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Wolfwood doesn't have a soulmate. He's fairly sure of this.
How he knows is painfully obvious. Sooner or later, everyone would have their body, mostly their arms littered in colorful marks. Lines, shapes, rhythms making their way across the skin. Every child, even the shyest one, will sooner or later mark their skin as a means of letting their soulmate know they're there. It's like a call from nature. You can't do anything about it. Even the ones, playing tough guy, steal away a pencil or marker to doodle on their skin, tucked away in a quiet corner or beneath their bed sheets, like Wolfwood did back then.
He had wanted to know, back then. God, how his little heart had yearned for an answer. A scribble. A doodle. Anything. Hiding beneath his blanket with a flashlight, while the other kids in the room were fast asleep he had waited for seemingly ages till his eyes closed shut, overrun by sleep, only to be found and laughed at by the other kids the next morning with the flashlight still alight.
He had checked but no answer mark appeared. And never did. It didn't matter that he secretly continued marking his skin in colors over the years.
Now, in his twenties, he gives up. There's no way his soulmate would be almost thirty years younger than him. And if they are older, then… Then they probably left this plane of existence before they ever had the chance to answer him. After all, it's impossible to ignore your soulmate's call.
It's fine, Wolfwood thinks. There are many people around, living their lives without their soulmate. Children die too, after all. Accidents happen, a sudden health impairment, or disabilities that render you immobile and eventually in death's arms and death is never so kind as to let your soulmate know. It's fine. He's just part of that one group of people living their life without their other half. Incomplete. Even though some of the people in his group believe you're perfect and complete even without your partner. That you can feel incomplete and imperfect with your partner too. He dislikes thinking about it. There's no use in it. And it doesn't fill the gaping hole, full of pain.
For a while, watching the smoke leaving the cigarette between his lips and the nicotine rush that comes with it, was enough for him to ease the pain. The consequences were a hoarse voice and headaches whenever he didn't have something to smoke. He hated it. So he quit. But he's a hypocrite. He can't stop reaching for a new one just like he can't stop thinking about them, even though he says he doesn't care. A hypocrite.
He should stop. Take better care of his health. Learn to love himself, all that crap. Why would he throw his life away for someone he doesn't know in the first place? Maybe the memory of hope turning to dust and red, blue, orange, green colors on his skin is still too vivid.
"Moping again?"
Wolfwood doesn't have to turn around to see who it is. He scoffs, burying his hope and disappointment from his childhood with practiced ease.
"Hah, when am I ever moping?"
Vash comes and leans next to him against the railing of the company's building they work at, leaning forward to catch his gaze. Wolfwood turns away.
"I'd rather like to know when you're not moping. I don't think I've ever seen a genuine smile on your face!"
Wildwood snubs out the cigarette against the metal of the railing. Already annoyed at the presence next to him.
"Right back at ya," he retorts and throws the nub into the abyss below him. Some poor soul down there is gonna get hit by ash and resentment from the sky.
"Seems you looked right through me." Vash laughs even though they both know it's a lie.
Wolfwood doesn't like Vash. It's just his luck he got paired with the one guy he dislikes the most. He dislikes his sad, fake smiles and he dislikes how self-sacrificing he is. How he always takes on the work of their colleagues without a word of complaint and how he stays late every day because of it. He hates how everyone seems to genuinely love him but only so much that they don't care about his problems. Only his charming smile and kind eyes. He hates how Vash loves his work and hates going home, how he cares for Wolfwood despite his gruff behavior, how he never gives up, how he still hopes and how he's still disappointed.
But most importantly, he hates how they're exactly the same.
"Why did I have to be paired with a guy like you?" he sighs.
Why did you have to be paired with me?
They're exactly the same. Only Wolfwood is being an asshole about it. Vash is strong enough to prevent making it everyone else's problem that he's miserable. Wolfwood wishes the world would fuck right off which is why most people can't stand him.
Vash should be paired with someone else. Someone who doesn't wince just by looking at him and his sad smile and his sad eyes.
"Oh, hush. I know you love me!"
But for some reason, Vash seems to see him as his friend. The bar is that low, it seems.
Wolfwood chuckles without it reaching his eyes.
"Pretty sure your soulmate back at home would hate you saying that."
Silence falls on them like a heavy blanket. When Wolfwood turns, Vash gazes down on the street below them.
Ah, they're the same, after all.
Wolfwood realizes he hasn't reached for a new cigarette yet.
"So you too, huh?" he says instead. Vash looks at him with surprise first, bitter understanding second.
"What's it for you? Soulmate never answered either?" He doesn't know why he's asking. It's not like it's any of his business. He does grab his pack of cigarettes now, tapping the bottom so another one jumps up and into the entrance.
He lights it in tandem with Vash's sigh and the nicotine engulfing his lungs tastes as empty and desperate as ever.
"Not entirely…," Vash begins before biting his lip. He avoids looking at Wolfwood, too. He's proficient at letting everyone think he's all cheery and happy but it never works on Wolfwood. Vash knows he's like an open book to him.
At least Wolfwood thinks so. Sometimes he feels like he can see right through him. Sometimes he thinks they're the same. But other times he isn't sure he really knows the guy in the first place. Does he stay late for everyone because he's incapable of saying no or is he just that self-sacrificing? Does he truly enjoy his work or is it his way of atonement? Does he really look right through Wolfwood or does he stand next to him, wondering whether he really knows the guy?
"They're probably younger than me," Cash says and Wolfwood remembers they were in the middle of something. He lets the nicotine into his lungs before letting out a puff of smoke, something he also forgot he has to do.
Vash's smile is fond, almost, no, beautiful. Gaze reaching for the horizon and an unknown face.
Vash is about ten years older, Wolfwood's brain helpfully supplies.
"It's not like I gave up. I just… can't hear their call."
Before Wolfwood can ask why, not that he cares… not that it's any of his business, Vash already moves to take off his ever-present gloves.
Wolfwood had never really thought about their purpose. Maybe Vash is just ashamed of his own body. For some reason. Whatever it is he'd never get it.
He doesn't expect to see metal where skin should be. It still comes as a surprise when Vash takes off his second glove. Then he pushes back his sleeves as far as they go to reveal more metal.
Wolfwood's stomach twists and turns, unable to avert his eyes and oddly fascinated by the technology. The metallic fingers move smoothly and accurately, with a type of elegance and care that is purely Vash. Wolfwood thinks of the amounts of times he's watched the man type away on his keyboard. The clicking and tapping was another to lull him into a peaceful sleep more than once.
"Prosthetics," Vash says and Wolfwood's attention snaps back to his lips, which wear a pained smile. Like an apology. "They reach almost all the way to my shoulders."
Vash looks like there's more he'd like to say. His adam's apple bobs but he keeps his mouth shut, avoiding to look at Wolfwood as he holds his own hands. All too soon, he hastens to put his gloves back on, as if he can't bear having them out in the open for Wolfwood to see any longer.
"What about the rest of your body? 'S not like marks only appear on your arms. They can be wherever your mate draws on after all."
"Most children keep it to their arms. Especially when they're being more timid or trying to hide them. Guess mine never tried to go beyond their arms. I don't blame them!" He's quick to say. "Sometimes you just don't think of it. Or maybe they have their own reason. It's fine though. I actually think it's better that way."
Wolfwood gets rid of the useless cigarette between his lips. He forgets about it anyway. He throws it on the floor and stuffs it out with his shoe.
"Guess that's why you never tried marking another body part? Because it's better that way?"
He'd never drawn beyond his arms. He just stared at his skin as if it was a magic trick every goddamn night, completely forgetting he had other body parts. He craves another cigarette.
"Yeah. I mean, who'd want to be touched by metal, right?"
Vash looks for his agreement but Wolfwood thinks of the tip-tap of the keyboard and gentle hands carding through his hair, pulling away as soon as he notices Wolfwood waking up.
He hates Vash. Which is why he doesn't answer.
"At that age I didn't feel that urge to place marks anymore so I just let it be. Thought it's probably better they don't get to see… this. It's not like it gets better."
Vash places a gloved hand on his chest and Wolfwood wonders whether his body is riddled with scars or more prosthetics. What is it that makes him think his soulmate wouldn't want to see? What is it that makes him think his soulmate wouldn't want to see his arms? The rest?
"What's it for you?" Vash asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest as if he just remembered that Wolfwood must hate seeing all this too. How stupid.
"They never answered my call. End of story," he grumbles and thinks of that cigarette.
"I'm sorry."
He knows it's not that, but Wolfwood's heart still jumps, thinking he's apologizing to him. Him, specifically. For never answering.
"It's like you scream into the void, expecting it to scream back but all you hear is a fading echo." He should shut up. He should fill his lungs with smoke. He should leave.
"It's like you're told you never walk alone just to wake up and realize there's gaping nothingness right next to you." He doesn't know why he's saying it. Vash's smile disappeared for once. He looks like he wants to cry and Wolfwood hates him even more.
But they're the same, which means Wolfwood hates himself just as much.
Wolfwood visits the orphanage that day. He keeps telling himself that it's unrelated to Vash. And it is, because he's marked the day on his calendar weeks ago already. He always goes at least once a month.
He can't stand most of the caretakers. Some of the old ones are seemingly still out for blood from his own childhood while the new ones think he's bad influence. The children love him and they're the only reason he goes.
They little kids jump around him, drag him around their playground and make him play stupid little games that they always manage to talk him into. They drag on his clothes and his hair, get sticks and mud into it and more than once he's lost a button somewhere.
The older kids keep their distance, acting all cool and uncaring when Wolfwood knows they care the most. He slips them a pack of cigarettes once in a while and rubs their backs when they get too drunk in a parking lot and have no one else to call. They don't need to talk to reach an understanding. He nods at the group of teens and continues his play with the small children.
They're in the age in which the urge settles in. For some of them it's in full bloom. Little arms littered in colors. Wolfwood helps coloring a flower on a little girl's pale arm. A vivid pink flower with a happy face. A vivid blue flower appears seemingly out of thin air right next to it just a few seconds later. How good for her.
A few kids play at Wolfwood's feet. A boy crawls over with a pen in his hand. Wolfwood ignores him. He doesn't call for him so he doesn't need him. And he has to listen to the girl instructing him to color the bee on her arm anyway.
He sees the boy move closer to his naked leg and it takes only half a second for him to realize what he's going to do with the uncapped marker. He tells himself it doesn't matter. Then he thinks he's so close, he won't get there in time anyway. Then he tells himself he doesn't care. He doesn't care like the teens in the orphanage don't.
Another second passes in which Wolfwood watches the boy come closer and then he feels color press into his skin like it did all those years ago. The sensation seems to spread through his entire body, firing all of his synapses and letting goosebumps cover his skin. None of the kids notice and he keeps it that way.
A scream into the void. With a fading echo.
Wolfwood thinks of metal so gentle it could be skin.
The boy continues drawing on his ankles, the part that is visible at least and Wolfwood lets him. His body aches but he doesn't know whether it's from the sensation of color shooting through him or from an answer still missing.
"Your face looks oddly happy today," Vash comments the next day.
"I could say the same thing about you," Wolfwood answers with the same stoic face as always, including cigarette and all. It isn't lit, since they are at their workplace but Wolfwood craves the feeling of something in his mouth.
And Vash is just being annoying. His face is the same as always. Vash is the weird one with his bouncing leg and unusual moves. As if he does everything with an extra bit of rhythm. As if he's dancing to a song.
"You're not smoking," Vash points out. "And also you are smiling. It may not be visible to just anyone but I can see it! Something good happened?"
"Firstly, I don't smoke because we're in the company building and secondly, none of your business."
"Firstly, you never cared for company rules and that's why your seat is by the window, and secondly, yes it is. When you're in a sour mood it's impossible to work with you."
"Well, I'm not and the reason doesn't matter. So leave me be before it does grow sour."
Vash, the goddamn child that he is, sticks his tongue out in retaliation but wanders off to his desk anyway.
Wolfwood shoos a colleague away who tried following Vash with another batch of papers and binders in her hands. He's proud to say his glare was enough for her to turn with the tail between her legs.
He doesn't even think about working through his own batch of binders. From between the stack of work on his table and his computer screen he can see Vash sitting at his own table, working diligently away. He's the kind of guy who does this work genuinely. The kind that tries to change the world, one step at a time. Not like Wolfwood, who doesn't care about anything but the kids back at the orphanage and how to be a good role model. Not that he succeeds at it.
Wolfwood thinks about the marks hidden underneath his pants. He thinks about Vash. He thinks that it would be awful if Vash turned out to be his soulmate he never reached because he never went beyond his arms. He hates Vash after all.
Living with Vash would be hell. He's always pushing himself further while Wolfwood wants to take things slow and easy. Vash is upright and honest where Wolfwood wants to slink away and laze around. Vash would poke his nose into his business and call it worry and Wolfwood would tell him to get lost and then imagine himself telling Vash every emotion he ever felt.
He hates Vash because he'd give all of him if Vash asked for it. But Vash said he never called again and so Wolfwood can not answer.
The sensation of colors shoots right through him, just like it did back in the orphanage and all those years ago. He had played with his pen and forgot it's not capped. It doesn't matter, his soulmate never answers anyway. He doesn't have a soulmate. And he marked his hand, so…
So what?
Wolfwood watches Vash and continues playing with the pen. The tip marks his fingers, his wrist and arm until he looks at it properly and starts drawing again. A smiling flower and a bee.
He doesn't have a soulmate. And if he does then it's not Vash. Are his legs prosthetics, too?
He tells himself he's gonna be careful when he lifts the uncapped pen and rests his hand against his cheek. The pen brushes ever so softly against it and Wolfwood watches Vash scratch his cheek. His expression is confused. As if he felt something he's never felt before.
Wolfwood grabs an orange marker and draws a circle on his neck. Like the sun. With the proper press and intention, he feels the colors surge through him, synapses firing, sending messages to his soulmate.
Vash squeaks and his hand shoots up to cover his neck. He rubs at it, but when he looks at his palm there's nothing there. No mosquitoe or other insect. Just a sensation he's never felt before.
If Vash called for him… If Vash asked him…
Vash's hands tremble. His fingertips are only millimeters away from the keyboard but he doesn't resume his usual tip-tap typing. He's waiting for a call he doesn't need to answer.
What if he doesn't answer? He said he doesn't want to, after all. He said he thinks it's better that way. He said he thinks his soulmate is better off without him.
A life without Vash would be a life with one less person he hates.
He hates how Vash sits there, frozen but trembling.
The marker in his hand is still uncapped so he reaches down and then up his shirt and draws a bold mark down his sternum. He barely cares about the sensation of the marker against his skin or the firework of goosebumps erupting over his body. All that matters is Vash flinching, pens and papers falling to the floor, while he tries to find a pen or marker on his paper-littered table.
Even from a distance, Wolfwood can see the desperation flowing in waves from his entire body. When he finally finds a marker, his hands tremble so badly it slips from his grasp, falling to the floor and rolling underneath scattered papers.
By now everybody is looking at him but neither Vash nor Wolfwood care.
Vash hits his head on the table when he tries getting back up but aside from an 'oof' sound he barely seems to care. The pen is in his hand and kneeling on the floor, in between messed up binders, papers, and numbers, Vash answers his call with a stripe of blue across his face.
Wolfwood is filled with unexplainable euphoria. His entire body alights in relief and need for the other. His face burns where no doubt a blue mark appeared. If anyone would look at him they'd see his flushed face, half-lidded eyelids and evidence of what just transpired. They'd piece two and two together but nobody gives a shit about Wolfwood. They all stare at Vash, hushing between themselves. None of that matters.
Vash answered his call.
It's stupid. He should just get up and go to him. They're not kids anymore after all. Wolfwood already brushes his marker over his stomach, careful not to let anyone see him painting beneath his shirt.
Vash's face flushes and his hand holds onto the part Wolfwood brushes against. Softly, gently, patient, adoring.
Wolfwood can't find it in himself to walk up to him. Would he be disappointed? Would he shy away? Maybe he's just as afraid as Vash was. They're the same, after all.
Like this, Vash seemed peaceful. Feeling for Wolfwood's strokes on his skin like gentle caresses while answering with his own.
Some of their colleagues clap, congratulating Vash on finally contacting his soulmate but they mostly leave him alone. It's a special moment after all. But they popped his little bubble and Vash is back to being his awkward self. He gets off the floor and tries to reorganize his place, all the while wearing a big smile on his face. The marks on their faces begin to fade but Wolfwood's feelings don't.
He doesn't like Vash. But they're the same so that means he doesn't like himself either.
Maybe he loves Vash. Maybe he can love himself a little bit.
He doesn't like his self-sacrificing attitude. But he likes glaring at people who try to use it. He doesn't like seeing him stay late. But he likes seeing him be satisfied with himself and his work. Maybe Vash can love him too.
Vash is sitting back in his chair and Wolfwood continues secretly marking his stomach like a caress. He can get used to being the reason for this smile.
Their gazes lock. Vash's face falls, so does his hand. What an idiot.
There's nothing left of the marks on their faces, so he can't know. Of course he'll feel bad for Wolfwood. The one left without. And Wolfwood doesn't know how to walk up to him.
Vash is back on the balcony, leaning against the railing during their break. He doodles idly on his face. Wolfwood knows even though he stands behind him. Because Vash is his soulmate and he can feel every mark of color be painted on his own body.
He doesn't answer the call.
"So you found your soulmate," he states and watches Vash flinch. He doesn't know how to go about this. Hr buries his hands in the pockets of his pants and shivers slightly in the wind blowing so high up.
Vash lowers his head as if feeling bad for Wolfwood.
"I know I said differently before, but I just… I never thought it'd feel like this." He turns when saying this. There are blue lines criss-crossing his entire face. So this is what the marks on Wolfwood's face look like.
Vash looks at him with wide eyes and his mouth open but he doesn't seem to understand.
"Can't believe you made me call you again." Wolfwood comes closer to him till their bodies press into each other. Gently, he removes the marker from his hands and sets it on his own face instead. He draws a straight line down, relishing in the feeling it feels him with and watching the same line appear on Vash's cheek.
It just seems to make sense now. Everything. Vash smiles. His rare and genuine smile. Like he finally came home. Wolfwood decides that there's no use in waiting. His hand finds Vash's neck naturally. The pull is easy with Vash willing in his arms when their lips meet and they finally, truly found each other.
Turns out he loves Vash. Turns out they're the same. Turns out Wolfwood cares a whole deal. Turns out Vash's legs are also prosthetic but he loves waking him with scribbles all over his stomach. Turns out Wolfwood never wants to leave and never does.