Chapter Text
Wolfwood’s fumbling with the too-complicated coffee maker when Knives lets himself into the apartment in a jingle of keys and a flurry of movement.
The front door to the Saverem apartment is right next to the kitchen -- where Wolfwood is currently standing, bare feet on cold tile -- so Wolfwood catches a glimpse of Knives out of the corner of his eye before he centers his focus back on the coffee maker.
The coffee maker is new. Different from the old one that Wolfwood knew how to work because it was simple, uncomplicated. This one has too many pieces, is too new and fancy and stupid.
“Vash just left,” Wolfwood says without looking up. He’s trying to assemble the machine into something resembling working order, which is probably a difficult task generally, but while uncaffeinated it feels fucking impossible.
There’s a moment of quiet, a beat, before Knives is suddenly there in the kitchen with him, sliding up to Wolfwood’s side and humming in a register that doesn’t sound pleased at all.
“Are you breaking my coffee machine?” Knives asks.
Of course it’s Knives’. Vash wouldn’t buy something so shiny, so complicated, so bougie.
“No? Fuck off.”
“You’re using my brand new coffee machine,” Knives says. And then he shoves into the space right in front of the machine, shouldering Wolfwood roughly out of the way. “I’m allowed to care about how you treat my things.”
He says it so simply, so purposefully. For some reason, the comment immediately rubs Wolfwood the wrong way.
“I’m not some kind of animal,” Wolfwood snaps, even though he feels very much like one at the moment, with his hackles up and the desire to snarl caught tight in his throat. His blood pressure is rocketing up by the minute. “I’m not going to break it.”
He kinda wants to now, though.
Kinda wants to break Knives, too.
However, Knives ignores Wolfwood’s anger and doesn’t bother to respond with anything more than a huff. He snatches the various parts out of Wolfwood’s hands and assembles the coffee maker in what feels like less than a heartbeat. Wolfwood watches from mere inches away, refusing to budge from where Knives shoved him -- if Knives thinks he’s too close then he can deal, because Wolfwood’s not surrendering even more than the inch that he already has.
“Light roast or dark?” Knives says, but before Wolfwood can even open his mouth to voice a preference, Knives continues and decides, “Hm. I think light.”
After choosing a bag from the top shelf of a nearby cabinet -- one in which Wolfwood didn’t even know there was a hidden secret stash of Knives’ nice coffee, a coffee that looks like it was picked up from a farmers market because of course it does -- Wolfwood watches as Knives measures out coffee beans into the machine’s grinder. His movements are careful, precise. Just like everything else about him. Wolfwood wonders if he ever lets loose, lets himself be unrestrained. Vash certainly does.
Then, before Wolfwood can get too caught up in wondering, Knives taps a nondescript button on the machine and it whirrs to life, grinding the beans that he had just measured out. Suddenly, the air smells good. Warm and rich. Wolfwood can’t help but feel just slightly comforted by the smell alone, knowing coffee will soon be on its way.
At this point, Wolfwood probably should move back, should put some space between the two of them -- but he doesn’t. His feet are rooted to the linoleum floor like a tree. And Knives is just -- letting it happen. Lingering so close that his body heat is obvious. The contrast between the cool tile underneath his toes and Knives’ heat against the rest of him is a little bizarre.
When Wolfwood meets his gaze, Knives is looking at him with those sharp, icy eyes of his. Assessing, just like the other day. Looking for something that Wolfwood has no idea how to name.
Knives only pulls back after a moment of staring that drags on for so long that it nearly burns.
“That unfortunate thing didn’t happen to you today, did it?” Knives asks as he gets out two mugs, like it’s normal to just ask things like that. Like it’s normal for him to just pry into Wolfwood’s sex life like that -- or his fucking psyche.
“Shut the fuck up,” Wolfwood snaps. He crosses his arms. “How do you even know we fucked?”
The coffee maker gurgles.
The kitchen smells a little bit like the organic cleaner Knives uses, a little bit like the bananas hanging in a stand next to the cutlery drawer. But mostly all that Wolfwood can smell now is Knives, his scent almost stronger after a day of being out and about. He wishes it were more possible to ignore.
Knives rolls his eyes. “You smell like sex.” He wrinkles his nose ever so slightly. Just enough that it makes his blue eyes darken as they narrow. “That, and you always fuck when you come over here.”
Wolfwood hates that Knives knows that, like he’s paying attention to when Wolfwood and Vash fuck -- but he also has a point. Vash is his best friend and Wolfwood used to come over all the time to hang out. Ever since they added sex into their routine, it’s rare that Wolfwood comes over and they don’t fuck. It’s just -- easy. And nice. To want and be wanted in return. And it’s way too hard to keep his hands off of Vash -- maybe Wolfwood is a little addicted. It’s hardly his worst vice, but it is maybe his most dangerous.
“So, did it happen again?” Knives prompts, like he’s not asking Wolfwood about the most mortifying thing to happen to him in the last few years. Maybe his life.
“No, fuck you,” Wolfwood says.
He glares first at Knives and then at the coffee maker, willing it to brew faster. It’s easier to look at a machine than Knives. Especially if he starts thinking about the way Knives saw him at his rawest or the way he fell asleep in Knives’ bed, smelling like the man’s soap and shampoo. The coffee machine might be way too fucking expensive and more complicated than a nuclear reactor, but it doesn’t give a shit about Wolfwood’s personal failings.
Unfortunately, the thing is: when Knives told him to keep that little secret away from Vash, he was right. There’s no way Vash can know how easily he can wreck Wolfwood, or how weak Wolfwood apparently is. It would be embarrassing for Wolfwood. And devastating for Vash.
Vash isn’t someone who wants to inflict harm on anyone else, nor is he someone who wants to cause anyone else pain, even accidentally. And yet here he is, capable of breaking Wolfwood down to his very marrow without so much as a thought. All they did was fuck, just like normal -- and Wolfwood got wrecked. Which means something in Wolfwood is broken, fragile beyond repair. And he can never, ever let Vash know, lest he think it’s his fault and not Wolfwood’s.
“I’d warn you again,” Knives says after a moment of too-judgemental silence, “but I don’t think I have to.”
He sounds smug. It’s probably deserved.
Knives sets down two mugs on the counter and pours Wolfwood the first cup of coffee. He doesn’t hand it to him, but he does push it an inch in Wolfwood’s direction before filling up his own.
Just another consolation prize from Nai Saverem. That doesn’t stop Wolfwood from accepting it, though. It smells too good to pass up.
“It’s for your own good, really,” Knives continues. “I’d tell you to stop fucking him too, but I doubt you’d listen, despite it being for the best.”
Wolfwood picks up the offered mug and takes a sip even though he knows the coffee is going to be too hot. It scalds his mouth and throat but he swallows it down anyway, glaring at Knives the entire time.
They both know that there’s no way Wolfwood is going to put an end to this fuckbuddies thing he’s got going with Vash, even if it’s probably an unhealthy habit. He’s way too far gone for that. Knives saw right through him from the start, but Wolfwood had been undeterred -- too interested in Vash and his everything, and too equally unfazed by Knives and his prickly, venomous aura. Or maybe his infatuation with Vash had overshadowed all of Knives’ warning signs.
Admittedly, the only thing that likely has kept Wolfwood safe from Knives’ wrath from the start has been Vash’s happiness.
Because Vash is happy with Wolfwood’s friendship and their current arrangement, that much is clear to both Wolfwood and Knives. And Knives is far too obsessed with his brother to take something like that away from him. By force, anyway.
“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about it,” Wolfwood says, letting another sip of coffee scald his tongue, his throat. It’s easier than thinking about the ease with which he had crumbled. “It’s not going to happen again.”
Wolfwood simply won’t let it. His guard is up, his defenses solid.
Knives just gives him a little smile. So much cooler, so much sharper than Vash’s.
“Sure it isn’t,” Knives says.
Knives takes his coffee, turns, and leaves Wolfwood alone in the kitchen with an unspoken retort dying a slow death on the tip of his tongue. Wolfwood can only glare into the empty space Knives left next to him and snarl out a curse.
Out of spite, Wolfwood drinks the rest of the coffee and leaves the dirty pot for Knives to clean.