#GNAWING ON THIS LIKE RAWHIDE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amoirsetpacis · 1 year ago

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★ --;; The note isn't helpful.

He's so quickly grown spoiled, Vash thinks, to the quiet comfort and intimacy of waking up with secondary warmth beneath the sheets pressed against his own. Even on the rare days in which he does wake up alone, there is always a sense of movement somewhere in the house. Signs of life and the sounds of morning shuffling. An impossible daydream given gentle form.

So waking up without any of those things sends a jolt through him regardless. It takes a few moments for it to register, blearily blinking himself awake and lying still one moment before bolting upright in the next. Familiar scrawl catches his eye on the nightstand though, helps to calm the sudden speed of his heart.

Its vagueness does little to assuage the anxiety that still stubbornly clings to his tingling nerves, though. Instead it just leaves Vash's eyebrows furrowed long after he's read it; there's a bad feeling he can't shake, no matter how hard he tries to think himself out of it. If it was that pressing, then surely Wolfwood would have woken him up? They've been working so hard on being open and honest with one another-- the step back leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

It blooms as their usual morning routine ticks past in solitude. Even stopping by the café as he finally sets out leaves Vash with nothing; there's a manager there to open, only to ask him if he's seen Wolfwood. It finally gets him to pull out his phone. He'd have felt it or heard it if he'd received anything, but even with that knowledge it doesn't help how the sight of no new notifications worms its way into the slowly growing tangle that sits in his gut.

[ text ] hey, where are you? [ text ] not like you to be late [ text ] manager had to ask me where you were and i told them you had some business paperwork stuff to deal with [ text ] don't know if they bought it or not [ text ] message when you can please ):

The rest of the morning passes by in a blur; nagging worry leaves Vash on auto-pilot as he makes his way into Cotes, only to be thrust head first into making arrangements and assorting deliveries and being sent out to make some of his own. His feet aren't idle for any more than a few moments at a time-- so, of course, his hands aren't either.

There's the briefest of moments in which Vash slows, is nigh on forced to do so with the rush of breath pushed from his lungs and the feeling of potential energy fizzled dry long after its chance at become kinetic. It is the single time in which he does so; stillness leaves his mind to wander, and even after getting a less-than-satisfactory answer in the form of a brief apology text with the promise to explain everything later he's wont to keep glancing at his phone, so he works straight through whatever break he might have taken even if he gets scolded for it.

He regrets it though, later, upon realizing that he had actually missed a call at some point; constantly just missing each other, like some sort of cosmic game of tag. No voicemail giving any sort of explanation, which only serves to make him antsy again. The fact that it goes straight to dial tone when he makes his next attempt makes it worse, and by the time he's finally leaving the ward to head home he finds himself back in the bad habit of chewing at the cuticle of his thumb.

Over a century and a half of doing so has often shown Vash that following his gut on any sort of manner is usually the right thing to do, no matter how badly he sometimes wished it wasn't. This is one of those times-- hoping beyond hope that it's just irrational anxiety, even though so much of him tells him it's not. Some part of him must know that it's not.

The house is dark when he gets home.

Sunlight still filters in through the large windows, slanting across the living room and the kitchen in great swathes as it always does in the late afternoon and early evening. But there's still no sound in the house.

Okay, he thinks. He'd sent a message to Meryl earlier to let him know if she saw Wolfwood at all or if he dropped by because he wasn't answering his phone-- she'd given him an affirmative that she would, but hadn't sent anything past that. No news. He'd tried messaging Livio as well, only to be left unread, and a twin dial tone to the one he'd heard from Wolfwood's phone after trying to call. Both of their younger counterparts too-- nothing. The wedge forces itself deeper into Vash's stomach; not even the soft brrt of the black cat sitting on the porch railing as it had lifted its head with his approach did any sort of good. He'd only patted its head absentmindedly as he'd gone inside, impossibly large green eyes blinking up at him.

Feet pad quietly up the stairs to the second floor, delusion telling him that it's possible Wolfwood had just fallen asleep upstairs. That there was no reason for that seed to continue sprouting beneath his ribs, that even the lack of soft snores meant nothing.

The Punisher's gone.

A nagging voice in the back of his head still berates Vash for worrying so much. It had been far from uncommon back home for one of them to go traipsing off on their own, at least briefly. ... Though, it had taken quite a while for him to realize exactly why he'd felt so relieved at their eventual rejoinings. To realize that there had always been some modicum of worry in the moments, too, because it was impossible for there not to be, even if he knew Wolfwood could handle himself just fine.

So much has happened since then, though. So many things taking what had already been there and twisting it into something far more harsh. And the fact that the Punisher is gone, when it had so rarely had any reason to be, sets nerves already on edge spiraling off of it. Sets ice in the pit of his stomach and pushes it through his veins.

Coat tails trailing behind him, the Colt sits heavy in its holster at Vash's thigh as the screen door slams shut behind him. It's not until the same black cat meows at his ankles at the foot of the porch steps that Vash realizes he has no idea where he should go. There's no way to get a hold of anyone that might know what's going on, apparently.

Wolfwood is about to kill me.

Ice already in Vash's veins turns sharp instantaneously; violently puncturing outwards and freezing him in place, rooted where he stands. There had only been the briefest of preambles, of the feeling of Knives reaching out to him, before the words reach him; everything that comes after may as well have been nothing but high pitched ringing in his ears, with how flooded out it instantly becomes.

Wolfwood is about to kill me. That doesn't make any sense. Not with all the progress they'd made-- the whole lot of them. Sure, they didn't get along, but Vash had never once expected them to. Wolfwood is going to kill me. There's not any-- he wouldn't, anyway, he--

What do you mean. What do you mean.

Silence. There is no response save for that great, blank loneliness, quiet and solemn and impassable. The lump in his throat grows, bubbles with a useless scream only to die there. Because there is no other explanation for it other than the inevitable, other than knowing what he would see out there in the desert. How many more times is he going to be forced to swallow this old heartache?

He starts to shake. To feel like he's going to throw up. Like he's not entirely inside of his body as it takes one step, and then another, or when he finds himself on the seat of the only recently repaired starcycle even though he still doesn't really even know how to drive the damn thing because there's no time, walking all the way out to that desert would take too long and he's been a horrible brother and hasn't gone out to that ship buried in the sand because it hurts too much but he should have gone anyway, he should have and even if those wings could sprout of his back they'd be useless, would dissolve and send him spiraling to the earth below before he even got half way there and--

Still-dense vegetation at the edge of the Mistwood does little to cushion his shoulder as it slams against the ground, the back wheel of the bike finally colliding with one of the ancient trees that so densely populate the forest, a turn taken too sharp and too late. Vash isn't even sure how he made it this far on the damn thing; furious honking and screeching of wheels at whatever he'd done had been so drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears and the angry prickling under his skin that it's a wonder he'd even made it outside of city limits. The bike crunches as it's forcefully turned off, the back half in smoking pieces against shattered bark.

His smarting shoulder gives his brain something to focus on, gives him something to force its shaky focus back down to earth, before he's off again at a sprint. Screw the bike. Heads peak out of caves and dwellings lining the canyon wall that connects steadily growing dunes to the edge of the forest, great mounds of sand ushered ever higher by howling winds that had only just recently calmed, as sure footing on shifting ground sends him flying out into the desert proper.

The sight of the Ark sends the dread in his gut roiling, though not for the reasons Vash had quietly feared it would for months now. Some part of him always knew that the outside would sit silent and foreboding, an inescapable testament to what, exactly it was, even if it was nothing more than a replica.

The body that should be inside is gone, but the splatter of blood against the floor is not. It's long, painting parts of stark white walls as well. A testament to the force of the bullet.

There are cigarette butts sitting just outside, littering the sand. A neon sign, brilliant and damning all at once. He even recognizes the brand.

They're not from the island.

Alarm bells blaring with a strange, horrible sort of relief is a combination that leaves Vash even more off-kilter; because even though he knew Wolfwood wouldn't just go and do something like this, not any more, it still gives Vash something solid and real to work with. Another grounding point. Another point of focus. Clarity, where he'd had so little the entire rest of the day.

Not so much as footprints as they are vague smudges in the sand tread off in another direction. More shining signposts, as if to whisper 'Look. Look. Look at the mark of the person who's done this. Anxiety gives way to quiet fury, of the sort that would simmer in his chest with its silent heat. The sun dips lower onto the horizon as Vash follows them.

Shadowed movement of people still sauntering about in the growing evening leave Vash feeling uneasy. Their long shadows almost disappear against sand purpling with the gentle replacement of sun with moon, only losing their hazy edges with the occasional pop of light from a window. Blissful ignorance of the disturbances stepping foot into their little settlement, so different from merchants and desert dwellers drifting through at their leisure.

The shadows condense as the trail reaches its end, as though the darkness they were birthed from takes shape in the figure standing just down the street. Cheerful greetings that have become so commonplace and easy have no place here. Instead the sand crunches quietly beneath Vash's feet as they reach the finish line, eyes hidden behind unneeded yellow rims. It would have been impossible for the small, placating smile on his face as he nods to reach them, anyway.

Besides. They both know just how fake it is.

Vash remembers how the Bride had stung in his throat. It feels like an eternity ago; feels like the liquor that sits between his fingers as he picks it up is more of a poison that had never once left his veins.

"I don't suppose you dragged me all the way out here for a date," he says, staring down into the shot glass.

Soon enough, the Shadow departs from the Ark entirely. He leaves a few cigarette butts in the dirt. He can't wait here forever, Knives' allies will return soon enough, so he'll have to wait for his final target elsewhere. He knows that the elder twin was able to warn the younger somehow, someway. And he knows that warning will lead him right into the Shadow's grasp. Vash the Stampede will be able to follow the trail he left behind.

There, past the hills of silver, is a little settlement full of travelers and merchants. As the sun sinks, people are beginning to retire to their white adobe houses, but some still linger in the streets. Chattering, bartering. A man sits in lamplight and plucks at a kamuz, humming. Some eyes turn towards the shadowy man with the large cross in vague interest, but eventually look away as they busy themselves with packing up for the night.

Leaning against the well right in the center of the city, two shot glasses set on the stone beside him, the Shadow watches the figure cloaked in red enter the town. There is that temptation to take his gun and fire the moment he sees him. It makes his fingers twitch.

It's you.

The one who changed him.

"Hey, Spikey," he says. Teeth dig into the cork of the bottle he's held tight the entire hunt. All for this meeting. It's popped off, spat out, the liquid then poured into both glasses. "Let's have a drink."

—

The massive boar Wolfwood rides is relaxed even as he nudges it with his heels to get it to break from a trot into a gallop through the sand. A few small animals scatter and flee. The sandstorm's finally died down and everything is poking its head back out while the sun begins to set. The air is cooling down.

He finds the SEEDS ship first, one he's been planning on visiting soon under better circumstances but not having the chance to before. The energy is whirring back to life, so he doesn't have to force the doors open. And when he does he's met with the thick smell of smoke; smoke that fogs up the corridors of the ship.

Wolfwood walks inside, his sleeve covering his nose and mouth. He doesn't know where he's going, he just follows his feet until he comes to a stop to a splatter and puddle of blood on the floor. No body, just the aftermath. There is a handgun on the floor with a thick wire around the trigger guard, keeping the trigger locked. To the end, Blondie did his best to protect everyone else.

For his own fraying sanity, he doesn't go find the source of the smoke, but leaves the doors open to air it out. There's no time to linger. He makes a note to make it up to the Typhoon once he comes back, somehow.

With the recent storm and ever-shifting sands, there are no footsteps left to follow, but he instead finds a path along more event ground and begins to follow it towards the hills of silver.

@amoirsetpacis

#[ ic. ]#[ death omen. ]#punisheye #GNAWING ON THIS LIKE RAWHIDE #FINALLY #long post /#death cw #death mention cw #dissociation cw #sorry legs mans straight up did not even register the rest of what knives said

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