"You're drunk," said Wolfwood.

                "Um," said Vash the Stampede, and flopped forward onto the bed. "Yesh, yesh, I quite c-con…conch…con…yesh, I am."

                Wolfwood was disgusted with the situation. There was no good reason for him not to be just as shit-faced as Vash was except that he'd been dumb enough to worry and stay up waiting, half-expecting to have to charge out with his Punisher and haul Vash's ass out of trouble, an activity for which he was better off sober. Vash might stagger around in a tanked stupor and somehow always get out with his skin, but Wolfwood wasn't that out of control just yet.

                "Keep it…cooomin' love, keep it…cooomin' love, don't stop it now, don't stop it, no…"

                Vash was singing. Wolfwood winced.

                But he stopped almost as soon as he started, just as Wolfwood was wondering exactly what that strange, very energetic song was, and when he looked again, Vash was curled on his side, his back to Wolfwood, his face to the wall. His knees were half-tucked, his arms folded against his chest, and his hair was a wild, floppy mess.

                Wolfwood had never associated vulnerability with the Humanoid Typhoon, but there it was.

                "I hate kissing," said Vash, suddenly. Wolfwood jumped. Vash's voice was flat, dead, without…without anything.

                "Funny, I wouldn't have thought you'd had enough experience to know that, Needle Noggin'," said Wolfwood, and tried a small laugh. It died right on his lips.

                Vash didn't say anything for a moment, and then, still with his back turned, "Was your first kiss nice, Wolfwood?"

                The words were sad, wistful, kind of ache that dug at Wolfwood's kidneys. "It was all right."

                He could tell by the way the line of Vash's jaw moved that he was smiling. "Good," said Vash, quiet, sounding for all the world as if he were so relieved and grateful that Wolfwood, at least, had had a nice first kiss.

                It made Wolfwood angry.

                Three steps and he was standing next to Vash's bed. His hands found Vash's collar, pulled at it, yanked the man up off the covers. Vash's eyes were translucent blue-green, and Wolfwood could see nothing in them. It made him angrier.

                "Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself," growled Wolfwood, and leaned down, his mouth to Vash's—

                And Vash hit him.

                Wolfwood almost missed it. A fist, not the metal one, flew up, gave him a freaking love tap on the chin, and sent him reeling. He snarled around a split lip and looked up to see Vash sitting there, staring at him out of those nothing-eyes.

                "Don't do that, Wolfwood," said Vash, not even a hint of the earlier slur or the more recent languor, and slumped back down.

                Wolfwood couldn't decide if he was furious or humiliated. "Just a thought," he spat through clenched teeth bared in a semi-smile, and turned away.

                His hand was on the knob of the door when Vash said, "Everyone who kisses me dies."

                Wolfwood couldn't help the snort. "Excuse me?"

                "They die," continued Vash. He was pulling off his red coat, scratching at his hair. Once again, his back was to Wolfwood. "Anyone who kisses me…he always kills them."

                Wolfwood's brain was screaming something at him. "I don't understand what you're saying," he said, as nonchalantly as he knew how. "You've got a stalker?"

                Vash flicked his eyes at Wolfwood and for the first time in their acquaintance it was a plain in his face what Vash the Stampede was thinking.

                Wolfwood felt like the biggest asshole in the world.

                "It's just that you shouldn't, that's all," said Vash, with a muted note of finality. In just his leathers, he stretched himself out on his bed and pulled a pillow over his face.

                Reaching up, Wolfwood flicked off the light.

                In the dark, moving carefully, he picked his way to stand beside Vash's bed. Leaning over it, he pulled the shutters on the single window shut, sliding the hook into place. Silver gleamed at the edges.

                He sat down. Vash's hip was pressing against his. Taking a deep breath, Wolfwood grabbed the pillow and yanked it out of Vash's hands.

                In the dark, Vash's eyes were silver.

                "Everyone should have a nice one," said Wolfwood, "even if it is second or third."

                In the dark, his mouth found Vash's.

                Vash jerked as if shot and Wolfwood pretended not to notice.

                He tasted blood and whiskey.

                He tasted tears.

                He tasted…

                Vash moved, and the kiss broke into a jumble of saliva and tongues and teeth. Wolfwood caught Vash's wrists, struggled up on top of the bed and the man, fighting with the long-limbed, half-struggling body to find a comfortable position as he licked and bit and mouthed along sweet skin back toward that mouth.

                "Please, please, Knives, don't," whispered Vash, and Wolfwood pretended not to hear.

END

Author's Note

What can I say? I'm apparently a pervert. I watched the series, became completely fixated on the relationship between Knives and Vash, and then wrote this. Does it count as chan if both participants are (thought of as) children? I think I need to shower.