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After a blazing summer day, the desert heat doesn’t always break at sunset. The encroaching dark goes restless, the streets full of rambunctious chatter, and there’s nothing to do but drink and wait for it to get cool enough to sleep. They’ve got the windows wide open and a bottle of whiskey on the table between them. No glasses.
The hotel they’ve posted up in isn’t the nicest, but each room comes with a radio, which is perfect for passing the time and drowning out the noise from outside. Both of them have stripped out of their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves in an effort to welcome the night air. Wolfwood leans back in his chair, tipping his head to blow smoke out the window, as Vash plinks out a beat on the bottle’s neck with his prosthetic fingers, matching the chipper tune. They’ve managed to dial into a decent station. Whoever’s picking the tracks has solid taste.
It's getting late—late enough that Wolfwood should probably call it, go back to his own room, and try to get some shut-eye, even if he has to sleep on top of the sheets. To make good time tomorrow, they need to hit the road at sunrise. But he can’t bring himself to get up from the table just yet.
It’s nice. He wants to savor nice things more, and the strange comfort of Vash’s companionship is one of them, no matter how much baggage it comes with. And if he’s nursing a quiet hope for something to happen—what, exactly, he couldn’t say—then that’s no one’s business but his own.
The song ends. The radio host reads the title of the next one as Wolfwood reaches to pry the bottle away from Vash and take another swig. A piano leads in, the tempo lower and the tone far more sentimental. Wolfwood doesn’t recognize it—but then, he’s never really been one for crooners.
When he slides the bottle back onto the table, he realizes Vash is staring at him blearily, his chin propped up on his knuckles. “What?” he asks, his voice slightly raspy from the liquor. Those blue-green eyes are looking dangerously wistful.
“D’you know, I’ve never danced before.”
Wolfwood scoffs. “I’ve seen you dance. I’ve seen you dance in fucking gunfights.”
Vash pouts. “I mean danced. To a song like this.”
And what do you want me to do about it? he almost fires back, but he catches exactly how stupid it sounds before the words leave his lips. He knows. And it’s late enough at night, with just enough booze in his system that it almost sounds like a good idea.
He stubs his cigarette out on the windowsill, huffs, and rises from his chair, delighting in the way Vash’s eyes go wide. “C’mon then,” he says, holding out a hand.
There's a pause, a blink, and then Vash takes it with a sly look. “Ooh, Mr. Wolfwood,” he simpers as he rises to his feet.
“Don't push it, Spikey.” He's trying not to overthink this, but it becomes impossible to do anything but that as Vash steps in close, slipping his prosthetic gently onto Wolfwood's shoulder. Just the act of setting his hand at Vash's waist sets off a firestorm of at least sixteen distinct internal crises, the music drowned out by a ringing in his ears.
The thing is, he's never really danced before either.
Can't be that hard, right? He's seen it done. He understands the principles. And Vash can't be expecting anything complicated—certainly nothing involving footwork. The ringing fades. Wolfwood tunes back into the song and finds the rhythm.
He eases into a sway, and Vash follows.
It's just the slow-fading heat. It's just that Vash is smiling, and that always makes it feel like this planet's somehow sprouted another fucking sun. It's just that they're never this close alone, and Wolfwood hadn't even thought about how his breath must smell between the whiskey and the cigarettes, and the windows are wide open, and it's a really good song. Maybe his new favorite song. Whoever's pulling these tracks needs a raise.
He can feel the ridge of a scar under his palm, through the thin fabric of Vash's shirt. Part of him wants to ruck it up, touch it for real. If there were ever a line in the sand, they've been shuffling their way through it with every swaying step.
He's not imagining things. They'd started out at a comfortable arm's length, but the distance has collapsed with each verse. Now Vash’s chest is dangerously close to his own, and the hand that once rested comfortably on his shoulder is trailing its cool metal fingers along the nape of his neck. He’s going to combust if he savors it any more, but he can’t bring himself to give up any of the ground he’s gained.
This was supposed to be him doing Vash a favor. Him playing along with a silly whim.
But if he weren’t drunk already, he’d be drunk on this.
He can’t hide it for shit. His breathing’s gone shaky, and he can’t bring himself to look anywhere but the seam of Vash’s right shoulder, which has drifted so close that if he just bends his head forward—
“Nick,” Vash whispers in his ear.
Wolfwood doesn't trust the next noise that's going to come out of his mouth. Instead, he slides his hand around to the small of Vash's back. The last bit of distance between them collapses, and now Vash can feel exactly what he's done to Wolfwood's worthless heart.
But the song can't last forever. As the singer's voice begins to fade, the rest of the world creeps back in, from the brush of their feet over the floorboards to the chatter from the passersby outside. Wolfwood waits for Vash's grip to loosen. Like hell he'll be the first one to let go.
Instead, they keep swaying to nothing. Swaying right through the radio host talking through the changeover. And when the next song starts, Vash does let go—only to reposition their hands, his metal fingers gently prying Wolfwood's arm from his waist as his flesh hand latches on to Wolfwood's hip.
Wolfwood's too addled to do anything but go along with it. The new song’s a little faster, and he finds himself pulled into Vash’s rhythm, clutching the prosthetic for support as he fumbles a step. But Vash’s hands are steady, his footwork sure, and Wolfwood discovers that this, too, is worth savoring—the feeling of leaving it all to him.
It’s not until the moment Vash’s arm tightens around his waist—a moment he prays will stick in his memory for… future reference—and he bends Wolfwood back into an outright dip that his brain finally catches up with what, exactly, is happening.
His eyes meet Vash’s, narrowing. “Bastard,” he mutters.
Vash grins as he pulls Wolfwood back up. “I’m over a hundred and fifty years old.”
“Bastard,” he repeats into Vash’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe you bought it.”
Wolfwood grunts.
“Ooh, Wolfwood, I’ve never danced before…” Vash trails off, chuckling.
“If you wanted to dance, why didn’t you just ask?”
He feels the sudden tension the question puts in Vash’s shoulder, but it’s not enough to knock them out of their rhythm. “Ah, well, I’ve noticed something. You tend to go along with things quicker when you think you’re doing me a favor.” And suddenly there’s space between them—suddenly Vash’s brilliant eyes are locked steadily on his. “And maybe I wanted to dance to that song in particular.”
“It’s a really good song,” Wolfwood murmurs, his gaze dropping to Vash’s lips.
The night isn’t getting any cooler. Their early start tomorrow was never going to happen. And it was a complete and utter waste of money, it turns out, to book that second room.