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"I'm sorry," Vash whispers. He stares, unseeing, down at his feet.
Knives' monstrous power rippled through their bond the moment the ark settled overhead. Vash had never been able to seal himself off from his twin before. This time was no exception. With rage and grief warring in his heart it was impossible to stem the flow of emotion.
And so, when Vash pleaded with a God nonexistent for a favor never to be granted, when he reached out to pour his power into Wolfwood's cup, Knives intercepted. Vash was forced to watch his power burn up in the atmosphere, left with only ruins as the ark drifted away.
He can still hear Knives' receding laughter on the wind. Who knew a desert breeze could feel so bone-chillingly cold?
"Wolfwood— Nicholas…" Vash's face falls into his hands, muffling the words, "It seems I've failed again."
Failed to control his power. Failed to save another life. Failed to smile.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Nicholas, I'm sorry…"
His own voice sounds alien to him. Strange. Gritty and raw from rage, from tears, from the animal scream that tore from him when he lashed out against his brother. That hadn't been enough, either. Just another failure.
Wolfwood hates it when he apologizes.
The breeze blows through his hair, over his hunched and shaking back.
Within the next few handfuls of minutes Vash turns to stone. There is so much to be done, and so little time to do it all. It's the only reason that he can bring himself to stand, to turn and confront the reality of Wolfwood's body.
Immediately he has to tamp down the urge to double over and vomit out his guts. There will be time for that later. He can't risk desecrating Wolfwood's body any more than it's already endured, and he'll be damned if he lets rigor mortis set in before Wolfwood's eyes are closed for the last time.
I will not fail you again.
Vash ignores the tears pouring down his face as he takes Wolfwood gingerly into his arms and lifts him off of the couch. He is so limp and light that it makes something in Vash shrivel up. Gravel and sand crunch under Vash's feet on his somber walk to the orphanage's chapel, Wolfwood's face cradled against his chest.
It's a quaint thing, rundown but serviceable — Vash isn't paying attention to any of that. He merely scans the room for a proper place to lay Wolfwood down. The only surface long, wide, and flat enough to accommodate him is the altar. Using his elbow, Vash nudges the crisp white cloth out of the way.
Ever so gently, Vash places Wolfwood's body upon the altar.
This is a ritual Vash is woefully, intimately familiar with. He works open the buttons of Wolfwood's blazer and then his shirt, does the same for his pants, and finally unties his shoes. Each garment he folds neatly and places to the side, until Wolfwood is laid bare before him.
The only water on hand is in the baptismal font, so that's what Vash goes to grab. He lifts it by the pedestal and carries it to the altar, careful not to let any spill. Vash dips a stark white towel into the water and wrings out the excess. He kneels.
Vash begins with Wolfwood's feet, partially for the symbolism and partially because he can't bear to start this process while looking Wolfwood in the eyes. Tenderly, with trademark efficiency, Vash wipes the sand and grime from them, getting between every toe and underneath each nail. Strangling his tears with how hard he closes his lids, Vash presses a soft kiss to Wolfwood's right sole, then his left.
An ugly and bitter resentment churns in Vash's gut as he works. It feels wrong to recite prayers to an absent God. It feels worse to deprive Wolfwood of his tradition's rites, what little he knows of them.
"Saints of God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, Angels of the Lord," Vash murmurs, making long, sweeping strokes up Wolfwood's calves and thighs, "Receive his soul and present him to God the most High."
"May Christ, who called you, take you to himself," Vash takes care to run the cloth over the crevices in the backs of Wolfwood's knees. His lips touch the tops of his kneecaps, and the spot just above them, "May Angels lead to you to Abraham's side."
He pauses to wring out the cloth until the water runs clean.
"Give him eternal rest, O Lord," fortunately, Wolfwood's groin requires little attention, " and may your light shine on him forever."
Another kiss, this time to Wolfwood's navel. Vash is wracked with a shuddering, wet sigh.
"All- powerful and merciful God, I commend to you Nicholas D. Wolfwood, your servant," the blood on Wolfwood's torso dyes the white cloth a deep, rusty red. He grabs a fresh one each time, refusing to cloud the water with it. "In your mercy and love, blot out the sins he has committed through human weakness."
Vash has never been more grateful for an absence of open wounds. His tears slide down Wolfwood's clavicle as he kisses the tip of each wing with trembling lips, pooling in the hollow of Wolfwood's throat before Vash wipes them away.
"In this world he has d—" Vash chokes involuntarily. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, using the pain to pull back the tears. A full-body shudder steals his breath from him. Shaking, sniffling pathetically, Vash forges ahead with cleansing Wolfwood's shoulders and arms.
"In this world he has died," his voice has shrunk to a whisper again, words folded into Wolfwood's palms along with more lingering kisses, "let him live with you forever, through Christ our Lord."
"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord," the blood on Wolfwood's neck and face wipes away easily, "and let perpetual light shine upon him."
Vash can't stop shaking. Even as he sets the cloth aside, cupping Wolfwood's face in his hands, he can't stop. His tears fall on Wolfwood's slack, lifeless face as Vash stares into his eyes. He wipes them away with his thumbs, repeatedly, but they are never-ending. They taste bitter and salty against Vash's lips, a kiss pressed to Wolfwood's cheeks.
"May he rest in peace," Vash chokes out. He brushes their lips together, holding back his final word lest he sob into Wolfwood's mouth.
Vash stares Wolfwood in the eyes for the last time as he slides his eyelids gently closed, laying a kiss on each thin lid. It's too much, it's too much…
He can't bear to pull away just yet. Vash presses kiss after kiss to Wolfwood's brows, his forehead, at his hairline and to his crown.
With his eyes closed and his nose buried in Wolfwood's dark locks, Vash breaks.
"Amen. Amen—" a part of him is grateful that Wolfwood cannot hear him anymore, spared the loud and piercing sound of Vash's resounding wail. "Oh, Nicholas…please forgive me, please…"
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Wolfwood always hated his apologies.