Chapter Text
Vash stares at the crimson petal in his palm. It’s red, like the color Rem loved so much, like his coat, like fresh blood. He swallows down the sickly sweet taste. It’s enough to make him sick. He crumples the petal in his palm, but hesitates before letting go. On this sandy planet, any type of foliage is rare, and flowers are all but non-existent. That is, except for the ones that grow from roots of love, but even those are precious. Most people prize them—these flowers that could never bloom from sand.
Humans didn’t originally suffer from hanahaki, but after the fall, something changed. Maybe it was something in the air of the planet itself or a strange side-effect of being preserved in cryosleep for the journey. He started to see them gathered into bouquets in windows or pinned to the collars of new lovers’ clothes, and met many people who held the flowers as tenderly as precious gems. People who taught him how humans love, how love blossoms, and how it withers.
“These were from my first love,” a woman with graying hair tells him, holding a handful of faded blossoms between her palms. The smile on her face belongs to a young girl. “Daises,” she murmurs, “for innocence.” She hands him a petal.
“I can’t keep this,” he tells her.
“It’s of no use to me now,” she replies. “Just take it, as a token of appreciation.”
He takes it. The petal is lighter than a feather between his fingertips, fragile enough to fall apart from a strong gust of wind. He is thirty years old, and he has never coughed flowers of his own.
In another town, a few years later, he stands beside the husband of a woman he failed to save. The man could be angry or perhaps should be, but all he asks of Vash is that he witness the burial. So he stands, a few steps back from the hole in the ground, and watches the man bring out a basket of dried flowers in every color.
“For every person either of us ever loved,” he explains. He separates a small one with a bluish tint from the rest. “Blue violets,” he says with a faint impression of a smile. “That’s how I knew she was the one.” He presses the single blossom in his hand to his lips and lets the rest fall, scattering her burial shroud with a myriad of color. With a heavy sigh, he lets the one between his fingertips go. “I’ll join her soon.”
“I’m sorry,” Vash says, though he knows an apology is hardly enough to make up for failing to save a life.
The man pats him on the shoulder. “We all die, someday, kid. Hell, I’m grateful I was around long enough to make sure she was buried properly. It’s not quite the meadow she dreamed of, but I hope it’s close enough.”
Vash doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps quiet. He bids farewell to the man and the wife he couldn’t save in her grave filled with remnants of every love she had and all the love her husband had for her. The gentle scent of the flowers follows him on the wind, and he wonders if he’ll ever have a reason to keep flowers for himself.
A year later, he returns. But all he finds is two graves where one once stood. This is how he learns that the flowers are not fed by unrequited love as the rumors said, but by heartbreak.
The daisy turns to dust in his pocket, and he forgets the scent of violets. He hears of a new tradition as he travels, of young lovers exchanging baskets of the flowers they had for each other and letting them fall like confetti on their wedding day. He spares a thought for all the blossoms that have passed through his hands, but knows he doesn’t deserve to carry any of his own. He never received any from anyone anyway, which he tells himself is fine. He never stayed too long in one place, and he has no space for love in his life. It doesn’t matter if no one gives him love, because his purpose is to love not to be loved. So he carries his heavy heart in his chest and sometimes wonders why nothing ever takes root, if he’s too far from human to love like one.
Vash lets the petal fall from his palm. It floats for a moment before falling to the ground. Maybe someone else will find it, and will keep it as a kind of souvenir. He’s heard of collectors, people who gather flowers from the people they know and keep them, like a diary. He pushes away any thoughts of regret. It may be the first petal, but he already knows he’ll never confess. He can’t. He lives to atone for his sins and the sins of his brother, and he does not deserve to covet something so precious for himself.
If he were someone else, he knows he would take the petal and preserve it in a keepsake box, but he is a wanderer and the only place he calls home is the ship from the lost era that he sees once every few decades. He has no room for keepsakes in the pack he carries with him. No, he knows his life isn’t one that allows such an indulgence, so he lets the first petal go, though he can’t stop himself from wondering what Wolfwood would do if he received them. Vash closes his eyes, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder.
When Vash opens his eyes, the geranium petal has been blown away by the wind, and his hands are empty. He returns to the others with a half-baked excuse of having been chased by a cat to make up for his delay. Meryl shoves a plate of food towards him and scolds him for holding up dinner. Vash settles into the usual routine as well as he can, trying to laugh and eat the way he normally does, but a sweetness lingers in the back of his throat, and nothing tastes the way it should. He sets his plate aside before he’s halfway through the meal, trying to soothe the worried looks his companions throw his way with a smile.
That night he lies in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of the motel where they managed to snag rooms for the night. This time, they were lucky enough to find a place with four empty rooms, and Vash is grateful for the solitude. The flowers push up through his throat and fall to the bed spread. He stares at the small cluster of brightly colored petals. He could tell himself it’s not a big deal. Most people go through at least a couple of bouts of hanahaki, so it’s nothing special. He could lie. He could.
What a joke, that he’s gone a hundred years without ever having coughed a single petal. After all this time, he thought he couldn’t. And yet. And yet. So he’s human enough to fall in love. So what? So he can never act on it, not when he still has so much he needs to do. He falls into an uneasy slumber. He dreams of Rem and the red geraniums aboard the ship. He stands in front of a flower in a glass tube and presses his fingertips to his reflection on the surface. The red of the petals glows like the promise of a new dawn, like the blood that stains his hands, like all the love he has ever felt.
= = =
Vash wakes to a new day with the taste of the petals still on his tongue. As he readies himself for the day, he hopes that the petals will fade on their own with time. No one ever taught him how to stop loving, and now he finds himself rushing into something he already knows he can never recover from.
The journey takes them toward a different town. He sits in the back seat with Wolfwood as Meryl drives and Roberto snoozes. The winds are gentle but the suns beat down on them as harshly as ever.
“Ah, hell,” Wolfwood curses, a drop of blood slips from between his lips. A red rose sits on his palm. He rolls down the car window, flinging the blossom away.
Vash watches it tumble in the wind. “Is that… don’t you want to keep it?” He asks before he can stop himself.
Wolfwood turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Hah? What the hell would I want to keep it for?”
“A lot of people do—”
“You tossed a flower?” Meryl asks, craning her neck as she tries not to look away from the windshield while trying to glare at Wolfwood at the same time. “Who tosses flowers? Those are precious!”
“It’s just a—” Wolfwood sighs. “Eyes on the road!” He adds as they go over a bump.
“There is no road!” Meryl shoots back. “Why don’t you try driving,” she mutters. The ride evens out a bit, and Meryl glances at Vash in the rearview mirror. “Did you see what kind of flower it was?”
“Who cares?” Wolfwood growls, at the same time as Vash answers, “a rose.”
“A what?” Meryl makes a small noise of frustration as she steers around another bump.
“A rose,” Vash repeats more loudly, ignoring Wolfwood trying to silence him and the tickle in his throat.
“Was it red?” Meryl asks.
Vash looks up at her in surprise, accidentally giving Wolfwood the opportunity to put him in a headlock.
“What does that matter?” Wolfwood snaps over Vash’s noises of protest.
“It’s just—the red rose is a romance novel classic,” she says with a giggle. “Wouldn’t have guessed you were the type.”
“Oh, shut it!”
Roberto stirs and tells them all to be quiet, putting an end to the conversation. Vash glanced to the side at his seat-partner. Wolfwood looks out the window though his gaze is unfocused. Vash traces the shape of his jaw with his eyes all the way to the unlit cigarette between his lips and the spot of blood that lingers at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey,” Vash says softly. “There’s still blood—“
Wolfwood wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but only succeeds in smearing it. “There?”
“No, let me—“ He touches the spot with his thumb but pauses. “Needs water.”
“Just use spit.”
Vash hesitates a moment longer before wetting his thumb and rubbing the spot away. Wolfwood’s skin is warm under his touch and rough with stubble.
“Y’done yet?”
Vash pulls away with a start. “Yeah,” he answers. “All good.”
Wolfwood puts his hand to his mouth as if to check. “I’m tired,” he says with a yawn. “Lend me your shoulder.”
With a slight roll of his eyes, Vash obliges, shifting toward the center of the seat. The familiar weight of Wolfwood’s head settles on his shoulder.
“It’s not good if you’re coughing blood,” Vash murmurs. “That means—“
“I know what it means, but it’s not that. Roses have thorns, Needle Noggin.”
“Oh, right.” Vash says. “Ouch.”
“Shut up and let me sleep,” Wolfwood grumbles.
Vash quiets, trying not to think of the thorns growing in Wolfwood’s chest and who they might be for. “Hope it works out with…whoever it is,” Vash murmurs.
Wolfwood shifts. “Shut up already,” he complains, and even more quietly than Vash, replies, “it can’t.”
Through the rest of the afternoon, Vash tries not to think about the revelation that Wolfwood suffers the same ailment as he does but fails. The question of who it’s for nags him. Who? Who? Who? Turns over in his mind even though he knows it is none of his business. He has to fight down the geraniums in his own chest each time he thinks the question, but somehow manages to swallow all of them down without anyone noticing.
They find a small way station to rest at for the night, and after they scrounge for dinner, he finds himself with Wolfwood, leaning up against the side of the building. The sky dims and the stars seem to flicker into existence. Vash tastes cigarette smoke in the air and glances to the side. Wolfwood looks at the sky and exhales with a puff of smoke.
“Can I ask who it’s for?” Vash says, his eyes continuing to focus on the faraway stars that shine in the broad sky above them.
Wolfwood frowns. “Don’t you have other things to worry about?”
“Huh? But I’m curious.” He pouts, leaning closer to his traveling companion.
Wolfwood reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry about it.”
Vash tries to hide his annoyance with a smile, shoving down the petals in his lungs along with the tiny, hopeful is it me that tries to bubble to his lips.
“If you don’t want to tell me, just say so,” he huffs.
Wolfwood stamps out the cigarette. “Told you not to worry,” he says. “Go to sleep.”
Vash curls into Wolfwood’s side, ready to use the excuse of being cold if he gets asked, but the question doesn’t come. He drifts to sleep with the scent of smoke. The flowers in his chest are almost calm. Moments like this make him want to be greedy. He could cling to Wolfwood, demand to know, or tell him if it’s not, let it be me instead. Instead, he surrenders to an uneasy slumber, waking with a cramp in his neck and his hand tangled in the hem of Wolfwood’s jacket.
Meryl brings up the subject again in the car. “Senpai,” she asks, “What do you think about hanahaki?”
Roberto answers with a grunt. “Happens to everyone. Puking flowers isn’t all that romantic,” he mutters.
“Hmph,” Meryl replies. “I would preserve flowers if anyone gave them to me, or if I coughed any. Unlike somebody.”
“I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” Wolfwood says, annoyed.
“Sentimental value! A token of love, evidence of feelings,” Meryl protests. ”I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t care.” She hums, thinking for a moment. “Vash, have you ever had it?”
Vash chokes in surprise at his sudden inclusion in the conversation. “Doesn’t everybody?”
Meryl eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t press him further.
After the car stops, some time later, Wolfwood comes to find him. “So have you had it?” He asks, bouncing another rose blossom on his palm as he approaches.
Vash considers for a moment. Would it be lying to say he’s never had it when it’s something he currently has? “Everyone gets it once,” he says. “Not a big deal.”
Wolfwood turns the rose over and holds it up. “You don’t want it, do you?”
“I’m not a collector,” Vash says. “Besides, I don’t have any room for keepsakes.”
Wolfwood shrugs and chucks it.
Somewhere to the side, Meryl sighs and shakes her head. Turning to Roberto, she says, “I don’t think Vash has noticed. Somehow I feel a little bad for the Undertaker.”
Roberto waves her off. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not getting involved. Play matchmaker by yourself if you must.”
= = =
Vash boards the sand steamer, and for a little while, he’s busy enough not to think about flowers. Then he passes out.
The unconsciousness is uncomfortable, and he dreams of being trapped within walls of glass. His throat is dry when he wakes, and he barely has the time to register he’s back home before the urge to cough takes over. The coughing fit subsides, and Vash realizes he’s not alone. His head still aches from fatigue, but he knows he can’t pretend to be asleep. He takes a breath to steel himself and looks up. Wolfwood leans up against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Oh,” Vash says in a small voice. “Hi.”
“That looks pretty bad,” he says, in a voice that’s almost casual.
Vash looks away sheepishly and takes the opportunity to gather the petals and stuff them under the pillow so no one else will see. “Don’t worry about it,” he says quickly.
“Anyone I know?”
Vash looks up at the note of worry in Wolfwood’s voice. “Ah, well, it’s no—”
“If you say ‘it’s nothing,’ I’ll smack you.”
“Hey, I’m an invalid!” Vash shrinks back against the headboard.
Wolfwood opens his mouth to say something when the door opens. Brad steps in the room first followed by Meryl and Roberto. Vash sighs, from the moment he went to the plant, he wondered if something like this would happen, if they would all find out. No one seems particularly bothered by finding out that he’s not human, and for that, he’s grateful. With the conversation done, the others turn to leave, but when the door slides shut, he finds himself face-to-face with Wolfwood once again.
“You didn’t answer my question earlier.”
“You didn’t answer mine,” Vash says, a bit petulantly.
Wolfwood reaches into his pocket, and for a moment, Vash thinks he’s reaching for a lighter despite smoking being prohibited on the ship, but, instead, Wolfwood stretches out his hand, a single rose resting on his palm.
“Three guesses, Spikey,” he says, tossing the flower at him, and Vash has to scramble to catch it, a thorn scratching his palm as he manages to grab it.
“You kept it.”
“Yeah,” he answers. “So. Guess.”
Vash looks at him. The hope in his chest that he’s tried so hard to ignore seems to be drowning out his heartbeat. He could break his rules. For this, he could break them all.
“Same color as your coat,” Wolfwood bites out.
Vash looks up slowly, tentatively, every breath bet on a single desperate hope. If he guesses wrong, he’s not sure he’ll ever breathe again. “Me?”
Wolfwood tilts his head, a slight hint of a nod, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough. Vash flies to him.
“Iidot, you really—”
Vash cuts him off by throwing his arms around his neck. He clasps the rose more tightly in his right hand and barely feels the thorn pierce his palm. He has bled for so many reasons, but he has never been happier to bleed.
“Yes, yes ,” he whispers and lets himself melt into the warmth. “Mine are for you.”
More than a century passed since he considered himself to be happy. There were times when he was content, but happy? That emotion was nothing more than a nostalgic feeling in a dream, memories faded with years gone by, so faded that he sometimes wondered if he even remembered how it felt. Now he knows he never quite remembered it right.
“I’m sorry for the thorns.”
Wolfwood snorts. “Like that’s your fault in any way.”
“I’m still sorry,” he says. “It must have hurt.”
“Yeah, well, I’m done with that now.” After a moment of reconsideration, he adds, “Actually, it hurt like a bitch, you should be sorry.”
Vash ducks away, but Wolfwood still manages to catch him, wrapping both arms around his waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder.
“Stay here and make it up to me.”
Vash laughs, somewhere low and soft in his chest, his heart so raw and tender, like something newly born into the world. So tender he could cry, failing to realize actual tears are forming until he feels a hesitant touch on his face.
“What are you crying for?” Though he sounds exasperated, the gentle expression belies him.
“People have cared for me before, but always a different way. Not like this,” he explains, “no one’s given me flowers. Not that I deserve—“
“You stop that right there,” Wolfwood says, pinching him.
It’s the first time Vash cries from something other than pain. He has lived a hundred years for atonement, but can you truly call that living?
He holds happiness between his palms like a prayer, and hopes it lasts longer than one.