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Wolfwood’s thoughts are as slow as molasses and his head is swimming when a shadow falls over him, dredging him out of his stupor.
He blinks his eyes open, but it’s hard to focus, to hold onto reality. The lazy afternoon sun still lights the room, painting it in over-saturated golds that make his head hurt, his eyes ache. But even with his vision blurry and his thoughts muddy, Wolfwood knows who’s there with him: there’s no mistaking Knives Saverem when he wants to make his presence known.
Wolfwood doesn’t live here, but Knives does.
Knives -- who Wolfwood rarely ever sees, despite the fact that Wolfwood’s sleeping with his brother and Knives has made it known that he disapproves. Knives -- who Wolfwood hates with a passion, if only because the feeling’s mutual.
Knives -- who smells like warm cedar, like astringent mint. His presence is cold and it lingers like a burn, like nothing else Wolfwood’s ever felt before.
Vash left a while ago. But now Knives is here.
“He left you like this?” Knives asks.
Wolfwood grunts out something approximating an answer. Anything counts when your tongue feels too big, too fat, too uncoordinated for your own mouth.
Wolfwood wonders if he could choke on it. He choked on Vash’s strap earlier until his head went fuzzy, everything around him turning to static. It was good. So good.
Until it wasn’t.
Knives crouches down next to the bed, dropping himself to be at eye level with Wolfwood. His blue eyes come into focus -- at least partially, anyway. Wolfwood blinks slowly and tries to make the room stop slipping away from him.
Like a shark, Knives doesn’t blink at all.
“My brother -- he’s not the most observant, is he?”
He’s smiling. His teeth are so bright. And they look so sharp with the way the golden light’s hitting them. For all that they’re similar, Knives’ smile is the diametric opposite of Vash’s. Wolfwood always feels like he could cut himself on it, like a too-sharp knife.
But Knives isn’t wrong, and that’s what hurts like the shock of a bulletwound -- Vash isn’t the most observant. Wolfwood doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him, couldn’t even begin to articulate it if he tried, but he feels bad. Wrong. It had felt so obvious to Wolfwood, so glaring, but then Vash just -- left. Wolfwood hadn’t really been paying attention. He’d been reeling, floating, detached from his own body in a horrible and empty way when Vash had pushed himself off the bed. Pulled his warmth away from Wolfwood and just -- left.
Vash had something -- a forgotten commitment, a meeting, a deadline -- Wolfwood doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care, either. All that matters is that Vash left him alone with only a stuttered and fumbled apology and now Knives is here.
And it’s not too weird for one of them, either Vash or Wolfwood, to leave right afterward. Normally Wolfwood is the one that does, hightailing it out of there before he can get too comfortable. They don’t linger, don’t cuddle -- neither of them are the type, at least partially. Vash is always quick to pull away, to never idle for too long in one place -- be that in a restaurant or in someone’s arms. And Wolfwood has always been happy to meet Vash where he stands, despite anything else he might want.
Wolfwood’s used to not getting everything he wants. He’s already lucky enough to have Vash like this as it is.
Knives looks down at him with those cold blue eyes and Wolfwood shivers, feeling laid bare by that gaze.
Wolfwood is naked. Vash left him this way and Wolfwood hasn’t had the presence of mind to get up and fix that, nor has he had the energy to even pull a sheet over his body, despite how cold he feels.
But Knives seeing him like this is bad, isn’t it? Weird, anyway. Since Wolfwood is fucking his brother and Knives hates that, hates him. Like a stone, the thought sits heavily in Wolfwood’s gut, displacing everything else around it until the discomfort becomes too much to bear.
Then, Wolfwood tries to push himself up, to gather his thoughts and his sanity up like a mess of unspooled yarn -- but before he can get far at all, Knives pushes him back down to the bed with a hand to his shoulder. There’s barely even any force behind his touch, but Wolfwood drops back down far too easily, like a puppet with its strings cut, going loose and lax under Knives’ hand.
The ease with which his body gives up makes Wolfwood’s heart jump uncomfortably into his throat, where it sits and pounds loudly while his body goes loose, belly-up.
“Where are you going? Look at you; you’re not in any position to ride,” Knives says with a sneer.
Disdain rings crystal clear through his words and Wolfwood’s gut twists even though he’s never once cared what Knives Saverem thought about him.
Wolfwood isn’t sure he could keep his bike vertical right now with the way his limbs are shaking -- Angelina’s not exactly light -- but he isn’t about to agree. Not with Knives. And certainly not that he isn’t capable; Wolfwood has only ever had himself to rely on, which means not being okay has never been an option.
He’ll claw himself out of this funk by the skin of his teeth if he has to.
“I’m fine,” Wolfwood gets out, but his voice is closer to a whine than a growl. He tries not to let that realization sour his stomach more than it already has, left lemon-bitter and churning like a stormy sea.
“Sure,” Knives says, like he’s handing out some sort of consolation prize, like he’s pretending Wolfwood has any kind of agency right now.
With a fluid motion and a roll of his eyes, Knives tosses a sheet over Wolfwood’s crotch. Wolfwood tries not to think about how dirty that sheet is or how much he’d kill for a shower right about now -- and he really tries not to think about how easily Knives touches his brother’s mess without so much as flinching or batting an eye.
“You’re normally so loud,” Knives says.
The words come from nowhere, connecting with nothing -- no thread of what they were talking about left dangling that Wolfwood can tie it to. Wolfwood doesn’t know what that means, what Knives means, but knowing what Knives thinks of Wolfwood generally, it can’t be anything good.
Feeling more lost than before and without the ability to come up with the kind of snappy or sarcastic reply he’d usually give Knives, Wolfwood just grunts.
Futilely, Wolfwood tries to push himself up on his elbows again -- but Knives just knocks his arms out from underneath him with a shove so effortless it’s almost gentle. Wolfwood can’t even bring himself to be surprised -- he just lets himself fall back down with a little huff. Part of him feels almost thankful; he’s so tired. He just wants to lie here and close his eyes until the fog clears out of his head.
Knives making him gives him an easy excuse.
“You got quiet,” Knives says, as if that’s any explanation at all.
And then there’s a hand in Wolfwood’s hair, tugging at it -- not quite gentle, but not quite mean, either. Wolfwood wants to both flinch away from the touch and lean into it at the same time. The dissonance makes him nauseous. It makes his head spin.
“But you were clearly still fucking,” Knives continues. “I could hear Vash, but not you.”
His fingers push through Wolfwood’s sweaty hair, seemingly unhindered by the dampness, the dirt. It’s weird -- other than Knives occasionally pushing him or knocking into Wolfwood’s shoulder they pass each other in the small Saverem apartment, Knives doesn’t ever touch him.
His hands are deceptively soft.
“And then he left,” Knives says with a little click of his tongue, like he’s chiding a dog. It’s directed at Vash, but still the sound makes Wolfwood flinch.
Knives hums. “Some aftermath he left, hm?”
Slowly, Knives’ fingernails begin scraping over Wolfwood’s scalp. The feeling isn’t quite good but it isn’t quite bad either, and something adjacent to a moan catches in Wolfwood’s throat because of it, dredged up right from the bottom of his ribcage. He slams his eyes shut, attempts to choke down the sound, and desperately tries not to lean into the touch.
He fails on both accounts and Knives chuckles.
“Somehow, I’m always the one cleaning up Vash’s messes,” Knives says.
Instead of continuing to lean over Wolfwood, Knives finally decides to move, sitting down on Vash’s dirty sheets and settling down in the space next to Wolfwood, closer than he’s ever voluntarily been before. His knee presses against Wolfwood’s ribs. His body heat is -- notable. Warmer than Wolfwood ever thought it would be, given how icy Knives’ demeanor runs.
The scratch of fingernails against his scalp increases in pressure, edging closer and closer to pain -- but that’s almost better, Wolfwood thinks. It’s more grounding than being touched too gently, than letting himself float. Easier to stomach, too, coming from Knives.
Wolfwood’s thoughts slowly creep by, almost painful in their lethargy -- but Knives is right there next to him and Wolfwood holds onto that, letting himself focus on the sharp sensation and Knives’ warmth instead of slipping back into the static tumble of his own head.
“It’s strange when you’re quiet,” Knives says.
He sounds far away, but maybe he’s not really talking to Wolfwood at all. He never really does.
Nails scrape behind his ear and shivers cascade down his spine in response. Hair is brushed away from his forehead. A thumb pushes against a knot at the top of his neck, somehow laser targeted on where Wolfwood aches the most.
“Not wholly unpleasant, though,” Knives is saying, trailing a finger over Wolfwood’s ear, his cheekbone, the jut of his jaw. “A reprieve.”
He laughs, just a little bit. Low and quiet, a rumble in his throat not unlike a purr.
Wolfwood drifts like that for a while, with Knives murmuring quiet words that sit somewhere between scorn and indifference, with Knives touching Wolfwood in ways that Vash doesn’t dare.
Wolfwood’s almost starting to feel a little bit better, a little bit more human, when Knives’ fingers suddenly make a fist in his hair with no warning at all.
And then they yank.
Abruptly, Wolfwood is being forced to look up at Knives, his neck moved so easily by that grip that Knives has on his hair. A wet gasp tears itself from his throat. Wolfwood blinks up at Knives, feeling dizzy and weightless and startled all at once.
“Does he know you can be like this?” Knives asks him.
He’s scowling now, brow creased in a frown. Whatever strange and calm antipathy had come over him earlier is so long gone that Wolfwood can’t help but wonder if he had imagined it all entirely.
Wolfwood doesn’t know what Knives means, what he’s asking. But when Knives clicks his tongue and hisses a snappy ‘Answer me, Nicholas,’ Wolfwood just shakes his head, even though it hurts to pull against Knives’ grip like that.
Wolfwood doesn’t know exactly what the ‘this’ is that Knives is referring to, but he knows he’s never felt this way before. And Vash has definitely never seen him like this, that’s for sure. Wolfwood wouldn’t want that, wouldn’t ever want to be laid so vulnerable and raw in front of anyone. Even Vash.
And here he is with Knives.
For a long moment, Knives just stares at him, eyes such an icy blue in the golden afternoon light. Like he’s thinking. Like he’s searching Wolfwood’s face for some kind of answer.
After a moment Knives says, “I don’t think he should know,” with a kind of finality Wolfwood doesn’t understand. “He doesn’t know how to take care of his toys as it is.”
And Wolfwood would argue that he’s not a toy to Vash, but they both know that’s not true.
Normally, that thought doesn’t hurt so much. It’s just a fact of the universe, something Wolfwood has reconciled long ago. Now, thinking about it feels like being shot in the chest, like bleeding out slow from a bullet wound.
“Tell me you understand,” Knives says.
Wolfwood nods again. He does. He does understand.
“No,” Knives says, yanking at his hair and making Wolfwood hiss.“Tell me. Use your words, Nicholas.”
If this were any other time, Wolfwood would punch out his teeth for that patronizing tone. Now, it just makes everything hurt worse, like salt in a wound.
“Yeah,” Wolfwood makes himself say. His tongue feels lazy. Too big, too useless in his mouth again. Just like Wolfwood in his own skin.
Talking feels weird, his voice echoing in his own head. It feels like trying to pull himself out of a tar pit with his bare hands -- like coming up from a deep sea dive too fast, too soon.
“Good enough,” Knives says.
And then he lets go of Wolfwood’s hair and pushes himself up from the bed. Weight on the mattress, Wolfwood has nowhere to fall -- and yet he still feels like he plummets downward about a thousand feet.
He reels, stomach both dropping and climbing into his throat all at once. He can’t help but gasp, breathing hard and wet, feeling far too untethered from just the removal of a simple touch.
Is this panic? Wolfwood can’t tell. He doesn’t know. It just hurts, deep in his chest and like a vice. Like swallowing glass and then trying to retch it back up. Like heartbreak.
Knives clicks his tongue again. “Get up.”
Wolfwood doesn’t remember how to use his arms, his legs. He’s not even positive they’re attached to his body anymore. But that inadequacy doesn’t stop Knives from bodily hauling Wolfwood off Vash’s bed and onto unsteady feet. Knives is strong. Deceptively so. That shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, and yet the realization makes Wolfwood feel even more off-balance than before.
But he’s up now. Standing. And something about that makes Wolfwood’s consciousness coalesce into something more useful to him than the mush it was before.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Knives asks.
Wolfwood finds himself shaking his head without even really thinking. It wasn’t hard, not really. But only because Knives did it for him.
Wolfwood is cold, now. Naked again. The sheet covering his modesty fell to the ground in Knives’ hoisting. Wolfwood thinks about finding his clothes. About making it to the door of the Saverem apartment and getting on his bike to flee home. He -- probably wouldn’t crash.
Or maybe he could just sit next to Angelina for a while. Maybe nobody would notice. Certainly nobody would care.
Wolfwood snaps out of the spiral of his thoughts when Knives pats his cheek. The touch isn’t quite a slap, but it’s not gentle or nice, either.
Wolfwood blinks.
“My bed is clean,” Knives says.
“Okay?” Wolfwood says, voice gravelly. Of course it is. He bets Knives changes the sheets daily, or something equally insane.
“So come on,” Knives tells him. “I’m done sitting in my brother’s dirty sheets. It smells like him.”
It smells like sex, Wolfwood thinks. He smells like sex.
He swallows, feeling like he’s trying to find his footing even though he’s already standing.
There are too many pieces to this puzzle and none of them are fitting together right. They’re all too jagged, too curved in the wrong places.
“What?”
“I know you’re not stupid,” Knives says. “We’re going back to my room. You’re going to take a shower and I’m going to deign to loan you a change of clothes.”
The words are just as startling as the fist in his hair, as the not-quite-a-slap.
Knives -- isn’t kicking him out. Not only that, Knives is offering Wolfwood his own fucking clothes, which isn’t something Wolfwood ever would have bet on, even with the world’s best odds.
There’s no way Knives could be doing this out of kindness, Wolfwood thinks. No way in hell.
But it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Wolfwood takes in a breath, ignoring the clench in his lungs, the ache in his chest, and makes himself look at Knives, like his face might hold some answers -- but his face is as stoic as always, eyes cold and detached. There’s nothing to be found there to give away whatever intentions Knives has. Wolfwood isn’t sure why he ever had any hope.
“Fine,” Wolfwood says, making himself shrug.
His shoulders are stiff, tight. But his voice feels less watery now. And he feels more tethered to his own body.
Still, the malaise lingers.
Wolfwood shouldn’t feel like this. He wishes he could shake it off, could snap himself out of whatever funk this is -- but mind over matter has failed him already a few times in his life. Now is apparently just another for the tally. At least Wolfwood is well-practiced when it comes to disappointment.
There’s no choice other than to stay. To take whatever strangeness Knives is offering and deal with the consequences as they roll in.
So, red-faced, naked, and still a little unsteady on his feet, Wolfwood lets Knives guide him out of Vash’s room, across the apartment’s living room, and to Knives’ bedroom door. He should probably feel more embarrassed about his state of undress, but he’s too tired to care and Knives has already gotten more than an eye-full. There’s not much of Wolfwood’s dignity left to spare.
Not anymore.
Knives’ bedroom is nothing like Vash’s. There’s not much decoration and very little mess -- opposed to the chaos of Vash’s room, which is somewhere Wolfwood’s spent enough time that it feels almost like a second home. There’s nothing immediately homey about Knives’ space, nothing personal except for a single framed photo on the dresser of the twins when they were younger. Vash has the same one in the same space.
And yet, despite everything, the room still feels lived in.
It feels like Knives: immediately familiar.
Wolfwood’s toes step onto a deceptively soft rug and curl. It’s warmer in here than he thought it would be, like Knives keeps his space warmer than Vash prefers.
Knives closes the door behind him with a decisive click. Wolfwood turns to look at him, only to get tossed a bundle of clothes. Sweatpants and a sweatshirt. And then Knives pushes him in the direction of the en-suite bathroom before he can even think to argue.
“You don’t need me to wash your hair for you, do you?” Knives seems back to sneering, but now it hurts less.
Abruptly and without intention, Wolfwood imagines what Knives is suggesting. He imagines those surprisingly gentle hands working shampoo through his sweaty, tangled hair. He imagines closing his eyes and leaning back into the strange safety and familiarity of that touch.
He jerks away from the thought and quickly shakes his head. He escapes into the bathroom maybe a little too fast and slams the door behind him.
The bathroom isn’t quite a reprieve, but it’s away from Knives and any intrusive thoughts that might occur in his direct vicinity, which is something. He doesn’t need his brain conjuring up anything more confusing: he’s already suffered enough at his own expense.
Wolfwood turns the water too hot, stays under the stream until his fingers turn pruney, and slathers himself up in soaps and shampoos that smell just like Knives, scrubbing any remainder of himself -- or Vash -- away for the night. As soon as it occurs to him, the idea of that is strange, but not unwelcome.
Unsurprisingly, Knives’ towels are expensive and plush. Nice enough that Wolfwood debates the merits -- and logistics -- of stealing one for his own place. He wonders how much Knives would care. Probably a lot.
When he steps into Knives’ clothes, they fit him fine. They’re soft, warm, and lighter in color than Wolfwood would ever choose on his own -- but they’re fine. His skin is still a fraction damp and they cling to his skin like a touch.
When Wolfwood comes back into Knives’ room, leaving a cloud of steam and humidity in his wake, he can hear the washing machine running in the kitchen. Wolfwood has zero concept for how long he lingered in the shower -- but it was clearly long enough that Knives made himself busy and decided to do a load of laundry.
There’s a velvety chair by the window. Knives is curled up in it like a cat, ostensibly reading something with a cover Wolfwood doesn’t recognize. Knives doesn’t move when Wolfwood steps through the bathroom door, but his gaze does lift.
“Better?” Knives asks.
His tone indicates nothing at all, not a lick of emotion -- though Wolfwood can only assume what he means: is Wolfwood feeling better enough to leave?
Wolfwood shrugs. “Sure.”
A million times better than before, actually. But regardless of anything, Wolfwood isn’t about to admit any kind of debt to Knives.
It’s true, though, when he stops to think about it, to assess the way he’s feeling in his body. The funk from earlier seems to have washed off with the hot water of the shower, scrubbed away by the astringent and sharp scent of mint now clinging to his own skin. He feels tired, yeah -- exhausted like he just ran a marathon -- but he feels normal. His thoughts, though tired, feel regular. Like he’s human again.
He thinks about the logistics of leaving, about the clothing he left scattered across Vash’s floor in a frantic haste to get at Vash’s body, and for Vash to get at his. That feels like such a long time ago, now. Blurry with time and fatigue.
“I need to go get my clothes,” Wolfwood says. He can’t just leave them there for Vash to find later. Talk about embarrassing.
“They’re in the wash,” Knives replies, tilting his head toward the door.
Wolfwood blinks.
Knives is -- washing Wolfwood’s clothes for him?
“O…kay,” Wolfwood says slowly.
“Better make yourself comfortable,” Knives says, and then pointedly looks back at his book.
Coming from Knives, it should feel like a dismissal. But it somehow feels more like Knives is giving him space. Whether or not that’s what it is, Wolfwood chooses to accept it as the latter. He shrugs his shoulders and resolves to loiter until his clothes come out of the wash. It’s not like he’s going to wear Knives’ clothes home.
Unfortunately, with Knives in the chair by the window, there’s nowhere else for Wolfwood to go but the bed. Or the living room, of course -- but they both know he’s not going to open Knives’ door and venture out into the apartment at large. It still feels a little too big, too open. And the idea of Vash coming home and seeing him lounging around in Knives’ clothes feels -- embarrassing, at the very least.
Like Vash catching Wolfwood in a compromising position.
Idly, Wolfwood wonders if it would be more embarrassing to be caught with Knives’ tongue down his throat.
The thought catches him like a brick to the back of the head, so startling and strange that it’s almost funny. Absurd in so many ways, but easy enough to ignore.
With a huffed laugh that Knives thankfully ignores, Wolfwood allows himself to choose the bed, which is hotel-crisp when Wolfwood sits down on it. There’s too many pillows and a quilt that feels like it’s made of silk. It’s far better than the living room couch.
He leans back and closes his eyes, relaxing into the plush comfort of the bed. He drifts for a while, brain more exhausted than his body, listening to the occasional turn of a page, the distant sound of traffic from the street below.
--
Wolfwood wakes up to muffled voices, his face mashed into a pillow and his legs tangled up in soft sheets. He’s not sure how or when he got under the covers instead of just sprawling out on top of them, but here he is, making a mess of Knives’ bed in a way Knives probably hates.
He doesn’t need to look around the room to know that he’s alone.
“He left already,” Wolfwood hears Knives say through the closed door. He’s so attuned to Vash’s voice, which means Knives’ voice is already an ingrained thing in his head, too -- it’s just harder, a little more clipped, a little more cool.
Like touching metal. Like frost on a crisp morning.
“Oh,” Wolfwood hears Vash say. “I was hoping he’d stick around.”
The disappointment in Vash’s voice tugs at strings in Wolfwood’s heart that he is always helpless to ignore.
Knives laughs, low and unamused. “He must have gotten tired of waiting around.”
“Aw,” Vash says.
The fridge door opens and closes. A chair scrapes against tile.
It’s dark outside now, yellow street lights shining in through Knives’ open windows, painting his room in warm tones not unlike the afternoon light in Vash’s room earlier. Wolfwood shifts in the bed, stretching out aching muscles until he’s feeling looser, more awake.
His clothes are sitting on Knives’ chair, folded and next to the book Knives had been reading. There’s a glass of water by the bedside table, perfectly centered on a marble coaster.
Wolfwood doesn’t know what game Knives is playing, but there’s clearly pieces on the board and some end-goal that Knives is working toward that Wolfwood can’t even fathom.
It’s probably bad. In all the time Wolfwood has known Knives, nothing he’s done has ever been good; it’s all been for his own self-interest. There’s no way this could be anything else.
But right now Wolfwood can’t bring himself to care. Knives’ bed is comfortable and his clothes are soft and Wolfwood isn’t ready to face Vash, yet.
So, Wolfwood will wait to make his escape until Vash goes to sleep.
For now, he presses his face into a pillow that smells like cedar and mint, and lets himself close his eyes again to the muffled murmurings of Vash and Knives in the kitchen. And he waits.