Chapter Text
Rosa is naturally furious with them over the entire incident for all of a single evening. Once she realizes that her son has inadvertently gained the attention of some kind of trickster entity in exchange for her pastries, she relaxes. Just a little bit. It helps that Zazie finds her baking more than adequate and, naturally, they become a somewhat regular presence in the bakery whenever Wolfwood finds his way into town.
“We were promised all we could eat,” they’d explained around a rather large macaron the first time Wolfwood had entered the bakery to find them listening to Tonis’ excited chatter. “We can eat a lot.”
If Tonis or Rosa bear any ill will for their part in Luca’s disappearance, they don’t really show it. If anything, they seem pretty alright with letting bygones be bygones in exchange for the favor of a Fae. And Zazie seems benevolent for now.
Really, all the Fae that reside in Saverem seem to be on their best behavior in the days as Midsummer Eve draws nearer and nearer. Or perhaps they’ve always been benevolent and amicable to those in town. Either way, the townspeople are taking no chances.
“Intent matters. Especially when Mages make these charms,” Vash explains, and bottles some rosemary, tossing in a few geraniums for good measure. The threads of Magic from both men are invisible, but Wolfwood can still feel them twining around the kitchen and amongst the completed bottles. Briefly, he pauses and looks around at the piles of flowers and needles and the single open bottle of wine on the kitchen table as Vash continues the lecture. “If you make a charm to ward off evil Faeries, then only the Fées that mean harm will be warded off. But if you make it with the intent of warding off every Fae out there…”
“Then the good ones won’t be able to visit and deliver their blessings,” Wolfwood finishes and stoppers another Witch Bottle, blinking against the dull ache in his temples. His small pile of finished talismans is growing rather steadily and Wolfwood can’t help but wonder how exactly these things were supposed to protect against ill-meaning Hadas. Briefly, he conjures up the image of vines rushing forward, only to bounce off an invisible barrier surrounding the bottles.
He has the feeling that isn’t how it works at all, but he still tries to put the sentiment into the Witch Bottle in his hands, feeling one of the threads wrap around it. Protection from evil, protection from evil, keep out the bad, let the good in and all that…
Unaware that his brother has been cast as the villain in Wolfwood’s imaginings, Vash replies with a cheery “Exactly” before sealing the bottle and reaching for the next one without any hesitation. They’ve only been at this for an hour, but Wolfwood’s head already feels heavy and his fingers ache as he reaches for another empty bottle. He’s been careful not to get pricked by any of the needles, and he’s gotten used to the motion of filling and funneling and corking and repeating it again. So why—
Black spots dance across his vision as he reaches for a sprig of rosemary, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision. “Maybe you should take a break…” He blinks again and finds Vash looking at him from across the table, genuine concern written across his face.
“Let me finish this one up.” Wolfwood shakes his head and grabs the rosemary. He insistently forces it into the empty bottle before reaching for the wine, hoping his fingers don’t shake with exhaustion.
“One more.” Vash sighs. “But after that, you really need to rest.” Wolfwood makes it through another bottle as promised before leaning back against the chair, face turned towards the ceiling.
“I don’t get it,” he mumbles and rubs a hand over his eyes. “All we’re doing is filling bottles…”
“And infusing them, so it still counts as spellwork,” Vash replies, mood apparently a bit brighter now that Wolfwood is taking a breather. He’s not wrong; Wolfwood is vaguely aware that about half the threads of Magic winding through the air have dissipated. It hadn’t even felt like he’d been casting, nothing like creating the spruce talisman or constructing messenger birds out of paper. But apparently, that’s what they were doing. “It would be a lot easier if you hadn’t let Livio go out for the day.” Vash’s admonishment is gentle, without a hint of scorn, and Wolfwood can’t help but crane his neck to send a glare his way.
“Meryl went with him and you’re hardly breaking a sweat.”
“Everything produces magical energy, even if they aren’t aware of it.”
“I remember.” Wolfwood sighs, turning his head back to the ceiling for a bit.
“And Mages are people who can either borrow that energy from Faeries or use what they produce to manipulate the world around them. If you don’t borrow from a Fée, you use what you produce. But if you use too much at once, it wears you down.” Wolfwood nods absently as Vash’s lecture washes over him. It makes sense, like trying to sprint for an hour straight, but he can’t help but feel like an idiot for not having figured it out himself. With another sigh, he cranes his head again to glance at Vash across the table. He’s still filling and stoppering bottles, almost like a well-oiled machine with no signs of wearing down.
Wait a minute…
“How come you’re hardly breaking a sweat?” Vash shrugs and gives a small laugh.
“Easy; Nai and I produce more magical energy than most—” He falters a bit, barely half a second as the green glove tightens briefly around the bottle, but Wolfwood can hear the silence at the end of the sentence hanging between them for what feels like hours.
Than most what, Vash? Most others? Most Mages? Most humans?
Vash gives a brief cough and the moment passes. He continues on with his work, as though nothing had happened. “Basically, we have larger pools to draw from, so to speak…”
“Well, aren’t you lucky,” Wolfwood grumbles and can’t help but feel jealous as he looks back at the ceiling.
“I don’t know if I’d say that…”
For all the excitement and preparations leading up to the day in question, the morning of Midsummer Eve comes with little fanfare. Waking before the sun is a habit still long ingrained in Wolfwood, even on holidays and as per usual, he finds himself heading towards the kitchen, thoughts of cracked eggs and roasting vegetables filling his head. Maybe he could start looking into something else for breakfast. Pancakes shouldn’t be too hard. Jamón Serrano might be a bit too expensive, and difficult to find in these parts, but bacon should be acceptable…
He’s a little too late. Meryl is already standing at the stove, surrounded by steaming pots and knives and cutting boards. Three plates of eggs are laid out on the kitchen table along with one plate of smoked salmon. The Matagot’s plate is on the counter and she’s already eating from it, purring once and a while. Other than the sheer amount of food already cooking, it doesn’t feel much different than a normal morning in the house. He’d thought there would be more excitement in the air, like his vague memories of different holidays. Christmas Morning, La Semana Santa… Then again, he’s not exactly a little kid anymore.
“Happy Litha.” He yawns and takes a seat at the kitchen table. Deciding that she’s at a good stopping point, Meryl turns around, and Wolfwood can see the dark circles under her eyes. Just how long has she been up?
“Happy Midsummer Eve…” she mumbles and sits in front of the smoked salmon, slowly taking a bite.
Livio and Vash make their way into the kitchen shortly afterwards, both yawning even though Vash tries to talk their ears off about the day’s festivities throughout breakfast. Wolfwood just nods and carries the empty dishes over to the sink when the food is done. He even throws a few cutting boards and bowls in when he starts to wash up. Meryl’s probably been up for a while now. She deserves a break.
By the time the dishes are cleaned and the four of them are somewhat presentable, it’s almost noon and Meryl is practically chomping at the bit to go into town already, assuring them that the food on the stove is meant to cook slowly. Vash still holds her up as he pauses to hang a wreath woven from thin branches on the front door.
“Good old Holly King’s probably too busy to stop by our little neck of the woods, but it’s better to honor him anyway.” Wolfwood just nods in agreement. They hadn’t quite gotten around to the idea of the “Good old Holly King” yet. With the wreath secure, Vash turns back to Wolfwood and Livio. “Sure you don’t want to come?” he asks, and his smile turns a little more downcast. Ignoring the near hangdog look, Livio shakes his head as Wolfwood replies.
“Yeah, we’re sure.” Well, he’s sure about himself, but Livio hadn’t really raised any objections to staying behind. “You two have fun.” Both Meryl and Vash look as though they’re caught between insisting they come and just outright marching Wolfwood into town regardless of his protests. But the moment passes, and with a wave and promises to return with only the best of what Savarem had to offer, Vash and Meryl are off, laden down with their entire stock of Witch Bottles.
“Don’t just spend all day studying or cleaning, ok?” Vash calls over his shoulder. “It’s a holiday!” And with one more wave, they crest the slight hill and disappear down the path. Wolfwood is left on the front step, brows furrowed in apprehension, and it takes a moment for him to recognize that it’s not coming from his own mind.
Beside him, Livio is staring down the road in the direction Vash and Meryl have disappeared in. His face is drawn in… not quite anxiety. Wolfwood can’t help but liken it to a dog looking out the window at a sunny yard. Longing, perhaps?
“You wanna go into town, don’t you.” Livio gives a quick jolt next to him, then steels his face into a mask of indifference.
“No, not really…” It’s not very effective when Wolfwood can practically hear him wondering about the town’s festival in his brain. Vash had practically been building the whole affair up for weeks. So, with a sigh, Wolfwood gives his brother a pat on the back that almost forces him off the steps.
“I’ll be fine on my own for a bit. Go ahead.”
“You sure?”
He gives Livio another small push to get him down the steps, letting a little bit of irritation bleed through. Did he really think Wolfwood couldn’t be trusted alone? “If you hurry you can still catch up with them.”
Livio stumbles just a little, but still gives a lighthearted laugh. He doesn’t rejoin Wolfwood. “I’ll see you when we get back.”
“See you.” Wolfwood waves his brother off and remains standing just outside the door even after Livio is gone from sight. There isn’t much to do in the house, what with Vash declaring a holiday from chores and studying for the day. So instead, he just leans against the wall, closing his eyes while the warm sun beats down on his face. All around, the forest is full of signs of life, from insects and birds crying out in the trees, to the leaves rustling in the warm breeze, to the subtle whispers and laughter of the Hadas living in the woods.
Maybe it’s got something to do with the holiday, some sort of magic about the time of Litha or Midsummer Eve or whatever you wanted to call it, or maybe it’s because he actually has a moment to himself, but Wolfwood can’t quite remember a time when he’d felt so utterly at peace, when all felt right with the world.
Of course, the stillness and peace of the moment is ruined just a little bit when he feels something twining around his legs.
It appears The Matagot has decided to join him. Not that he can blame her with the pleasant weather. Wolfwood reaches down, scratching her behind the ears like she’s just a normal black cat. She leans against his fingers, purring briefly, before shoving her entire body against the back of his legs. For a moment, he thinks that it’s just a cat thing, a way of claiming her territory or something like that. But then The Matagot does it again and with enough force that Wolfwood finds himself taking an involuntary step forward.
“So, you want the house to yourself, eh, Cat?” The Matagot looks up at him with wide green eyes before baring her teeth at him in an honest to goodness grin. “And after I gave you extra breakfast this morning. How dare you kick me out.” The remark earns a playful swipe at his ankles that he dodges by backing up, closer to the path. “Alright, alright. I get the picture…” The Matagot gives him another grinning meow and as Wolfwood turns around, he can hear the bushes behind him rustling as he starts heading into town. Hopefully The Matagot won’t let their food burn…
The shade of the trees on the path helps alleviate the worst of the midday heat and Wolfwood does his best to distract himself by listening to the noises of the woods all around him. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll just be able to hang around the town limits without getting too involved in the festivities. It isn’t like he’s anti-social or anything. It’s just…
Whenever he imagines what a festival in Saverem might look like, he imagines the crowded, overwhelming market of Gordes, the noisy bus stop in Avignon, the busy station in Oviedo, the storeroom and theater in Fondrique—
Wolfwood shakes his head and resists the temptation to slap himself for being such an idiot.
He can hear the town before he can see it. And before then, he can smell it. The sound of laughter, music and celebration filters down the path to mingle with the plethora of scents wafting through the air: sugary sweets, florals, roasting meat and nuts mixing with the tang of alcohol in a way that blends charmingly together and draws him closer and closer to town. Glancing downwards, he can see several Lutins tottering down the path, pausing to give him a friendly greeting before scampering into the streets. Nearing the main thoroughfare, he can see tents and covered stalls lining the crowded streets while what looks like the entire town mills about, chatting, laughing, and simply having a grand old time.
He’s just about to turn around and call it a day, cat be damned, when a flash of red catches his eye the second before it barrels towards him, all smiles and grins. Wolfwood can’t help but notice that he’s wearing a damn flower crown.
“Hey!” Vash hurries up to him before he can get away, a warm smile curling on his face. “You decided to stop by after all!” With an uncomfortable cough, Wolfwood draws himself up and folds his arms.
“If I’m gonna be a Mage, might as well celebrate your holidays, right?” He can deal with Vash thinking he’s a fickle son of a bitch who changes his mind on a dime. He cannot deal with him or anyone else knowing that the Matagot had given him the boot.
Thankfully, Vash doesn’t question what made him change his mind or what kicked him out of the house for a day. He just reaches out, waiting for Wolfwood to take his hand before he hauls them off into the streets.
It appears almost everything catches his eye as they weave through the crowd: the kids running and shrieking joyfully through the streets, their parents laughing and chatting merrily with neighbors; the food, sweet pastries and stews and drinks laid out on display with their makers offering samples to anyone who passes by; the amount of flowers and wreaths hanging on doors and woven into intricate crowns; the tiny houses modeled after logs and mushrooms and leaves nestled by the doors to a few of the shops. Occasionally, Wolfwood will catch sight of one or two Lutins ducking in and out and around ankles to pause by one of the tiny houses. Wolfwood’s French may not be fluent just yet, but he thinks he can hear some of them complimenting and critiquing the craftsmanship in equal measure. One in particular is glowing with pride as he shows off a two-story house carved out of a tree stump, much to the chagrin of the other gnome-like Fae gathered around.
They find Milly and Meryl outside Rosa’s bakery, laughing at something a very human-looking Zazie told them. Livio’s standing off to the side, munching on another cruller when he spots Vash dragging Wolfwood along and alerts the girls to their presence and Wolfwood realizes…
He and Livio share memories.
Livio tells the girls that Wolfwood has been kicked out of the house by The Matagot before he can even say anything, earning a chorus of laughs as Wolfwood vainly tries to stick to his original story.
It’s… nice. In a way.
At some point while walking through the streets, the flower crown on Vash’s head switches to Milly’s with barely anyone noticing as she proudly explains how Rosa is teaching her to make proper crullers. Livio winds up finding a wide-brimmed hat somewhere and refuses to take it off for the rest of the day. When he’s not looking, Wolfwood slips a wreath of soft pink, blue, and purple flowers around the band. It does make him look more festive and Vash can’t resist commenting as such as he hands out the Witch Bottles to whoever asks for one. Meryl spots Roberto while getting drinks and Milly manages to convince him to stop by the house later with promises of a bonfire, more good food, and good company. He only agrees when the promise of good drinks is brought up.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of smiling faces, warm food, and sweet mead and wine. It’s not entirely unpleasant, as most blurred afternoons tend to be. It’s just so easy to lose himself in the smell of stews and sugar, the sound of music in the air accompanied by bubbling laughter, the flowing of drinks, the heady rush as he’s pulled from place to place without any resistance. The good mood and high spirits of the townsfolk prove to be infections, and Wolfwood can’t find a single shred of anxiety as the day goes on and on and on.
It’s nothing like Gordes. Nothing like Oviedo or Fondrique. Wolfwood finds that, more often than not, there’s a lightness in his chest and an almost-smile on his face during their wandering.
He’s not quite sure why though.
It might be the fact that he actually knows his way around the town at this point, even with more than half of its inhabitants turned out into the streets. It could be the fact that he came here (mostly) of his own accord. Or maybe it’s because Livio’s enjoying himself immensely and the damn Familiar pact means that it’s contagious.
It could be the fact that the people in town seem to know him at this point (given how often he comes down for groceries, mail, or by virtue of Vash simply bragging about having an extended guest at his house) and seem genuinely happy to see him, seem to enjoy his company when he makes some successful attempts to engage them in conversation.
It could be the fact that he’s surrounded by familiar people at this point: Livio, Milly, Meryl, Vash. People who, despite Wolfwood desperately trying to convince himself otherwise, probably see him as some sort of… friend?
That’ll just make it all the worse, won’t it?
He tries not to enjoy himself right up until mid-afternoon, when Meryl shoos them down the path back to the house. She’s fussing over preparations and bonfires and how she needs the run of the kitchen. He tries not to enjoy himself as he and Meryl and Livio and Vash bid Milly and Roberto goodbye, promising to see them later that evening. He tries not to enjoy himself on the walk back, with Vash and Livio going over the festival’s events while Meryl goes over meal plans, and he attempts to remind himself that these people are not his friends, not his friends, they are not his friends…
The feeling of guilt still crawls down his throat and stays there the whole walk back.
As it turns out, Meryl’s plans for the meal involve a lot of homegrown fruit and more than a few stews and pies. Rather than request any sort of help in the kitchen, she kicks the men out, leaving them to try and relocate what seemed like every table inside the house outdoors to the front garden. It’s an arduous task to be sure, but they manage with only two crises. First, Vash loses track of his feet and steps on The Matagot’s tail, sending her yowling into the bushes. Then, Livio manages to scrape the wood of the sitting room table on the doorframe and promptly dissolves into a flurry of apologies. By the time he and Vash manage to calm him down and get the table onto the grass, the sun is beginning to sink lower in the sky as Meryl brings out plate after plate heaped with food.
Honey cakes, a platter full of cheeses and grapes and nuts and other fruits and vegetables Wolfwood was certain they had growing in the greenhouse, loaves of bread crusted with herbs and nuts, a steaming pot pie similar to what he’d been served that first night (only this one isn’t burnt or cold in any way), an odd-looking shellfish stew steaming in a pot…
“You’ve outdone yourself,” he mutters while eyeing the spread. Meryl looks on, tired but utterly triumphant.
“The Fae usually bring food too. Like a potluck,” she replies. “Normally, it’s just the Mages who make offerings, but given that Vash is, well…” Meryl trails off and eyes Vash. Once the tables had been properly arranged, he’d busied himself with the stone nestled in the geranium bed, adorning it with the red flowers, orange and yellow and green candles, even an assortment of sunflowers and oak leaves. The entire arrangement is topped off with a bouquet of red geraniums, set with another tender, somehow sad smile. That had been minutes ago. Now, he’s rapidly speaking French into the birdbath…
Oddly enough, it’s not the strangest thing Wolfwood’s seen him do.
“They want to stay on his good side.” He finishes the thought, recalling the sight of black feathers, the stench of rotting vines, and claws against the wood of the bedroom wall.
“Something like that,” Meryl confirms as Livio brings out a basket laden with bread from the town. Honestly, Wolfwood kind of wishes he’d been allowed in the kitchen. Turrón is usually for Christmas, but the Trasgu back in Esperanza had stolen bits and pieces off plates whenever Melanie made some. So maybe next year, he could—
Next year?
Wolfwood gives a brief shake and heads inside to see if there’s anything else that needs to come out.
Not like I need to plan for “next year” after all.
It’s tempting to stay in for most of the night afterwards. But Milly shows up with some fresh pastries and a beaming smile and Roberto, giving a respectful nod before they’re both called away to heap firewood into a large pile for the bonfire later in the evening. Not long after, they start arriving. Hadas, Fées, Fae—whatever they were called—all begin to filter into the clearing around the house and soon enough, the tables are laden with food and drink as the guests begin to congregate: gnome-like Lutins, ghostly white Dames Blanches, an entire flock of wheeling Ariels, flickering wisps of green light that Wolfwood almost mistakes for fireflies, men and women who look as though they were crafted from the moss and earth and trees themselves. Wolfwood can see several black dogs and rats and foxes that The Matagot bounds towards with a yowl of greeting. Half a second later, he’s accosted by several familiar Fire Sprites hauling several bottles between them.
“Hey! Hey! It’s Mr. Apprentice!”
“Mr. Apprentice!”
“You’re not gonna burn our food tonight, are you?” he asks, and the Sprites are sent into a fit of mischievous giggles. sh*t. He’s gone and put the idea in their heads now. “Don’t even think about it.”
They chortle again and perch on his shoulder, leaning forward to speak right in his ear. “Word is you have a familiar now.” Briefly, Wolfwood wonders where they would have heard the news, but then he remembers a certain someone in the Schwarzwald saying that Sprites are notorious gossips. And it seemed that gossip could cross international borders when it came to Hadas.
“Oh, you mean Livio,” he replies, and glances over to where his brother is perusing the table, practically overflowing with food. The Sprites follow his gaze, their smiles turning impish, and Wolfwood realizes that Livio has never gotten a proper introduction to these creatures. “Why don’t you go say hello?”
They need no other invitation, immediately whizzing off in Livio’s direction to whirl around his head. Wolfwood can practically hear their high questions and greetings as Livio tries to duck away from them in shock. It’s getting harder and harder to keep the smile off his face.
Livio, meet the Fire Sprites.
You’re the worst!
The Sprites, for all their mischief, ultimately leave Livio alone after accosting him for a few minutes, and he gets away without any burns. He’s still sore at Wolfwood as the crowd begins to gather and congregate around the large pile of kindling. Vash lights the candles on the geranium stone, giving the final arrangement a sad smile before moving onto the woodpile. Meryl is standing amongst the crowd, chatting animatedly with Milly, and Wolfwood wonders if there are any sermons or speeches for this occasion, something about how Litha is a time for gratitude, for appreciating blessings and all that. Instead, he merely gestures to the Fire Sprites and they flit onto his shoulders.
“You’ll behave this time, right?” he mutters to them, and Wolfwood can hear them cackle with unrestrained glee. Vash’s smile falls a bit, and he looks over his shoulder, right at…
Well sh*t. He’s looking right at Wolfwood. “Help me out here?” Vash implores and gestures for Wolfwood to stand by his side.
“With what?” he asks, but steps forward anyway. Without a word, Livio joins him, looking just as confused.
“Just make sure they don’t go too overboard and burn down the forest.” For the life of him, Wolfwood can’t figure out how he’s supposed to accomplish that. To him, it seemed as though Meryl ought to take care of any fire control, given that she was a selkie and all… But it’s to him that Vash looks, eyes imploring almost desperate. “Please?”
With a sigh, Wolfwood looks to Livio. His brother shrugs nonchalantly and replies, “We need practice…” Wolfwood sighs yet again. He’s been outvoted. Besides, the Sprites are mischievous and unruly, but he can’t really see them burning down an entire forest for the sake of a prank. What’s the worst that could happen?
You know that very well…
Banishing images of an inferno overtaking and consuming the surrounding woods, Wolfwood stands next to Vash, shoulder to shoulder with Livio on his other side. The Mage gives him a small smile as he draws his wand. Whether he’s trying to reassure Wolfwood or himself is still a mystery. That’s all he offers before raising the wand, breathing deeply and nodding towards the Sprites. Both of them sit on the tip of the wand as an unnatural hush overtakes the clearing. There are no speeches, no sermons, just Vash and his voice raised in an incantation.
“Allumez-le avec votre cœr de flame. Allumez-le en cette nuit d’émerveillement. Enflammez les couleurs du soleil d’été sur les champs et les arbres...”
At his words, the Sprites seem to grow in size. Heat radiates outward from them, searing and burning the very air around them as firelight flickers off the excited faces of the guests and the trees and grass. And then Vash flicks his wand towards the kindling and they’re off, landing right on the pile, which bursts into flames that tower up and up until Wolfwood is certain they’re touching the stars. Bright peals of laughter are heard through the clearing as the flames whirl in a manic dance. It appears they’re not limited to the confines of the kindling pile as several tongues of flame shoot outwards and above the heads of everyone gathered there.
There’s no time to focus on what he can’t do as another tongue of flame almost singes the hair off the top of his head. Instead, he simply focuses and extends his awareness towards the raging bonfire. The spell parts, lets him in. It shouldn’t be this easy to interfere with another Mage’s spellwork, but tonight, Vash’s Magic is open, practically welcoming, and it isn’t long until Wolfwood can feel the blaze surround him, engulf him, and he manages to shake off the instinctual panic at the sensation. Vash is still standing by his side, Livio’s hand is on his shoulder, and he tries to tap into that bond, tries to recall what sort of Magic comes naturally to his little brother.
He’s a Xanino. A Hada meant to imitate humans…
Transformation, change, shifting…
The flames roar around him and Wolfwood tries to re-envision them into a new shape, a new form. Instead of a raging, uncontrolled inferno, he pictures the warm heat and crackle of the intended bonfire. Not a force for destruction and annihilation, burning everything and leaving nothing, but a flame of celebration, joy, festivity, still as bright and as scorching as a forest fire. Briefly, he can feel a tug as the Sprites push against the vision, stubborn and uncontainable. He doesn’t blame them. It’s the nature of fire to be unruly and untamable, and he’s reminded of small children tearing through the halls, heedless of the world and others around them. Vaguely, Wolfwood recalls a brief lecture over rosemary and geraniums and Witch Bottles. Intent matters.
Intent.
His intent is not to dim these flames, not trying to lessen their splendor in any way and he lets that feeling fill him, lets the Sprites feel it. He’s just trying to—
And then he speaks, voice stern amidst the roar of flames.
”Ey. Comportarse. Ahora es el momento de selebrar. No destruccion…”
It’s not quite an incantation, more like an admonishment from a stern caretaker. And he’s not even sure if the Sprites understand a word of what he’s saying. But his intent gets through clearly, and as the flames whirl around him one more time, he can see an impish face in the blaze, tongue sticking out at him.
“Spoilsport!”
And then the column of flame spirals above the kindling to collide as sparks shoot into the sky and ignite and bloom in a series of bursts and pops. The embers are sent streaking earthward, burning out before they hit the ground in a way not unlike shooting stars. In front of him, the bonfire roars just as loud as before while more imitation stars fall and dance in the air around them. Several impressed cheers go up from the guests as fast, joyous music begins playing from somewhere in the clearing, and when Wolfwood remembers to look around, Livio is watching the display in awe while Vash is outright beaming at him.
The celebration kicks into high gear almost immediately afterwards. He receives several congratulations from the guests, praise for how quickly he’s managed to master Magic (he doesn’t feel like he’s mastered anything), and Meryl even compliments his progress with a grin before she’s pulled into a dance by Milly and a few of the Dames Blanches. It’s somewhat uncomfortable to be applauded by so many strangers at once, and he’s sure he can hear Vash and Livio building him up to anyone who will listen. But he can be gracious, and accepts their compliments with a short “thank you” each time before managing to slip away. Eventually, Wolfwood finds himself leaning against the wall of the house with a cigarette smoking between his fingers and content to watch the others dance and wheel around the bonfire. The music picks up speed into something wild and freeing, and he can’t help but chuckle as he notices a pink-cheeked Milly swinging Meryl around wildly.
“That was quite the lightshow, Mr. Sorcerer’s apprentice.” Wolfwood blinks and turns his head just as Roberto sidles up next to him with a cup of rich, dark liquid in one hand and an odd piece of fruit in the other.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking in a lungful of smoke and staring at whatever’s in Roberto’s cup. The fruity scent of the liquid is powerful, even over the smoke and Wolfwood can’t help but wonder if it tastes as sweet as it smells. “That any good?” Roberto answers by bringing it to his lips, tilting his head back and practically moaning as he drinks.
“Faerie Wine,” he replies after a long sip. “You should probably stick to the human stuff for now.” The brief conversation pauses as Roberto brings the fruit to his lips and bites into it, and Wolfwood remembers something rather important. That’s not one of the fruits Meryl had put out earlier. In fact, he hasn’t seen anything like it growing in the greenhouse, which could only mean—
“Aren’t you cursed or something if you eat Faerie Food?”
Roberto shrugs and takes another bite. “Only if you eat it on their turf,” he replies and drinks again. “Tonight, it’s completely safe.”
“Right,” Wolfwood mutters doubtfully, still eyeing the fruit as Roberto finishes it off.
They don’t speak for a minute or two, simply content to watch the other revelers. Eventually, Roberto finishes his fruit, chucking the core into the flowerbed beneath the windows before he starts slowly working on his wine as Wolfwood takes another drag on his cigarette. And another.
“You doing alright, Sorcerer’s Apprentice?” Roberto asks out of nowhere and Wolfwood blinks at him for a moment.
“Just fine.”
“Good to hear.” A pause for Roberto to take another drink as his eyes roam the crowd. “You know, you still haven’t told me what brought you to Saverem in the first place. What was that you said? One million euros?” Yes. He had said something like that back when he’d first met the other man, but he hadn’t felt like going into details. Still doesn’t, but the man has forged paperwork and passports for him on short notice so he could cross country borders in a mad dash with almost no questions asked.
“He picked me up at an auction house in Fondrique,” Wolfwood answers, and Roberto nearly chokes on his wine before thinking better of wasting the drink.
“For a million euros?” He coughs and it sounds like he’s more surprised at the amount he’d been brought for rather than the fact that he’d been brought at all.
“What can I say? I’m just that valuable.” Wolfwood shrugs, tries to sound nonchalant and unconcerned as the other man goes quiet. Throughout their handful of interactions, Roberto hadn’t exactly struck him as “kind” or “nice” or the type of man who would go out of his way to help others without a damn good reason. But he doesn’t pry into what Wolfwood was doing at Fondrique in the first place, hadn’t asked why he’d needed to go to Spain as soon as humanly possible. Just accepts it and silently ponders his own conclusions.
It's kind of awkward, so Wolfwood gives into the urge to turn the question back on Roberto. “What brought you here?” The man pauses, takes another drink and nods towards the crowd.
“She did.” At first, Wolfwood thinks he’s gesturing towards Milly, still spinning Meryl around the fire. Then the two break apart and he can see Roberto’s gaze shift to follow the shorter woman as she stumbles to the table of food.
“I got a job from some business mogul back in Dublin whose wife had apparently run off with some blond idiot.” He pauses again, letting Wolfwood absorb the information as his mind is ultimately set reeling.
His wife—
Meryl’s—
“She’s married?” Ordinarily, the obvious shock in his voice would have been enough to send anyone into a fit of giggles. Instead, Roberto’s face turns grave as his eyes cloud over with anger.
“You’ve never heard of selkie brides, have you?” Wolfwood shakes his head. “If a Selkie gets their pelt stolen, they’re bound by marriage to whoever took it. Whether they like it or not…” He trails off again, saying nothing, allowing the obvious conclusion to present itself.
A wayward wife who had run off with a blond idiot.
And the fact that Vash had known a Familiar Pact would nullify any other contract…
“Oh…” Wolfwood breathes out and looks back at Meryl, pouring herself a cup of fairy wine and laughing uproariously while Milly tries to dance with a few Lutins. He can’t quite reconcile the mental image Roberto had implied with the flushed grinning face of the woman today. But she’s here in front of them, pelt claimed by none other than herself and constantly tied securely around her waist as it’s always been since the first day Wolfwood showed up on the doorstep.
It’s… In a way, it’s almost heartening.
Next to him, Roberto drains the last of his wine in one final gulp, coughing slightly as he lowers the cup. “Bah! Look at me, ruining the mood.” It hadn’t been ruined, but Roberto’s clapping him on the back and walking back to the food table before Wolfwood can say anything further. “It’s Litha or whatever. Go celebrate, why don’t you! And don’t touch the faerie wine!” And with that, Roberto plants himself next to the table, grinning at Meryl and reaching for more of the wine. Unwilling to throw the remains of his cigarette into the flowerbed, Wolfwood takes a deep breath and crumples it in his palm, wincing as the barely lit end burns into his palm.
He’s felt worse.
Despite Roberto’s assurances, Wolfwood doesn’t intend to go anywhere near the faerie food and resolves to stick with Meryl’s cooking and the pastries Milly and Roberto had brought with them. Half the fruit platters are gone by the time he gets to the table, there’s already several portions missing from the pie, and the pot of seafood stew is halfway empty. Taking a deep breath, allowing the scents to roll around his nostrils for a bit, Wolfwood reaches out and hefts some of the pot pie onto a plate and takes a bite before he can second-guess himself. The rich gravy swirls across his palate, mingling with juicy chunks of beef, savory vegetables and flaky crust…
It had been good, even after the Fire Sprites had burnt it to a crisp. But now, the pot pie tastes like heaven. Wolfwood’s so lost in the flavors that he almost misses the gloved hand that scoops some onto another plate. At least, until the person it’s attached to speaks up.
“Good?” Vash is slightly flushed, pink with excitement and the infectious energy of the celebration. He’s still smiling and Wolfwood has to remind himself to swallow before replying.
“Much better when it’s not burnt to a crisp.”
Vash lets out a bellowing laugh at that and leans against the table, just a little bit closer. “I told you so!” He takes a bite of his own pie, practically moans in pleasure at the taste before turning to Wolfwood. For a second, it looks like he’s going to ask a question, make another statement, say something. But before he can get a word out, a pale, slender arm wraps around Wolfwood’s shoulder and he feels a breathy laugh right next to his ear that sends goosebumps pebbling all over his skin.
“Celui-ci est plutôt mignon!” The Dame Blanche giggles, leaning further onto him. It almost seems like she’s drunk. Wolfwood isn’t even sure if Hadas can get drunk in the first place. Either way, the woman’s cheeks remain pale as she looks at Vash and smiles. “Tu as bon gout, Bouscalade!” Wolfwood has no idea what she’s saying, but it’s enough to make Vash’s cheeks pinken even further as he lets out another strained laugh.
“Oui. C’est un très bon homme!”
“Pouvons-nous l’inviter à une danse? Ou allez-vous devenir jaloux?” The Dame Blanche hangs off Wolfwood, throwing a pouty glance towards Vash who shrugs, pausing a moment before replying, still in French.
“Vous devriez lui demander.” It seems to be a cue. Keeping her hands on his shoulders, the Dame Blanche floats herself around to position herself between him and Vash, her eyes bright as she smiles at Wolfwood and bats her eyelashes at him.
“Voudirez-vous danser avec moi?” She’s asking him a question, he’s sure of it. But he really wishes he knew what the hell they were saying.
“Uh…” He hesitates, glances over her shoulder to where Vash is standing, still eating the pie. “What’s she—”
“She wants to ask you to dance.” At that, the Dame Blanche smiles wider and begins to float towards the bonfire, hands trailing down his arms as she tries to tug Wolfwood closer towards the bonfire.
“Won’t I get stuck dancing until I die or something?”
Vash laughs, filling a cup with wine.
“Not for tonight you won’t!” he crows and raises the full glass towards Wolfwood in a toast as the Dame Blanche tugs on him. All he needed to do was pull his arm in the other direction to yank it out of her grip. She’s smiling at him, full of mirth and joy, and there’s not a shred of predatory instinct or hidden motivation anywhere. Maybe it’s the music that kicks up into a spirited tempo as more and more of the guests congregate and whirl together in a dance. Maybe it’s the firelight that casts a warm glow around the entire clearing as the Sprites send an occasional shower of shooting stars across the sky. Or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Litha and everyone around seems to be in high spirits, full of wine and food and a positive energy that’s nearly infectious.
The Dame Blanche gives him another gentle tug, and he follows.
Despite his earlier nerves, his sad attempts at dancing do not put anyone off, nor do they pay him any particular mind. Wolfwood manages to keep up fairly admirably with the wild and twining steps of the other dancers, spinning around and managing not to step on the Dame Blanche’s toes. Of course, the fact that she’s floating above the ground helps immensely. There’s a shift in the music, a wordless cue and the Dame spins away, falling into step with one of the tree-like men while Wolfwood tries not to trip all over a dwarf who only comes up to his knees. There doesn’t seem to be any set of organized or official steps to the dance, something that Wolfwood’s honestly grateful for as it continues. It’s a lot harder for onlookers to tell that he’s just flailing around if the whole thing is just a giant free-for-all.
As the clearing descends into a whirl of trees and grass and flame and stars and music and dancers, Wolfwood is faintly reminded of Vash’s main method of travel. Almost instinctively, his feet flow from partner to partner around the bonfire as his heart leaps in time with the melody. Even while wheeling and whirling around the roaring fire, he manages to pick out several images from the blur around him.
Milly pulls Meryl into the crowd for another dance, both their faces flushed and split into a pair of wide grins. Another Dame Blanche pulls Roberto into the fray of dancers, giggling at him as he stumbles through the steps in his attempt to keep up. The Matagot leaps and twines among the dancing legs, accompanied by a svelte black fox. Livio pours glass after glass of faerie wine, passing them to Vash as he watches the bonfire, eyes not leaving Wolfwood even as his face flushes darker and darker with each drink passed his way. He manages to catch Wolfwood’s eye and raises his glass in a cheery wave, smiling widely.
The same smile can be found on the faces of the other dancers, their laughter bubbling forth and filling the air all around. Even when he stumbles, steps on toes, bumps into another, the incidents are brushed off with a wave and a laugh and the dance continues. Each partner that finds his way to him greets him the same way, eyes wide open, smiling and reaching out to him, almost like—
It’s like—
Oh.
It’s like they’re happy to welcome him into the fold.
Oh…
He’s a stranger to these customs, and he has no idea what the hell he’s doing, and they’re just happy that he’s trying to take part, and Wolfwood is—
Oh God, no…
A wave of nausea rises as the Dame Blanche takes his hands again and his feet root themselves to the ground. She pauses, tilts her head curiously as he stops dancing and just stands there, breathing heavily, trying to swallow down the bile in his throat…
“Need a break,” he explains and pulls his hand back, turning around and walking away from the dancers, away from the fire and the festivities and the house until he’s right at the edge of the clearing.
He should keep going.
It would be easy. Just a few steps forward and the forest will swallow him whole, never to be seen or heard from again. He’d wander the woods, live as a wild man. Or maybe Zazie’s insects would devour him, or he’d find his way back to Fondrique’s. He could do it. He should do it. Maybe if he were a better person, he’d take those last few steps and disappear without a second thought, and he’d eventually forget how it felt to live in the town, the house, with cooked meals and a bed and blue eyes and warm smiles and—
“Hey!” Out of nowhere arm slings its way across his shoulder and sweet-scented breath blows across his cheeks. “Y’all good?”
Wolfwood staggers to the side as Vash leans what feels like his entire weight against him. It takes him a while to collect himself, to swallow down his unease and anxiety to find the right words. “Needed a rest,” he replies and glances at Vash. His cheeks are flushed dark and he wobbles slightly, even as he’s leaning on Wolfwood, and he can practically smell the alcohol on his breath. “Are you drunk?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. Vash’s wobbly smile widens as he holds up a cup in his other hand, sloshing the liquid around.
“Faerie wine!” he declares, still centimeters away from Wolfwood’s ear. “Gift from Nai, good old brother o’ mine.”
“The same brother who tried to kill me.”
“No nononononono! He wouldn’ta killed you!” Vash insists and drops his cup to grab Wolfwood’s shoulders with both hands. He blinks for a moment, takes in Wolfwood’s doubtful expression, thinks over what he just said. “…I mean… he probably woulda. But he didn’t!” The mood swings are a bit much, and Wolfwood wonders just how much he’s had to drink to wind up like this.
“Right.” He sighs and pulls out of Vash’s grip to sink down on the cool grass. He’s not going anywhere for now. Barely a second later, Vash sits down next to him in an uncoordinated drop that has him leaning into Wolfwood once more, sending his skin prickling ever so slightly. Apparently, Vash is one of those giggly drunks with no sense of personal space. A winning combination right there. They sit there, shoulder to shoulder and just as Wolfwood’s getting a bit more comfortable—
“Hey… Hey, Wolfwood.”
“What?” he snaps and turns around, expecting to find Vash’s normal grin turned unsteady with wine. Instead, his mouth is pulled into a frown, and Wolfwood thinks he can see tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Before he can even ask what’s wrong, Vash sniffles a little bit and the tears spill over and down his ruddy cheeks.
“I’m sorry!” Vash outright wails and flails long limbs in a drunken attempt to wrap them around Wolfwood. He jerks backwards in surprise as Vash keeps trying to cling to him. Alright, so he’s not a giggly drunk with no sense of personal space; he’s a clingy, weepy drunk with no sense of personal space. Vainly, Wolfwood brings a hand up and presses it against Vash’s face, momentarily halting his advance and giving Wolfwood a moment to question what the hell the other is even talking about.
“What are you—”
“The other day! With th’ pasta!” Vash moans and Wolfwood has to think. Pasta? What pasta? “I was jus’ joking! Didn’t meanta upset you.”
Oh…
”Well, when everyone wants to know who ruined dinner tonight, I’ll be sure to direct their complaints your way.”
In the excitement with Zazie and the hunt through the woods, Wolfwood had honestly forgotten all about the previous comment. It appears as though Vash had forgotten as well, at least until the warm buzz of alcohol had gone and dredged it up.
“It’s fine,” Wolfwood mumbles. And really, it was fine. Wolfwood had just overreacted to an off-color joke that had been made in the heat of banter with no real weight behind it. He knows Vash hadn’t really meant anything by it. Besides, even if it had been a joke, it wasn’t like Vash had been wrong in that statement…
Sighing, Wolfwood runs a hand through his hair and tries to figure out how to explain all that to a drunk man. He doesn’t get very far before Vash’s hands flash out and grab fistfuls of his shirt. There are still a few tears hanging in the corners of his eyes, but his brows are furrowed into an honest to goodness glare as his grip on Wolfwood tightens.
“You! Always! Say! That!” Each syllable is punctuated with a shake and Wolfwood tries to focus as his brain is rattled in his skull. “It ain’t fine! I hurt y’r feelin’s and I feel terrible and I’m really, really sorry I even said it!”
Giddy, weepy, and now angry… It seems Vash is determined to run the entire gamut of drunken moods. Either he’s always like this whenever he gets absolutely smashed, or it’s got something to do with the obscene amounts of faerie wine Vash has already consumed.
Wolfwood’s money is on the faerie wine.
“You’re drunk. Just relax.” He sighs and moves his hands onto Vash’s shoulders to gently push him down to the grass. If he’s really hammered, he’ll probably be easier to deal with laying down. Vash offers no resistance further than a slight grumble and some half-hearted arm flailing. “And it’s really fine. You were joking, yeah?” Vash mumbles again and turns on his side towards Wolfwood.
“I just…” The drunken anger slides off his face as he scoots a bit closer to Wolfwood. Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes again, but he doesn’t wail or carry on like before. “I didn’t wanna hurt you, y’know?”
“You didn’t,” Wolfwood answers and starts patting around his pockets. If Vash is going to start crying over something he’s not even angry about, he’s going to need a smoke. A drink of his own would be preferable, but if Vash is wasted after a few cups of the stuff, Wolfwood doesn’t want to know what it’ll do to his own brain. He can’t find any smokes in his pockets and before he can double check, Vash’s flailing catches his attention. He’s reaching out a hand and patting the ground as though searching for something until it eventually lands on Wolfwood’s folded knee. Immediately, he stills and goes just a little bit limp while mumbling something into the grass and Wolfwood leans forward to catch the tail end of it.
It’s almost enough to make him wish he hadn’t.
“…been hurt enough,” Vash groans, shifting closer, turning slightly so that their eyes meet. “S’like it hasn’ hit you yet. Like y’haven’t figured out tha’ yer hurtin’…”
His grip on Wolfwood’s leg tightens, almost as though he’s trying to gain some sense of comfort from the feeling of the other under his fingers. Or maybe he’s trying to offer that same feeling of security to Wolfwood in the best way he can. Either way, Wolfwood goes absolutely still as he tries to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say to that.
“I’m not—” Denial rises on his tongue, almost instinctively at this point before he stops himself, eyes glancing down at his wrists.
Even now, it’s not hard to remember how they looked bound in front of him.
Even now, he can still remember the feeling of the hot spotlights on his skin as voices called out numbers.
When had he gotten that used to it?
“I’m not…” He tries again, rejection trailing off as his mind turns, almost unbidden, to dark rooms and tables and being carved open and experimented on again and again and again.
When had he gotten used to it all?
He tries again, breathes in to deny Vash’s claim even further, but the breath doesn’t seem to reach down into his lungs. So he remains silent, eyes fixed on the dark forest ahead, and the overwhelming urge to just go rears its head again. He can feel the muscles in his legs tighten in response, barely a second away from gathering beneath him, prepared to sprint into the forest and away from the House and from Savarem and from—
Vash’s hand is still on his knee, grip relaxed a little so that it’s just resting there, but he can feel the cool weight of it through the denim of his jeans. It stays there as Wolfwood’s breathing begins to even out, as his body begins to relax, as the sounds of the bonfire and the lively music and the party begin to come back, grounding him to the present.
Vash’s hand doesn’t leave.
“You haven’t hurt me.” He says it out loud, not to Vash. Not on purpose, at least. It’s more like he’s coming to realize it for himself. One of the first things he’d learned about Vash was that he could likely turn him inside out if he’d wanted and Wolfwood would have no way of stopping him or saving himself. Wolfwood can still remember the time he’d been expecting to wake up strapped to an examination table. But…
For all his expectations and reminders to himself that he was owned and little more than property to be treated however Vash wished-
Had Vash ever once tried to hurt him on purpose?
He can’t think of any time in particular.
Next to him, Vash smiles, still wobbly and drunken, still keeping the hand on his leg, and Wolfwood has the vague realization that his skin hasn’t been sent crawling at the contact. A few more moments of silence pass between them as the music begins to slow to something not quite as frenetic and wild as before. All the while, the firelight continues to flicker and writhe against the trees as Wolfwood leans back slightly, tipping his head skyward to breathe in the cool night air.
“Hey… Wolfwood?”
“Hmm?” Tilting his head down, he finds that Vash is also staring at the stars above them, a shaky grin right back where it belongs.
“I’m really happy y’know. That’cha stayed’n all.” Vash gives a small laugh that sounds nervous for some reason. “Was worried you’d go right back to Fondr- Fa- Fonduru-“ As the name slides off Vash’s wine-laden tongue over and over again, Wolfwood looks back to the sky, breathing deeply as guilt curls phantom hands around his throat once more.
“Don’t speak too soon,” he mutters. There’s an offended huff from Vash and when he looks down again, Wolfwood finds him sitting up to lean on his hands, an outraged frown replacing his earlier smile.
“I’m not! ‘M really glad you wanted ta stick ‘round!” he yells, still glowering at Wolfwood. It doesn’t last for very long, and shortly after, he’s back to grinning. “And you’ve come s’far too! I mean, y‘couldn’t even break a thread when ya started out and lookit ya now! Zazie, your pro- proto, pr’tection charms are better’n mine for cryin’ out loud! And tha’ fire!” Vash’s grin widens impossibly as he gestures back to the blaze on their front lawn. “I know Xanio- Xananni-“ The smile falters a bit as his voice stumbles yet again and he turns to Wolfwood imploringly. “How’dya say it?”
“Xanino.”
“Tha’s it! They’re best fr transf’rmation spells’n all, ‘n Livio’s great at tha stuff too, but lotsa Mages don’t even think to use it like that!” And then Vash freezes, a look of cold realization coming over his face. By the time Wolfwood thinks to ask what’s wrong, Vash is grabbing his shoulders yet again, managing to sound both serious and excited at the same exact time. “We gotta get’chu a wand.”
Wolfwood blinks. And blinks again. It’s a large step, if he’s heard correctly—something that signifies one as a true Mage. And Vash is suggesting he get one while drunk on Midsummer Eve. “A wand?” he asks, and Vash nods, releasing his shoulders to throw his hands up into the air.
“A wand!” he exclaims, almost breathless, as though it’s the most exciting idea he’s had all night, and falls back onto the grass, arms still outstretched. “Athame’re good f’r trainin’ but y’need a real wand! Oak’r holly’d be nice, ‘r maybe—” Just like that, Vash freezes again as something occurs to him, and his eyes dart back to Wolfwood’s eagerly . “We— we c’n getchu one of Nai’s alders!”
Wolfwood replies with a chuckle. “I don’t think he’d like that very much.” He still remembers his first meeting with the Million Knives, as well as the other’s apparent disdain for humans in general. The idea that he’d let someone take one of his trees to make a wand, and an alder tree from the Lord of the Alders at that… Vash must be plastered out of his mind to even think it’s a good idea. He’s persistent though, shaking his head and jabbing a green-gloved finger in Wolfwood’s direction.
“We’re gettin’ ya a genuine Hara-hahar-hus alder!” It’s that tiny moment, the fact that Vash continues on as though he hadn’t stumbled over his words—the fact that he’s convinced his brother will let him take wood from a sacred grove just so his (property? pet? apprentice?) can have a proper wand; the fact that he’s drunk off his ass to begin with; the music filling the air around him and the glow of the fire illuminating the trees in front of them—that has Wolfwood throwing his head back, bellowing with laughter. There’s no way to tell how much time he actually spends laughing himself to tears, but eventually, he calms down enough to reply.
“Maybe we’ll talk to him once you’ve sobered up.” Wolfwood wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling at the absurdity of it all when he glances at Vash. It’s back. The tender smile. “What’s with the look?” he asks, and Vash shrugs, nonchalant and completely unconcerned with anything that isn’t Wolfwood at the moment.
“Wolfwood?”
“Hmm?” He leans back onto his hands a bit. Given their earlier conversation, he’s half expecting Vash to launch into a lecture about wand-building or what wood might be best for him or-
“Are— are you happy here?”
…
Am I—
“Half th’ time, y’always look like y’re two steps away fr’m boltin’ or runnin’ away…” The tender smile is gone now, replaced by a gentle scrutiny as Vash studies Wolfwood’s face carefully. He must catch Wolfwood’s hesitation because he instantly smacks the smile back onto his face, strained and an obvious ploy to put Wolfwood at ease. “Hey, hey, s’fine! If y’ wanna leave ‘r live someplace, that’s…”
And Wolfwood can actually see the confusion overtake Vash’s features, halting his platitudes and reassurances and for the first time that night, Vash looks utterly unsure of what he wants to say.
Wolfwood can relate.
“That’s…” Vash mumbles again, pauses, looks even more dazed and addled as he turns onto his side.
“That’s s’posed to be fine…” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. “I’m s’posed to be fine withit ‘f y’wanna leave… but, I just, I don’---” With a soft whimper at the thought, Vash turns onto his side and reaches out, fingers catching on the hem of Wolfwood’s shirt and gripping it gently. The music, the light of the fire, the sound and presence of the guests all fall away and the only thing Wolfwood can see is Vash, cheeks still flushed and looking at him imploringly like a child seeking out comfort and stability in the face of their own confusion.
Except Wolfwood has none to offer.
I…
Don’t…
“Wolfwood?”
I’m—
Don’t say it.
“Are you happy here?”
Don’t even think it.
He tries to tell himself that he’s not. This place is not good for him, he does not enjoy learning Magic, he is not thankful that his brother is back by his side and that they’re both alive, and he is not happy here.
Meryl, Milly, Roberto, Livio, The Matagot, the guests that were happy to dance with him—these people and these things are not his friends and he does not want to be among them for another second, and Vash is not someone he trusts with his entire being and he is not happy here.
All empty thoughts that he can’t seem to bring himself to say out loud, even as the guilt returns and crawls down his throat and into his stomach, infinitely worse than anything he’s felt before.
He’s not happy here. All he has to do is say it out loud.
He’s not happy here.
He’s not happy…
He’s—
I’m not…
…
I’m—
“I—”
That’s as far as he gets before the iron knife plunges through the back of his neck.
