washing away the taste of whiskey and cigarettes from the bar. He bunches Vash’s panties to the side, taking in that gorgeous cunt, his hole positively leaking. Wolfwood hadn’t been planning to eat out Vash tonight, too impatient to get his dick wet, but the urge to taste overpowers him. After all, how could he resist when Vash tastes so sweet?

Closes his lips around his clit, sucking on it. He lets his finger trace his folds, so wet, till he finds his hole. Dips his finger in without any resistance, feels his hot walls clench around his finger so tightly. Dazedly, Wolfwood replaces his finger with his tongue, earnestly eating out Vash, his nose buried in Vash’s cunt. Licking up all his wetness like it’s his last meal, like he’s a man starved in the desert, feeling him drip down his chin and onto his bed. Wolfwood teases at his clit in tandem, feeling Vash’s hips buck into his face, wanton and full of greedy want. Vash groans and whines, thick thighs close around his head. Suffocating him. 

If he were to die with his head between this pretty boy's thick thighs, Wolfwood thinks that wouldn't be too bad a way to go out. 

“’m gonna come, Wolfwood,” Vash groans, fingers tugging on his hair. “Please.”

Wolfwood should pull off, knows he hates the taste of come, but Vash doesn’t taste half bad. Only goes back to sucking on his clit, fingering Vash with two fingers, scissoring him open. He’s so wet that two fingers go in like they’re nothing, even if his walls clamp around his digits in a vice grip. When he hits the bundle of nerves in the back, his G-spot, Wolfwood feels when Vash comes. Body spasming, coming so hard that Wolfwood’s face gets coated with it, thighs closing around his face as he forces Wolfwood’s face into his cunt. It’s as if he’s trying to drown Wolfwood in his pussy, and he doesn’t think he would mind that too much. 

Wolfwood would be lying if he didn’t find the strength corded into Vash’s lithe body extremely hot.

He untangles himself slowly from Vash’s addictive heat, trying to catch his breath, as he watches Vash underneath him. Chest heaving, cheeks red, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. His panties are ruined, a wet patch pooling onto Wolfwood’s bed underneath him. Wolfwood pulls off the panties, tossing them on the floor mindlessly, drinking in how gorgeous he is when entirely naked and splayed out on his messy sheets. His own arousal cloying and boiling over, like molten lava, simmering underneath the surface as he sees Vash so fucked out already when Wolfwood has yet to put his cock inside him. Baby blue eyes blown out and dazed, face flushed and blond hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving with the exertion. He's sure if he placed his hand over his chest, his heart would be racing. 

Holy fuck if Vash isn’t the prettiest thing he's ever had in his own bed.

"You look so needy like a whore," Wolfwood murmurs, teasing Vash’s abused clit between his fingers. Vash keens, trying to edge away from the touch, but Wolfwood pins him to the bed. Vash will take what Wolfwood is willing to give him; nothing more, nothing less. "Was Blueberry that bad of a fuck in bed, hm?"

Vash stills at that, an unreadable expression flickering across his face before he shakes his head. He gnaws at his bottom lip, swollen where Wolfwood ravaged it with his own lips. But Wolfwood noticed how his thighs quivered, the flush on his cheeks turning a shade darker.

Man, what a fucking slut, Wolfwood thinks. 

"'m not a whore." Vash pouts. 

He also didn't miss the way Vash intentionally ignored the second part. Interesting. 

Wolfwood sneers, pinching his clit aggressively, eliciting a wrangled gasp from him. 

"If you don't like getting degraded, then why is your body responding so positively to it?" Wolfwood hums. "You love it, don't you?" 

"I don't." Vash shakes his head. "No."

"Don't lie, baby," Wolfwood whispers, using his fingers that are wet with Vash’s own come to tease at his hole again. "Or I won't fuck you."

Vash pauses at that, bottom lip wobbling. 

"I thought you were gonna show me how beautiful you think I am," Vash challenges. 

"Being a whore and being beautiful aren't two mutually exclusive concepts," Wolfwood drawls, letting his finger breach Vash’s tight hole once more. Shallowly, teasing him with it, but Vash’s hole clings to him. So impossibly tight. Wolfwood groans, imagining his cock enveloped in that heat. "And you are certainly both.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I’m to your liking then,” Vash laughs, breathless.

Oh, Vash certainly is. He’s exactly his type. Possibly too much so. Gorgeous, submissive, a little bratty. 

Wolfwood spits into his hand, rubbing it around between his fingers. Vash stares at him apprehensively, but Wolfwood ignores his inquisitive stare. Instead, he presses three fingers in at once, impatient, watching Vash wince. He’s rough with his fingers, fast, stretching Vash out. Vash is so impossibly tight around him, still so tense because he’s still coming down from his first climax, but he feels him start to relax little by little. His whimpers of discomfort are starting to turn into winded gasps of pleasure; his hips are starting to buck into Wolfwood’s fingers instead of away from them. His favorite sound.

Wolfwood knows instinctively when he finds Vash’s G-spot again. It’s the spot that has him leaking, his thighs quivering, toes curling. His teeth sink into his bottom lip to stem whatever ravaged sound he was about to make right now, eyes rolling back. Wolfwood thrusts his fingers there twice, thrice, making Vash get hooked on the feeling, taking him to the precipice of his second orgasm before he’s already pulling his fingers out.

Vash blinks, surprised, hole clenching around nothing.

He spits into his hand again, slicking up his cock, giving it another few tugs before pressing it to Vash’s prepped hole. Well, sort of. Then he bottoms out. Wolfwood should probably use a condom, but he hates how they feel around his dick, so whatever. He’ll be sure to pull out before he comes. Maybe next time, whenever he's putting his dick into anyone who isn’t Vash. 

He barely gives Vash any time to adjust before he’s fucking into him harshly, thriving on that tight hot warmth that clings to his cock so deliciously. Vash whines, scrambling for purchase, hands finding Wolfwood’s shoulders. His fingers scrape at them, the metallic fingers dig into his skin harshly making him wince, but he likes it. If Vash is too shy to bite, then he wants him to sink his fingers in, leave his mark in the form of scars and gnarly bruises that will last for days.  

“You feel so good,” Wolfwood groans against Vash’s lips. “Shit.”

“It’s too much,” Vash pants. "Please."

What he's begging for, he doesn’t specify, though Wolfwood can hazard a guess. Decides not to tease Vash for much longer. Wolfwood starts to angle his thrusts towards that same bundle of nerves that makes Vash writhe in sensitivity, making Vash melt and keen underneath his touch. The room is filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies moving together, Vash’s winded moans, and Wolfwood’s own heart reverberating loudly in his ears. 

He's already close, already hypersensitive from coming once, feeling his thrusts start to become sloppier. His fingers find Vash’s clit again, tugging at it in tandem with his own thrusts, helping Vash reach his own climax. 

"Wolfwood," Vash gasps, blonde hair splayed out on his pillow, eyes pricking with tears. "I'm close."

Wolfwood feels his blood rush from his heart to his ears, filling them with white noise. He blinks slowly, chest oddly tight, when he realizes he's already coming. It feels like he's coming forever, so much more intense than his first orgasm, feels stars exploding behind his eyelids from how hard his orgasm crashes into him. Which is highly embarrassing, but Vash doesn't seem to notice, eyes already falling shut. 

For someone who was so noisy in bed, so sensitive, arching into any fleeting touch Wolfwood branded into his skin; he comes quietly. Wolfwood only knows he'd come when he sees his body collapse onto the bed, as if he’d come so hard that it seems to shake his core. Something similar to what Wolfwood himself was feeling.

Oh God, that almost felt like a religious experience from how fucking good that was.

Wolfwood just barely resists the urge to collapse onto Vash’s twinky body, pulling out, and falling next to Vash. He catches the visual of his own come oozing out of Vash’s abused hole, a fleeting idea to eat him out again flickering before his head, before he pushes it away. Vash whines, probably from how empty he feels. He's already come twice, he's too tired to give Vash a third orgasm right now. As a makeshift standin, Wolfwood peppers kisses against Vash’s shoulder, his collarbones, his lips. Vash hums, sounding happy, and Wolfwood likes the sound. 

"That was nice," Vash says, sighing as he turns to look at Wolfwood expectantly. “Not exactly how I expected my night to go, but I’m not complaining.”

This is the part of the night where Wolfwood kicks Vash out of his bed, but leaves his phone number with him, so they could do this again. He typically has no qualms doing so; setting boundaries in the beginning is important, so nobody expects more than what Wolfwood is typically ready to give. Relationships, handholding, lovey-dovey shit – none of that is on the menu for him. Sex isn’t the intimate thing to him that it is to most.

This time, however, he hesitates.

“I guess it was,” Wolfwood replies.

He hesitates because he’s tired. He had a long ass day between Kento leaving the band, the concert, and having such intense sex. He needs sleep, and well, he’s sure Vash needs to sleep too. Contrary to popular belief, Wolfwood isn’t actually an asshole, so he supposes he can let him crash for tonight.

Then, tomorrow morning, he will make Vash leave. Before this turns into something it shouldn’t.

“Get some rest, Blondie.” Wolfwood waves at him, turning around to give him his back. “’m tired.”

“Okay,” Vash replies softly. Wolfwood stills when he feels Vash’s sticky forehead pressed against his back, breathing against it, soft and ticklish. “Thanks for not being weird about my arm.”

Wolfwood is quiet for a few moments, feeling something akin to irritation simmering underneath his skin.

“Was Blueberry an asshole about it?”

Vash doesn’t immediately respond, which makes Wolfwood wonder if maybe he was wrong about his initial assumption that they knew each other. He’s about to open his mouth, say something to take it back, when Vash lets out a sigh. A heavy sigh, weighed down with emotions that Wolfwood can’t pull apart.

“Something like that,” Vash replies vaguely, but it’s enough to tell him that they do have some kind of history. Or present. Not that Wolfwood really gives a fuck either way. “But yeah, thank you again. You were nice.”

Wolfwood snorts, closing his eyes, pulling his blanket up to cover them both. They both reek of sweat and come, but Wolfwood is too lazy to do anything about their situation. Tomorrow, he’ll aerate his room and shower, but he just wants to sleep for now.

“Don’t thank me for doing the bare minimum, Blondie,” Wolfwood says. “Goodnight.”

Vash laughs at that, a melodic sound that lingers in the air between them, snuggling into the blanket. He still hasn’t let go of Wolfwood’s back, but it feels comfortable, the cold press of his prosthetic arm against his sweaty skin is welcome, soothing. It feels too good for Wolfwood to want to push him away.

Wolfwood closes his eyes, breath evening out, and sleeps better than he has in weeks.

When Wolfwood next wakes up, it’s to sunlight streaming through his window. He blinks once, twice, trying to whisk away the grogginess, each blink bringing back cropped memories from the night before. The concert, the raving fans, Legato’s anger. The pretty blonde, Vash, Wolfwood taking him home. Breaking so many of his own rules for a pretty boy with an even prettier smile.

Wolfwood rubs his face, sitting up slowly, seeing that his bed is vacant. Vash didn’t stay the night, he’s already gone, which is a bit surprising to him. He thought he’d have to kick him out, thought for sure that Vash would be the type to cling, the kind who wouldn’t be able to take a hint.

He supposes if he’s Legato’s bitch, though, that would indeed complicate things.

Wolfwood turns to the side, figures he might as well get a few more hours of sleep in while he’s at it, when he finds a piece of paper on his pillowcase. A note.

‘Hi, Wolfwood!! I had some stuff to do early in the morning, so I let myself out. I hope that you don’t mind that I helped myself to your shower. There wasn’t much in the kitchen to work with, but I made you some breakfast. I hope you like it. Thanks for the nice night, it certainly was one I’ll remember 😊 ’

Wolfwood raises an eyebrow at that, not quite knowing what to make out of such an oddly friendly note. He shifts, finding his discarded boxers at the foot of his bed, slipping them on as he gets out of bed. The first thing he notices is that his room looks tidier, all the clothes on the floor have been cleared, so he can actually see his floorboards for once. Carefully, he walks through the doorframe, finding more traces of his house being tidied. The bathroom looks spotless from a glance. The grease and stains on his kitchen walls and stove are mysteriously gone, gleaming as if they’re brand new.

Did Vash actually clean his entire flat before leaving this morning?

On the counter, there’s three dishes of pancakes and eggs left out for Wolfwood to eat, making his stomach grumble. It’s only now that Wolfwood realizes that he hadn’t eaten yesterday. With smoking as much as he does, he doesn’t often have an appetite for food, forgets to eat until his body starts to protest.

Slowly, Wolfwood sits down, taking a fork of the pancakes and plopping it in his mouth. It’s a bit soggy and bland, so he guesses Vash’s forte might lie in cleaning more than cooking, but it’s still got that homemade charm. He can’t even remember the last time he’d eaten a meal that wasn’t takeout or microwave dishes, since neither him nor Livio can cook, so he just got used to that lifestyle.

It’s a slightly odd gesture from Vash, one that none of Wolfwood’s previous hookups ever bothered to do, but still sweet, nonetheless.

Distantly, Wolfwood thinks while savoring the now cold breakfast that Vash prepared for him in the quiet of his kitchen, that he regrets not having the chance to ask Vash for his number. It’s truly unfortunate.

Days pass by and Wolfwood falls into his normal routine. Wake up, smoke, work his lame part time job at a music equipment store. Smoke, strum on his bass a bit. Go to jam practice with Legato and Livio, drink and smoke, then lay awake till the AM hours because of his wicked insomnia. It’s easy, monotonous, helps Wolfwood turn his brain off.

Wolfwood is a walking disaster, so he hadn't managed to maintain the cleanliness Vash had invested into his flat, but it is what it is. Wolfwood likes the clutter, the artful chaos of his own apartment.

It also makes Vash easier to forget. The scars on his back have started to heal, the bruises imparted onto his skin have mostly faded, and his apartment is a mess once more.

The only thing that Wolfwood holds onto is the stupid note Vash left him on his pillow, the note he’s reread many more times than he’d like to admit, till he’s had it memorized by heart. Wolfwood has it crumpled, has tried to toss it more than once, but he never manages it. Rather, he ended up folding it, shoving it into the pocket of his ripped skinny jeans. The pair he wears every day.

He just doesn’t get it. If Vash was going to take the time to clean his whole apartment and make him breakfast, even going as far as to leave a note, then why didn’t he leave his number? Wolfwood feels like he’s reading into it too much, but he feels like he’s been rejected out the door before doing anything to prompt that rejection.

Whatever, Vash was a bit of a manic pixie dream girl anyway. Even if he was a good lay, it’s not like his whole life will stop without Vash in it for future fucks.

Wolfwood rocks up to band practice, sighing as he tosses out his half-lit cigarette, walking into the studio that they usually rent out for jamming. Jam practice is always a good way for Wolfwood to take his mind off things, lose himself in the music, distract himself for a while. He runs his fingers through his hair, a bit greasy because he’d foregone today’s shower, pushes his sunglasses back to keep his hair out of his face. A mistake, because his shades would have hidden the way his eyes widen when his eyes land on the same pretty boy blondie from the concert last week. The guy he fucked till he cried. Vash.

He's dressed similarly from last week; donned in a generic black MCR band t-shirt, his red trench-coat, and black cargo pants with chunky boots to match. His circular shades pushing his  blonde hair back, golden earring in his ear. He looks like a dream, even prettier in the daylight than he was that night. Wolfwood swallows.

Holy shit. Wolfwood must be dreaming. So blinded by his desire for Vash that he’s literally dreaming up his presence now.

“Nico.” Livio beckons him forward. “This is our new lead singer. The guy that I told you Meryl recommended, Vash.” He brings Wolfwood in by the collar of his shirt, smiling at him stiffly. “Be. Nice. Okay?”

Livio’s voice is barely higher than a whisper, but the threat that rings between them is deafening. Yes, definitely not a dream. Wolfwood nods without offering a reply, eyes trained on Vash who has yet to notice him, too busy tapping his mic curiously. He swallows, hoping that Livio can’t read his mind or the tumultuous emotional turmoil he’s feeling right now.

Then Vash’s baby blue eyes find Wolfwood behind his shades, his face unreadable for a moment, before breaking out into a gorgeous smile that’s so bright that Wolfwood feels momentarily blinded by its intensity. He climbs down the stage, walking up to Wolfwood, proffering his hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Wolfwood,” Vash greets him amicably. Professional, sweet, but a little breathy. Or maybe Wolfwood is imagining that inflection in his voice, the tint of pink on his cheeks. “I’m your new lead singer. I’ll be in your care.”

Yeah, Wolfwood definitely fucked up big time by fucking their band’s new lead singer. Fucking great.