White
Cephied Variable
Wolfwood's never presided over a funueral before, but he has prayed to men as they've died. They say even the most bitter athiest believes in something when they're dying, and Wolfwood wonders if it works in reverse; whether the most devoted lose faith as blood spills from their veins, brilliant crimson staining blistering sand.
No one dies without blood on Gunsmoke, and Wolfwood has never bled more than this in his entire life. Vash looks at him with something glistening in those unnatural, turquoise eyes. It's something like horror, something like sorrow, something like the gentle acceptance of inevitability. Livio, Auntie, that bastard (a feeble, broken corpse with a crushed neck, good riddance) and Spikey; children singing songs from his childhood in the distance.
'Everyone's here,' he thinks, and wants to laugh as the world spins and he collapses onto the dusty old couch. Vash tries to smile as they toast each other, but his face contorts painfully and falls eerily blank.
Heaven and Hell, Hell and Heaven; he never quite succeded in becoming a devil, and now here he is sitting beside an angel. No, that's not quite right. A man is a man is a man and can never be anything more, isn't that what they preach at the Eye of Michael? He doesn't rememeber anymore, doesn't care to remember. They say the dying always pray to God, and they say the dying can only remember the important things they've seen and done. Wolfwood may not rememeber the twisted teachings of the Eye of Micheal, but he does rememeber-
1.
Nicholas spreads the book across his lap and Livio looks over his shoulder, wide eyed.
"They forgot to color in the sand." he says, and Nicholas just rolls his eyes and points at the page exasperatedly.
"It's snow, stupid. They had snow on Earth."
Livio crosses his legs and doesn't quite lean on Nicholas' shoulder. His hands wander to the crisp, aging paper and he rudely turns the pages in wonder, "White sand?" he laughs, "Stretching for miles and miles?"
"Frozen water," Nicholas corrects and slaps Livio's hands away, "Don't you know anything?"
Livio frowns and stares at the book longingly, "Frozen water, huh?" he sighs and lays back on the hardwood floor, "I can't believe that."
"Well, it's true."
"How do you know? You've never seen it."
Nicholas pauses and raises his eyes, tone softening for once as his bangs fall in his face, "It's like God. You don't need to see it to believe in it."
And Livio just looks at him curiously from under a fringe of messy, blonde hair.
2.
The sky is white stretching from horizon to horizon. Nicholas clenches his suitcase tight and the color drains out of his knuckles.
He can still hear the other children calling after him. "Brother Nicholas, brother Nicholas." they chant and he wishes they wouldn't treat him like some sort of a hero. He's not doing anything extraordinary really (and if he's honest, he doesn't really know where the tall man with the white hair is taking him anyways); he's just doing what needs to be done.
Like Auntie Melanie says, that's how he's always been.
3.
The pain is white hot and searing where the bullet hits him. He falls and scrambles across the cold, metal floor, small hands groping from the gun holster. A foot pins his arm to the ground and all around him is white noise. He presses his eyes shut and only sees colors inverse- everything in the wrong place and it hurts so much.
"And that's why human are imperfect." and here comes the inevitable comparison to God. A human is not a God, but Knives is a God and that's why you will be molded to do his bidding.
Nicholas tries to block the voice out; makes fists, fingernails digging little white circles into his palms.
4.
Black, then red, then black again. This is a pattern Wolfwood knows by heart these days; bullets tear through his skin as if his flesh is paper thin. He inhales sharply and hits the wall hard, laughing as Vash tumbles from his arms, half naked and still unconcious.
'Oh Nicholas, you've done it this time.' it's like a litany and he can hardly move his arms. There's vials in his breast pocket; little glass jars of life. Sometimes he wonders if it's worth it to carry them, but this time he's doing it for Spikey's sake. He prays to God like he's a believer, but he's no fool. He'd never admit it, but those prayers are for something else; something far too human for it's own good.
Black, then red, then black. Blood and unconciousness. His eyes roll back and the Punisher is skidding across the ground, useless, as Master Chapel's voice echoes in his ears. He has the audacity to sound betrayed, to speak about God and this all strikes Wolfwood as hypocritical and ridiculous. Dimly, he can remember the days he believed those words for all he was worth.
Livio stands and stares impassively as the world goes black. His hair is white now, like snow; like the sky the day Wolfwood left the orphanage.
-------------------------
Vash's wings are white too, but not in blinding brilliance or the color of purity. There are textures and layers and things that make it complicated; not white, but not anything else either, really. And yet, everything.
Or something.
And well, that's Spikey for you.
5.
Wolfwood cracks open the bottle and tries to gather his thoughts. There are a lot of things he wants to say, but instead he just mutters: "Smile, Spikey, smile.".
The edges of his vision turn white and he tries to knock back the shot. White was for Heaven, red was for hell and black was for the oblivion in between. Catholic priests believed in limbo, he rememebers, but Protestants were always more lenient in the end. All of it just blends together on Gunsmoke; melts and molds in unnatural ways, like sand fused into glass across the desert.
'Nicholas, Nicholas' and everyone is calling him 'Nicholas'. Even Vash called him Nicholas ("I always like it better when you smile,") and the name finally rings those funueral bells in the back of his head. You are Nicholas, they chime, and here you are at the beginning and end of all things (the church steeple of the orphanage rising before him). When you meet your maker, you won't go as Wolfwood the Chapel.
Which is probably a little more than he deserves.
"Don't say stupid things." Vash mutters and the words are sharp, like a knife cutting through all the static. Wolfwood blinks and looks up at the sky, blue as it's always been, dotted by white spirling towards the ground on a crazy, madcap descent. The image is startling and oddly familiar. Beside him, Vash begins to cry but all Wolfwood can see are pictures of old storybooks.
"Livio," he wants to say, "Hey crybaby Livio- look, I told ya', moron. It's snowing."
Of course it's only paper, but as the bottle slips from his fingers, Wolfwood decides he doesn't really care.
end.