alrighty as promised, here is continuation of my post-canon orufrey drabble. lots of hurt/comfort and manga spoilers beware
When Qifrey awoke again, it was not in an entanglement of silverwood roots but on a soft mattress. He felt the warmth of Olruggio in the air to his side, and his hand was on Qifrey’s shoulder, shaking him awake with a gentle squeeze. “Qifrey?”
“Mmh,” he groaned. Olruggio coughed a laugh, amusement and relief painting his voice in equal measures.
Olruggio said, “You should eat something.”
What a sorry sight he must be if Olruggio of all people was telling him to take care of himself. “Mm.” He—he remembered Olruggio took poor care of himself. He remembered that the silverwood tree was supposed to erase his memories.
Still, he couldn’t see.
“Olly? I can’t—my eyes.”
Olruggio didn’t say anything, and Qifrey knew even before he asked, “They’re gone?”
“…Yeah. Eat something? Then we can talk.”
Of course, Qifrey’s first instinct was to refuse, to demand to know what happened, how his years of vigilance and careful calculation failed, how Olruggio saved him anyway. But he also couldn’t deny the hunger clawing at his gut even as fatigue willed him to sleep, and he knew he could trust Olruggio. With a shaky sigh, he murmured, “Okay.”
Qifrey heard clattering as Olruggio grabbed a bowl and spoon left on the nightstand. “Open your mouth.”
“Your feeding me?” A rueful, teasing smile dashed Qifrey’s lips. “What is it?”
The spoon pressed at his lips, and Qifrey let himself be cared for. “Just some soup. Light on the stomach and should help with recovery,” Olruggio said.
The conversation lulled, a soft, sleepy sort of silence that only made going back to bed more tempting, but Qifrey had spent enough time sleeping.
When the bowl was mostly empty—Qifrey’s stomach had protested any more—and when it was put aside alongside an empty glass of water, Olruggio huffed wordlessly. Qifrey said, “So what happened?”
He heard Olruggio’s breath hitch, and he swallowed. “I—well, I guess you know to an extent. We were…well, and then you turned to silverwood, and I decided that I’d find a way to bring you back. Here you are.”
Qifrey huffed an indulgent laugh. “That simple, huh?”
“Exactly.”
He smiled. “Tell me more.”
Olruggio’s tone turned more somber. “Well, it certainly had its costs. It took me almost a decade to figure out the spellwork—not easy, let me tell you, when the sigils and theory needed were hidden and forgotten.”
His brain stuttered. “…Ten years?”
“Not quite, more around eight and a three-quarters, but I know how you’d never forgive me if I let your memories be erased again, so I had to find another method, one that didn’t hurt you.”
Eight years. Nearly nine—of course Olruggio would keep track by the quarter. Was he older? Olruggio must be, if not physically then by the ache in his voice, worn down in a bitter, unfamiliar way. And that would mean the girls—
“You’re memories are intact, right?” he continued.
“Um,” Qifrey stuttered, and panic betrayed Olruggio’s face in the small hitch in his breath. Quickly, before he could truly doubt his decisions—no matter if he had his memories or not, he knew he didn’t want Olruggio to feel as if his work was for nothing—Qifrey reached out a shaking hand and placed it over what he guessed to be Olruggio’s arm.
“That my thigh, Qif.” Well, at least he sounded amused about it.
“Just pretend I’m placing a comforting hand on your arm,” he said, and Olruggio moved his hand for him. “Thank you,” he continued; “I—my memories feel—strange, I suppose. On the tip of my tongue, even if I can’t quite grasp them.” He squeezed his arm. “But…they are not completely gone. I can tell.” Perhaps that was the best way he could described this feeling, one of knowing but not understanding how he knows, of remembering a brief sensation but not the moment behind it. “I already feel more aware than last night.”
Olruggio hummed and placed his other hand over Qifrey’s on his arm. “That would make sense, I suppose. Hopefully it’ll come back to you with time, then.”
That seemed to be a comfortable end to the conversation, but two questions still stirred in his stomach. Two questions and a deep knowledge of guilt carved into his bones and teeth without the memory to know what to apologize for.
A shaky sigh escaped him, and Olruggio murmured, “You can ask, y’know.”
“What—huh?”
“I can tell you gotta say something, so say it.”
A breathless laugh at his own embarrassment and his endearment for Olruggio’s brashness all in one. “My vision…it’s, it’s not coming back, is it?” An unearthed fear took a hold of his fragile throat. Morning of waking up and realizing he couldn’t see what he used to be able to, months ago. Evenings of sharp, blinding pain embedded into his skull as he resisted the awful, awful feeling of roots climbing under his skin. An ever present fear that his atelier, his world, would collapse under the weight of a blind witch.
And now that fear tolled its bell. He sniffled, and then he bizarrely wondered if he could even cry, if his remaining eye was simply blind or if it was gone entirely, torn apart by branches crawling out of it.
Though, his tear duct was working at least because he felt the warmth of tears slide down the left side of his face.
“Hey, c’mere, c’mere,” Olruggio said, and he grasped at the hand still squeezing the life out of his arm. With it, he pulled Qifrey closer until he could wrap him up in a hug.
Qifrey let go of his arm and tucked his head into Olruggio’s shoulder, letting his arms hang uselessly by his sides. He bitterly said through the tears, “Just tell me it’s not.”
Olruggio hesitated. “…It’s not,” he said as softly as possible. “I don’t know how to heal it.” Oh, Olly, always trying to save him some measure of pain he needed.
“Okay,” Qifrey told him. He hiccuped on a hitched breath. “Okay.” And then he was crying all over again. Olruggio hushed him while he sobbed into his shoulder, and eventually, his tears slowed, reduced to bubbling hiccups.
Olruggio shifted to be able to hold Qifrey’s face, and his thumbs swiped at the tears on his cheeks. “It’s okay,” he told Qifrey; “I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”
Still, one question remained. Choking down another hiccup, he made himself ask, “Did you use forbidden magic?” Olruggio hesitated. “You know you can tell me, Olly.” Words kept slipping out of his mouth, his tongue knowing the shape of them before his mind knew the sound.
Olruggio’s hands, still cupping his face, shook. “Yes,” he whispered. “I had to, so don’t go telling the Knights, will ya?” A sad little chuckles escaped his lips, and it made Qifrey’s heart ache.
Finally, Qifrey’s arms had the strength to brush against Olruggio’s sides. He felt warm against his fingers.
Olruggio continued, “I should tell you that the magic left marks on your skin.”
Qifrey frowned, “Tattoos?”
“Yeah, I had carved the runes into the bark of silverwood, but they seemed to have transferred onto your skin.”
“How bad is it?”
“Mm, nothing on your face, but you should be glad your clothes are so modest.”
His eyebrows skyrocketed. “How many runes did one spell require?”
Olruggio’s hands fell from his face. “Only one, but—” he audibly swallowed, “—well, it took a lot of failures over the years before I got the right one. And ink running off the bark itself seemed to have marked some branches onto your skin.”
So he had a bunch of unfinished, scratched out, and downright useless runes inscribed onto his skin? Certainly not the best side effect, but he could manage that. “Okay,” he said.
“You don’t sound very upset.”
“That’s because I’m not. It’s certainly inconvenient, but like you said, as long as I dress modestly, I should be fine going out, no?” He swallowed any hurt he felt not being able to check himself.
Olruggio sighed. “Okay then.”
Silence enveloped them. Qifrey let their embrace end and sank back into the pillows. Gosh, the day had barely started and Qifrey already felt exhausted. It was quiet throughout the atelier, which he knew was far from normal at this hour. “Olly?”
“Hm?”
“Where are the girls?”
Olruggio huffed a nervous laugh. “They’re fine, they’re fine.”
“That’s not very reassuring, Olruggio.”
“They’re fine! I just sent them away on an errand I knew would take a couple days…so that they wouldn’t be here when I cast the spell…on the silverwood…” By the end, his voice was small, strung along by the raised brow Qifrey aimed at him.
Still, Qifrey was helpless in sharing an exasperated smile with him. “Now why would you do that?”
“One selfless reason and one selfish reason: if the spell had succeeded, I was sure you wouldn’t want the girls to see you weak and confused, and if it hadn’t—well, I wanted a few days to myself to wallow again, um….”
“Oh, Olly.” The ways he cared for him, the ways he knew him. He couldn’t argue with that. “You poor thing.”
Rather than acknowledge his own needs, Olruggio cleared his throat. “Actually, I should go message the girls, and—”
A choked his escaped him as he straightened from his chair, and Qifrey was already reaching out to support him. “What’s wrong?”
“Fine,” he grunted, “just—pulled something—in my back yesterday. While carrying you. Whoops.”
“And you thought sitting upright for who knows how many hours was a good way to relieve that? Come here, I’ll move over.”
Hand on Olruggio’s elbow, Qifrey guided him back to his side. Olruggio said, “I need to go tell the girls to come back.”
“You can do that once you stop having to hunch your back like that.”
Olruggio harrumphed, but he let Qifrey pull him to the bedside. With a hiss, he eased himself down onto bed. “I’m supposed to be helping you,” he said while Qifrey laid a hand on his shoulder to help him lay down. Granted, they both knew the help was performative, for Qifrey was far too weak to support Olruggio’s weight, but Olruggio seemed to appreciate it anyway.
Once Olruggio was laying down next to him, Qifrey no longer knew what to do with his hands. The hand he had on his shoulder retreated, and he rested his hands intertwined on his stomach. “Are you okay?”
Olruggio sighed. “Just old.”
Silence petered in between them. In the quiet, Qifrey murmured, “Is it too early to take a nap?”
Olruggio chuckled. “No, I think you have the right idea. I’m exhausted.”
“Mhmm.” Qifrey closed his eyes.
Olruggio was close enough to feel the warmth emanate from his skin, and his elbow brushed against his arm.
“Why’re you smiling?” Olruggio asked. Qifrey could hear the grin in his voice.
“Same reason you are, I suppose. Now hush and take your nap.”
“Alright, alright.”
As Qifrey listened to Olruggio’s breath even, he was struck by the realization of how many times this had happened before. Memories just like this, of listening to Olruggio drift off, warmth filling his stomach and the safest he’d ever be. Before, he’d have to dig his nails into his arm until he’d bled to stop branch from creeping out his eye, but he didn’t have to do that now. The thought almost made him giddy.
In the end, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching his arms around Olruggio, pulling himself around Olruggio. He didn’t wake, so Qifrey let himself relax.
It did not escape him that he was wrapped around Olruggio like a tree. Still, he was perfectly content as he let sleep overtake him again.
major wha manga spoilers!!! post-canon hurt/comfort be upon ye!
For several cycles of seasons, his existence had been reduced to the gentle sway of branches in a cooling wind, the constant stretch towards the every-giving sun, and the feeding off the blood and body of the once-man nestled in his roots.
His existence did not breathe; it did not speak; it did not think. But it did listen. When his leaves reddened and browned, a man would sit against his unseeing trunk and spout words he could no longer understand, but he did hear them. When his leaves were gone littered upon the ground, a girl—sometimes by herself, sometimes with others—would speak to his branches, yet not daring to touch him. In the spring, summer, they would keep him company.
In another life, he may have known them.
This day, blossoms had begun to flower on his limbs, and like any other day, he was visited by familiar voices. That night, he was visited again by the man who spoke to him. That in itself was not uncommon—the man would lay against him at all hours. What was unusual was the fervor of his voice, his pleading reaching a fever pitch, and all he could do in response was listen until—
His roots creaked and protested as they parted, and then Qifrey was spit entirely from his roots and into the arms of Olruggio. “—frey! Qifrey!” Olruggio sobbed.
So jarring was the transition from woodcurcor to blood and flesh that Qifrey forgot how to breathe until Olruggio pulled him upright and beat at his chest like one might with a newborn babe. Then his first breath startled him into the living world, and Olruggio continued to weep into his dirt-caked hair as Qifrey remembered how to be alive again.
Olruggio’s hands swept up and down his arms, his chest, his face, assuring himself that Qifrey still sat before him. His mind still felt enraptured within a blank fog, each thought sifting through and endless sieve before dredging up empty in his mouth. Memories of his past seemed off the tip of his tongue, escaping his grasp just as he reached for them.
Still, an unknown part of him croaked, “…Olly?”
Olruggio pulled them apart just far enough to look him over even as his frantic breath fanned Qifrey’s face. No matter how hard he tried, he could not open his eye. “Oh, Qifrey,” he murmured, and what little strength held Qifrey up gave out.
Of course, Olruggio caught him. Qifrey gasped, “Olly, wh—” Olruggio rocked them back and forth, but Qifrey couldn’t tell if it was to soothe him or himself, maybe both. His hand ran through Qifrey’s hair, holding his head and pressing them together.
The rocking stopped. “Shit, Qifrey,” Olruggio said, “your skin’s so cold.” When Olruggio grabbed him by his forearms and dragged him upward, Qifrey’s legs screeched in pain and refused to support him. With a grunt, Olruggio shifted his stance to support them both. “Let’s get you inside.”
Qifrey was already panting out of exertion, and with each passing moment, his panic grew. “Olly—Olly.” He couldn’t open his eye. He didn’t know what was happening or where they were. His lack of memory sent alarm bells ringing in his head, but he couldn’t even remember why the fog in his brain scared him so much. “Olly, I can’t see.”
“…I know, Qifrey.” Olruggio sighed. “Can you walk right now?”
“I can’t see, Olly.” He felt faint with how much he was shaking.
Olruggio pulled him ever closer. “Breathe,” he said softly; “Not a drop of rain will wet your hair while I’m here, Qifrey. Give me your faith for just a moment longer; I’ll get you home.”
More than his words, the rumble of his chest against Qifrey soothed an errant part of his soul. As Olruggio guided his breathing, he buried the panic deep in chest to be excavated later. Somehow, he knew it was a practiced effort. Still, he couldn’t help by repeat, “I can’t see.”
“I know. Walk with me?”
“…If you’ll take my arm.”
Olruggio held him in an embrace as they shuffled, steps slow and small so as not to trip in their overlapping steps. Olruggio did not rush him, but he instead murmured soft guiding words to show the way home even as he carried his weight. Progress, slow as it was, exhausted Qifrey. His mind knew that it was not a long walk, yet each step was harder than the last, and soon he was drooping against Olruggio, feet dragging in the dirt. Perhaps worst of all was that he couldn’t see how much farther they had to go.
“Qifrey?”
“I—sorry,” he gasped, “I…can’t…”
Olruggio hummed. They drifted to a stop, and Olruggio’s arms shifted to Qifrey’s waist. “Okay, okay, you were always the stronger one here, but we’ll make it.” With a little huff, he steadied Qifrey on his own feet and then bent down. Sweeping one arm at his shoulders and the other at his knees, Olruggio swept him off his feet and into his arms.
Olruggio grunted with effort. “This is what I get for shitty eating habits.”
A strange croaking sound escaped Qifrey, and, belatedly, he realized it was his body’s attempt at a laugh.
Olruggio spared a moment to press his nose into Qifrey’s hair. “Shit, Qif, don’t do this to my heart.” With a quick adjustment of the weight, Olruggio began walking again, and Qifrey swayed in his arms with each step. Another delirious huff of laughter escaped him as Olruggio grunted with exertion.
His warm arms wrapping against his cold body and the gentle swaying marking every step started to lull Qifrey back to sleep. The realization that he was falling back asleep terrified him; if he slept now, he didn’t know what was stopping him from growing roots once again.
“Olly—don’t let me…” The creak of a familiar door opening interrupted his wandering thought. “Don’t let me sleep.”
The house smelled different. He couldn’t tell what had changed, exhausted as he was, but he knew something had changed. Olruggio said, “It’s okay, you can sleep. You can rest.”
Another door opening, and a few steps later, Olruggio lowered him onto what he knew to be his bed. Qifrey did not ever remember sleeping on a bed.
“Oh?” He hated how vulnerable his voice sounded.
When Olruggio spoke, his voice thick. “Yeah, Qif, just rest. You’ll wake up in the morning.”
“Oh,” he said again, and that was all he needed. Exhaustion pulled at eyelids he didn’t know were open, and as Olruggio tucked him in, he murmured, “Stay?”
“Mhmm.” Olruggio suddenly sounded as tired as he was. Qifrey managed an answering hum, and then he was drifting off to sleep, safe knowing that Olruggio would wake him up again.
[behold, a little bit of '98 pwp for these trying times]
Vash had barely gotten the door closed behind them before Wolfwood’s Punisher clattered against the wall and the man pressed into him with a desperate kiss.
Prosthesis fumbling with the lock, he wrapped an eager hand around Wolfwood’s waist even as his back thumped against the door. That did not stop Wolfwood from leaning in further, digging his nose into Vash’s cheek and deepening the kiss.
A breathy little hum escaped Vash’s lips when Wolfwood bit his lower lip. “Shh,” he muttered between kisses, “there’s no rush.”
Considering the frustrated growl from Wolfwood, he disagreed. With one hand, he fisted the collar of his red coat, and with the other, he grasped his thigh, reaching past the tails of his coat and thumbing the garter belt against his skin.
Vash huffed a laugh. Still, he couldn’t resist grabbing his ass and rolling their hips together with a sharp pull. He delighted in Wolfwood’s surprised gasp and delighted even more when Wolfwood slotted their legs together.
“You’re not even gonna make it to the bed?” Vash panted.
Wolfwood mouthed at his jaw as he thrust into Vash’s thigh. “Stop actin’ like you hate it if you ain’t gonna stop me.”
Mm, fair. Though several layers of clothes separated them, the friction from his own thrust sent blood rushing down to his hardening cock. Hiding his grin in the crick of Wolfwood’s neck, he rolled their hips again, and when he moaned appreciatively, again.
By now, a pleasant warmth churned in his stomach, stretching into his limbs and buzzing in his rapidly-emptying brain. Wolfwood’s lips on his temple, on his cheekbone, so soft in comparison to the harsh rub of fabric against his skin, made him want to dissolve into a cluster of loose particles. Instead, he pulled off Wolfwood’s jacket, and Wolfwood let it fall to the floor without a fuss.
Wolfwood in turn went from thumbing at Vash’s belts to loosening their straps, desperately trying to paw them off. Vash said with a smile, “So what are we trying to accomplish here?”
Wolfwood was undeterred. “Wanna get my mouth on you.”
Even Vash had to admit the idea was tantalizing. Vash pulled his face from Wolfwood’s neck and planted his hand on the top of his head. With a firm push, Wolfwood got the hint and slid down to his knees while he grasped at the back of Vash’s thighs.
Vash couldn’t hide the slight tremble in his hands as he unbuckled his belts and pushed them past his waist. Instead, he told Wolfwood’s smug grin, “Shut up.”
“Didn’t say nothin’.” Vash rolled his eyes.
Wolfwood helped him shimmy the belts the rest of the way down and pull his cock free of his boxers. At the sight of Wolfwood on his knees, watching the rise of his cock with such a hungry look, Vash flushed. Long eyelashes fluttered, and his hooked nose hovered so close to his skin. Dark eyes heavy, he was the most gorgeous man Vash had ever seen.
His knees felt weak, and Wolfwood hadn’t even done anything yet. Wolfwood sent one last knowing look up toward him, and then he pressed a wet kiss to the tip.
Vash gasped. Wolfwood’s warm, callused hand settled around the base of his cock while his lips wrapped around the head, and pleasure seared up his spine. Worst of all, Wolfwood kept his eyes trained upward, watching every twitch on Vash’s face. “Fuck,” he wheezed.
Wolfwood hummed agreeably, and Vash couldn’t hold in the low moan bubbling in his throat when Wolfwood popped off his head to lick a long stripe up the length of him. Without giving him a moment to recover, he sank back down on his cock, sliding past his head and down to his hand in one fluid movement.
The back of Vash’s head thunked against the door still stiff against him. His head tipped, exposing his yet unmarred neck and collar with his eyes turned to the ceiling. Wolfwood swallowed around him, his cock hitting the back of his throat, and Vash latched his hands into his dark hair. When he pulled, Wolfwood moaned, and Vash echoed him.
Then Wolfwood started bobbing, and Vash was truly done for. With every bob, his nose dug into coarse hair, and his hands moved to cup his balls, to wrap around his thighs, to touch every part of him within reach. His pace was unrelenting, delicious in how harsh it was.
“So good,” Vash slurred. “So good for—ah—me.” Wolfwood had finally let his eyes shut in concentration.
His tongue pressed into the underside of him perfectly, and he whimpered at the onslaught of sparks curling his toes. “Hhah.”
Glancing down, he caught Wolfwood’s desperate rutting of his dick, still clothed and untouched, into the air. While Wolfwood hollowed his cheeks, an idea wormed its way into Vash’s brain, so with a smug little grin, he shifted his weight and stretched out a leg so that he could place his heel over Wolfwood’s tented bulge.
His eyes flew open, and he choked on Vash. Even as he pulled off, his throat spasming on his cock made Vash moan. He grinded his heel down; Wolfwood, through the spit and precum dribbling past his lips, moaned.
“Fuck,” Wolfwood coughed. His hips canted up into the next grind of his boot, and his hands clung to Vash’s legs. “Fuck, again.”
“Get back on my dick first.” Vash tried to sound authoritative, but the effect was half-ruined by his own panting.
Still, Wolfwood acquiesced with a nod. Slipping the head into his mouth again, he sucked hard, and Vash’s boot pressed down appreciatively.
His cock sank further down Wolfwood’s throat, and together, they found a rough rhythm. Wolfwood rutted up into the harsh sole while he drooled over his cock with hollowed cheeks. Vash, in turn, whimpered around the wet heat of his throat and encouraged his thrusting with flexes of his ankle.
Quickly, it became apparent that Wolfwood was growing desperate. His slack jaw went ignored in favor of rutting like a dog even through the dry cloth and leather between them, hands wrapped around Vash’s calf, buckles pressing into his palms like a brand.
Worse, Wolfwood’s complete disregard of Vash only made Vash’s cock throb. “Please, please, please,” he pleaded, but not for Wolfwood to do more. No, just looking down at Wolfwood was almost too much. He wanted to watch Wolfwood use him more as his cock stuffed his throat.
He was barreling towards a knife-point with every one of Wolfwood’s thrusts. Vash couldn’t help the shaky moans between each breath, and then Wolfwood was opening those bleary brown eyes, groaning around him before those eyes were rolling skyward as Wolfwood came.
Vash kept pressing his heel against his bulge as he jerked and strained against him. At some point, Wolfwood slipped off of Vash’s cock, and an unbidden whine crawled out of his throat at the shock of cool air.
Finally, Wolfwood stilled and gasped for breath in the crease of Vash’s thigh. “Wolfwood,” Vash cried. Fuck, he was so close.
Just as he was about to grab his cock with his own hands and finish himself off, Wolfwood dragged his head up and pressed a sloppy kiss to his tip. He croaked, “This is what you want?”
God, the wrecked rasp in his voice was almost enough to make Vash come, so he had no chance of lasting when Wolfwood sank down on him again. The warmth of his mouth hand the fleeting touch of his hand on his balls and the sight of Wolfwood coming against his leg all sent him over with a broken moan of Wolfwood.
Pleasure seared up his spine, and of course Wolfwood, the overachiever he was, swallowed him down, drawing out his orgasm with each constricting twist of his throat. Knees weak, he slumped against the door, head titled upward.
When the pleasure flipped into overstimulation, he pushed Wolfwood off. “Goddammit,” he told the old ceiling.
“What?” Vash’s softening dick made a valiant effort at getting hard again when Vash listened to Wolfwood’s rough voice.
Vash tilted his head down to look at him. “We’re never making it to a goddamn bed.”
Wolfwood snorted a laugh, and something embarrassingly fond made Vash smile.
Wolfwood looked up at him with awe for a single moment. While Vash memorized the twist in his lips, Wolfwood shifted at what was undoubtedly becoming a sticky mess in his pants. “If you get me out of these, we can get in bed right now.”
“Ew, I wanna shower first.”
“Not to sleep, dumbass.”
Vash blinked. “Oh.” Despite what they were doing just a moment ago, a blush warmed his face, and he said, “I could be persuaded.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
a new finished fic? from me? more likely than u think ;]]
At first, Noelle didn’t know why she woke up.
She wasn’t startled awake by dreams of ice and slow beating hearts. Her alarm wasn’t blaring, and Asgore wasn’t yet making a ruckus cleaning outside. Her eyes cracked open gently as awareness settled into her chest, and if not for the sable sky hanging beyond her bedroom window, she would have thought she had woken up naturally in the morning.
Her room was as dark as ever. Nothing smelled off, and the house seemed as quiet as usual—
Wait. She sat up from bed.
Was this another lucid dream-adventure? Her ear twitched, for Noelle swore that just on the edge of her hearing was the familiar sound of the piano playing.
Noelle checked the window again just to confirm night hadn’t swept past her when she wasn’t looking. The dim outline of her room hadn’t changed, the air tasted of pine needles like always, and distantly, she could hear the piano playing in the kitchen. It was so nostalgic she could almost believe that she was young again and Dess would be in the next room over.
It had to be Kris. Noelle swung her legs off the bed and stood on weak knees. There was nobody else that used that piano, and she refused to think its music could be her imagination, so as quick as she dared, she pulled stray socks over her hooves to muffle them and crept out of her room, down the stairs, and towards the kitchen door.
The journey down the hallway didn’t betray much. None of the lights were on, Kris hadn’t strewn their things along the floor like they used to, and if Noelle didn’t know better, she would think the house was empty.
Just earlier today, she had sat on the living room couch and struggled to sit still in front of Susie when every instinct screamed at her to follow the music just a wall away.
“Hey, wait,” Noelle hushed, flapping a hand toward Susie while her eyes watched the kitchen door.
Susie paused. “What is it?” Although Susie wasn’t capable of whispering, her raspy attempt warmed Noelle’s face. She followed Noelle’s eyes to the door and asked, “Is Kris playing the piano in there?”
She stood, and Noelle lunged to stop her. “Wait,” she hissed, “don’t go in there!”
“Why not?”
“Oh, um, it’s—it’s nothing. Kris just—doesn’t…like to be interrupted.” Noelle dropped Susie’s hand.
With no shortage of suspicion, Susie said, “Okay…” but she sat back down, and the conversation continued as Kris’s playing filtered through the door. Noelle tried not to focus on how her hand tingled where it had touched Susie.
Just like when she was little, Noelle seized at the thought of Kris knowing she was listening, of halting that haunting melody, nostalgic and painful all in one. She supposed it was the ache for normalcy that stopped her from trying to watch Kris play earlier today. Tonight, however, Susie wasn’t here to draw her attention away, and there was no power outage to drag her away from the living room.
Even with the lights off, she knew the way to the kitchen the creak of the floorboards underneath her hooves. The music, erratic and melancholic, hummed in her ears as Noelle crept closer, and up against the kitchen door, she took a moment to pause, to listen just as she had so many times before.
She hadn’t heard this song in years.
She closed her eyes. The image of Kris fingers flying across the keyboard was practiced in her mind. Did their shoulders shake with emotion? Did their face twitch with something they couldn't name? Were they just like the kid they used to be? Were they just like her?
Her eyes fluttered open when the music paused. Her heart dropped, fearing that she’d already been discovered, but after a moment of shuffling, Kris started a new song, and Noelle relaxed.
What should she do with her hands? She wouldn’t follow Kris into the kitchen, couldn’t risk them stopping, leaving her out of their life again. She watched them hang awkwardly at her side, and then she hugged them to her chest.
The slow melody lulled her to lean against the door, careful not to rattle it. It was a meandering, forlorn song, and it was a song she had known by heart in her childhood, and it was one of Kris’s favorites.
Kris loved that piano so much. Why had they stopped playing?
Eventually, the song came to its trailing end, and Noelle couldn’t help but hope another one would start again. It could be the same one, it could be another song of their’s and Noelle’s childhoods, it could be something else that Noelle had never heard before. It could be anything as long as she could listen to Kris play again, could grasp at honey-sweet days whiled away with hot chocolate and piano music and a happy family and an alive sister—
But Kris didn’t start another song. Noelle listened to chair legs scraping back and feet shuffling closer, and belatedly, she realized they would play no more songs. They were leaving the kitchen entirely, and Noelle was still standing outside the door, obvious in her snooping.
Noelle dived behind the couch, knees burning on the rug, and prayed that Kris wouldn’t have any reason to search the living room before they left. Her hushed breaths echoed in silent room.
Over the pounding of her heart, She heard the kitchen door creak open. She heard heavy, stumbling footsteps, so unlike the soft steps Noelle knew them for, and so unlike the wandering walk they carried at school now. Noelle heard labored breathing, almost like whatever they were doing was straining.
Sure enough, Kris didn’t check the living room. Noelle, from her spot, caught a glimpse of their hunched form falter in the foyer, and then they were gone completely, bringing their music with them.
Noelle stood and watched the door. The house seemed so empty without them. So haunted.
literally this is so far away from where the post-canon vashwood wip [will post link once ao3 is back up] is currently at, but in light of ep 8, i need to show how i've been on the blond/light-haired ww agenda for months now
so ig this is an out of context revival ww whump :]]] enjoy
Wolfwood was in the water.
Wolfwood was in the water.
Vash froze, staring at the tank. His mental barriers slammed down, blocking the plants thoughts from his view. Wolfwood, bare as the day he was born, was floating, unconscious, next to the plant, who cradled him in weak arms. He was hale as a tomas and unmoving as a stillborn one. His hair—blond, now—floated in the tank’s liquid.
And then Vash’s feet were carrying him to the edge of the glass between them. The plant drifted downward with Wolfwood in her arms and presented him to Vash with an prideful expression, like a mother showing off her newborn.
Except Wolfwood wasn’t breathing.
There wasn’t any time to question whether or not this was another hallucination. Hands pressed to the glass, Vash glanced frantically for any way to access the plant tank. He couldn’t destroy the tank without draining the tank and thus endangering the plant’s life, but there was obviously no entrance at the bottom.
A maintenance staircase led to the top of the tank, presumably to monitor the tank. Vash threw himself up the stairs two, three at a time—the metal stairs rattling as he ran—until he stood at the top on a small platform attached to the side of the tank.
His heart was bruising itself against his ribs for how hard it was beating, and all he could think about was how no matter how hard he listened through his enhanced hearing, he couldn’t hear Wolfwood’s heart beat at all.
Somehow his heart managed to drop when he realized there was no discernible entrance from the top either. With hands shaking almost too hard to even grip it, he yanked out his gun, flipped the safety off, sent a panicked sorry to the plant, and shot the tank once, twice, thrice, watching the glass hiss and crack. As liquid started to leak from the tank, his prosthesis punched through the glass, widening the holes and pulling at shards until there was a hole large enough to throw himself through, not caring of the shards that scraped him along the way.
The plant had already risen to meet him, hovering just below the drainage line of the tank. From his thoughts and frantic actions, she grasped that something was wrong, and she readily handed Wolfwood’s limp body over to him.
He was cold to the touch. Just like when Vash had lowered his body into the ground—
But he had the same hooked nose, the same mole under his jaw, the same psyche Vash had drooled over in lighter days, and the same stubble lining his chin, even if it was blond now. Vash had spent years memorizing him in his memories, and it couldn’t be anyone else but his Wolfwood.
Holding Wolfwood in a bridal carry, cradling his head to Vash’s chest, his arms were taken, so he used his legs to propel himself back out of the tank, twisting his body so that Wolfwood was cushioned by Vash when he spat them out of the tank.
While the plant watched on, he prayed for a miracle as he pressed his ear to his lips and his fingers to his throat; he couldn’t hear him breathe, and he couldn’t feel his pulse.
His chest ached with how each breath rattled his chest.
He shifted Wolfwood—ever so gingerly—and lowered him to the metal platform. It’d been years since he’s had to preform CPR. The idea of performing it on someone he knew, he loved—
He didn’t have the time to think.
Hands locked together, he pressed down against his chest, again and again. He kissed air into Wolfwood’s lungs and tried not to think about how long he’d yearned to kiss him in any other circumstance than this.
He did more compressions.
It was strange how his flesh arm and hand had begun to feel like plastic extensions of himself, moving through some control unknown to him and shaking with uncoordination.
It was the third time that Vash breathed air into Wolfwood’s lungs when he jerked, and his pulse kick-started under his trembling hands. Vash didn’t even realize it at first—didn’t dare himself to believe—so he kissed another breath into Wolfwood, and then another, and then Wolfwood was throwing Vash off of him so that he could cough up plant water in brittle, wheezing hacks.
Unthinkingly, Vash tilted Wolfwood on his side, thumping him on the back to expel any remaining liquid and stopping when his wet wheezes became soft pants against the harsh metal of the platform.
He continued to hold him when Wolfwood promptly vomited all over the platform. Vash brushed his hair from his forehead and made sure he didn’t faceplant into his own sick, which was solely bile. He did so as he staved off his own hyperventilation.
Vash supposed it made sense. Wolfwood, who’d been dead for over a decade by now, had been suddenly thrown into a briefly-uninhabited-now-his body with all the care of a sandsteamer. His body was jumpstarting itself, and in the process, several of the systems had to malfunction in order to eventually function. Even now Vash could see how his limbs were twitching—spasming, almost—as his nervous system got a hold of itself.
Finally, Wolfwood opened his eyes, and after a few blinks, his gaze locked onto Vash’s. Vash felt pinned down by that bleary look, only half-aware but here. Alive.
Vash couldn’t handle it if this was just another hallucination. This one was definitely one of his most bizarre ones if it was, but it was more long lasting that any other. He’d lost Wolfwood for the first time on that couch, and then he’d lost him dozens of times again over the years in every place imaginable. He thought this one might just break him.
When Wolfwood opened his mouth, a vague croaking sound escaped his gasping lungs, but no coherent words. Vash lifted them both on jelly-like legs and carried them to the other side of the platform—he didn’t trust himself with stairs.
He had held Wolfwood in a bridal carry, but now he shifted his hand to hold him by his bare waist and held him steady while his legs struggled to hold his own weight like a newborn fawn. One arm kept to hold him steady, he uses his prosthesis—the more stable of the two arms—to unbutton his coat and wrap it around the bare and shivering shoulders of Wolfwood.
Wolfwood’s still staring at him like he’s forgotten something, and Vash is really hoping that the oxygen-deprivation hadn’t led to brain damage. Well, he’s hoping he’s real and alive, but that also.
Distantly, Vash is aware of a high keening noise emanating from him, but he can’t make himself stop. He’s vibrating out of his skin, and the two of them are clinging to each other like those nights that both drank too much and had to lean on each other to stand.
“Vash?” Wolfwood said, and that’s what finally does Vash in because he knows that Wolfwood never says his name.
Suddenly his knees aren’t strong enough to hold him up anymore, so he slides to the ground of the platform, dragging Wolfwood with him.
Tears are welling in his eyes and falling from his face. Vash’s arms had glued him to Wolfwood’s side, and his throat aches with the words clogged by the overwhelming fissure between the halves of his failing heart.
“Vash?” Wolfwood asked again. He sounded so confused, so worried. Vash can hear the subtle panic rising in his voice; Vash had only heard that tone a few times in his life: when Wolfwood saw his wings for the first time; when Wolfwood found him trapped under Legato’s cage; and when they were left sitting on a couch together and Wolfwood had tried to say goodbye to him.
Before, he would’ve given anything to hear Wolfwood’s voice again. Now he doesn’t know if he can take it.
It feels like his organs are rupturing, tearing each other apart through as the monster called grief rears its ugly head.
Vash blubbers something approximately Wolfwood, and Wolfwood raises fatigue-shaking arms to envelope Vash in an awkward semblance of a hug. His touch is hesitant and warm and real, but Wolfwood was never blond, and Wolfwood never called Vash by his name.
Vash won’t be able to take it if this isn’t real.
Eventually, Vash’s head finds its way to the folds of his own jacket, tucked into the crook of Wolfwood’s throat. It feels almost bizarre to be the one comforted right now. He isn’t the one who was ripped from death and slammed back into a body that wasn’t quite his own, so surely he should be the one comforting Wolfwood. And yet here they are.
Vash is all to aware of the desperate squeeze of Wolfwood’s hands on his sides. This can’t not be real. If it is, it will break him, shatter him to pieces on this platform; even god cannot be that cruel.
He still isn’t sure that this revival is a kind act either. For years Vash had been burdened with his grief, and now that he had finally started to let it go, to make an effort to move on, god decided to fuck with him again and throw him headfirst into his grief again.
Vash wheezed, and Wolfwood sputtered in a cough above him.
“Vash.”
He shuddered, a whine scraping past his teeth.
“Vash!” Wolfwood’s voice was weak and raspy, yet it was tearing him apart.
Every shallow wheeze felt like his last; he was suffocating on his own heartache. He can’t take this.
Wolfwood never called him by his name.
And even as he thought it, Wolfwood understood through some power unknown to Vash. He had always seemed to do when he was alive: he spotted the guilt behind his grin, the pain behind his eyes, and the weight on his shoulders when no one else could. Of course he would be the one to clock the inexplicable pain Vash felt when he said his name.
“Tongari, breathe.”
Wolfwood, on the verge of hysteric panic himself, coaxed Vash down from his metaphorical ledge, eased his hyperventilation with the patience of a practiced professional from years of experience helping with traumatized children at the orphanage.
When Vash passed the danger of passing out, he lifted his head from Wolfwood’s throat, and his eyes locked on the blond hair adorned on his head. Hair that used to be black. He couldn’t find a dark strand on him now.
Blond.
He thought of a younger version of himself, who had a full head of blond hair.
He thought of Knives, who had blond hair.
He thought of how naturally blond hair died out after the Fall—when such a large portion of passengers died, it made sense that a few recessive traits would be lost.
But Wolfwood had blond hair now.
He croaked, “Wolfwood?”
Vash felt as Wolfwood shuddered. He could tell from the pinch in his face that he was trying to hold his emotions together, to prolong the inevitable break down until he was alone. And from the twitch in his frown, Wolfwood knew that Vash knew.
Sometimes, Vash had imagined what it would be like if Wolfwood had never died. He’d imagined that Wolfwood would’ve stayed with him until the final fight, and he would’ve gone looking for him after, just like he did years ago. Wolfwood would’ve stayed with him while he recovered, but then the thought grew fuzzy, too vague to fully realize. It seemed impossible to imagine Wolfwood in a world after everything.
“I—” His voice caught in his throat. God, what was he even supposed to say? “I have a house,” Vash finally settled on.
That made Wolfwood’s jaw twitch, mouth flapping for a few seconds, devoid of words. “You?”
“Yeah. It’s a recent thing,” Vash said with a small laugh.
“Okay. Okay.”
Vash tried to haul them up to their feet, but he knees gave out before he could even grasp at the railing behind them. “Dammit.”
Wolfwood sighed, and then coughed again. He kept coughing, hacking so hard he lost his balance and was forced to lean on Vash, who braced one hand on the railing behind them and used the other arm to wrap around his waist. After a heart-stopping half-minute, Wolfwood was able to regain his breath, but he didn’t relent his grip on Vash’s undersuit.
His eyes, which had gained some clarity in the past few minutes, looked bleary again. “What’s with the black hair anyway?” he slurred.
Vash swallowed. “What’s with your blond hair?”
“Touche.”
Vash let his head clank against the railing softly. Even through Vash’s coat, he could tell how Wolfwood’s skin was burning up. Ignoring the part of him that said he shouldn’t be here at all, Vash surmised that this wasn’t the best place for him to recover his undying body.
He shook his legs, disentangling from Wolfwood to press his fingers into them and will feeling back into them. “We shouldn’t spend all night out here.”
In his peripheral, Wolfwood tested his own motor ability. “I don’t think I can do any long walks right now, Tongari.”
“Neither can I. Fuck.”
“Then I guess we’re spending the night here.”
Vash blew harsh air from his nose. “No we aren’t. You vomited literally right there,” he said, gesturing to the sick. It’s stench was beginning to permeate the upper level.
Wolfwood remarked, “Don’t think we got much choice in the matter.” He was fighting against sleep now, eyelids heavy and head nodding.
Vash settled back against the railing, and that was all Wolfwood needed to give up his fight and finally succumb to sleep. His head landed on Vash’s shoulder as his body went limp, but Vash refused to sit here useless when Wolfwood needed medical attention.
It took a few minutes to get his legs back into working order after their run and his complete breakdown. Once he was satisfied, Vash stood on shaky feet and gingerly picked up Wolfwood. With him unconscious, he couldn’t carry him on his back—which would’ve been easiest—and carried him bridal-style, doing his best to support his head.
The staircase seemed twice as long on the way down. By the time he reached the bottom, he had to lean up against the wall, panting for breath. Wolfwood didn’t wake.
In reality, Vash didn’t remember much of the walk back to his house. He remembered how his knees seemed to bounce between his thighs and shins; he remembered how his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat; he remembered the sight of Wolfwood’s face, soft in sleep and the most beautiful Vash laid his eyes on.
His door slammed open with a bang! after he shouldered it open. He remembered tucking Wolfwood into his bed—the only in the house; Milly and Meryl stayed with Miss Melanie when they visited.
He remembered drawing up a chair next to the bed, and then he remembered no more.
