"Hmm?" I look up and smile at him. He doesn't look at me, though.
"You're just a normal guy."
My smile fades. I think this over, and wonder, is he correct? Am I just a normal guy? I look at my left hand intently, palm up. I see an unnecessary machine that keeps pumping bullets when it should have long since stopped fighting. It splits and bends and contorts to fire round after round, with no end and no purpose. It moves with metallic grace that, while serving nothing, tries to make everything flow in that course of machinery. It is my body.
I now look at my right hand intently, palm up. I feel a flash of pain that comes with the searing light it brings. It melts away, merges with a piece of metal that is another part of me. It becomes a savior; it becomes a saint. It becomes the hellish white burning from the depths of fear, opening its mouth to devour life. It is my soul.
Yet my heart and mind seem not to have a place here, so where could they be? I wonder. I wonder, and I think, and while I do, I feel his eyes come upon me, staring with such an intensity that his vision must be permanently glued that way. I don't look at him, though. I look at my open hands, with the palms up, as if in a sign of peace to myself.
And suddenly, he grasps my right hand and holds it, gazing resolutely my skin. No; his sight goes beyond that cover, through it to look at something that lies beneath. Blood running through veins to promote life in me. Then delicately, gently, he unwraps that which camouflages such a scarred work, up to my elbow. I am too confused and speechless by his actions that I don't stop him; I keep wondering. Reverently, he brings my hand to his cheek, holding it there so he may caress and kiss it softly.
Fascinating. I am held in awe of his ways, odd and striking in its random appearance, yet worshipful, sensual for what it is. Yet what is the purpose?
"Within you, there is that awesome, god-like power. Isn't this true?" A rhetorical question, I'm certain, so I do not answer.
"I should be afraid." He takes a deep breath, nose against my palm, and the intake feels funny to me. But I am captivated... I say nothing.
"But I'm not. Because you're different. You don't wield that power like he does."
Like he does? My mouth is dry, all of a sudden. Though I know, I blindly ask, "Who is he?"
And he smiles, gracious in the curves that spread and turn his lips. "Your brother, of course. Knives."
The name repeats itself to me, over and over in my head. Sharp, bitter, cutting through my flesh to the bone and muscle, spilling my blood with a thousand little scratches. A million. Millions.
Knives.
He who haunts me continuously, invading my privacy when I'm not guarding it carefully, creeping into my thoughts like some alien strand of language heard for the first time. A plague that is determined to snuff out all precious life and create a garden for the two of us. An Eden, all to ourselves.
He's such a selfish man. But for balance, I'll be generous and save everyone, even if it means I shall remain scarred for life, and he untainted bodily. For what is life without its stains? Life is not perfectly immaculate, nor should it be, as he would believe.
Now Wolfwood is looking at me again. He says, "Do you know what it's like for a human to be touched by a god? A malevolent and cruel god, no less." He chuckles.
"Well, do you?"
I shake my head, not knowing what to say. What does he know about it, then?
Before I have time to ask this, he says, "It's interesting. You're worked up to such a level of excitement, watching, feeling that power come over you and take control of your mind and body. And you're helpless. And you want to be helpless, so you stay that way. That power will tease you, provoke you to shame yourself into wanting more; but you do want more. You act on instinct, but all you get is laughter. You're held back for a time, slowly agonizing for that taste of heaven you're being denied. Then, hell comes in swift, clockwork motions that build you up to a frenzy. You can't move, yet are being moved, beyond your control, held down. You close your eyes; you say a prayer. But it's never enough, when you're being tortured by such a god."
He sighs, closing his eyes. In a voice I barely hear, he murmurs, "But you wouldn't be like that, would you, Vash." He begins to kiss his way up my arm; I stare, and maybe try to stutter out some words. But my mouth is uncommonly dry right now as I try to think of what to do. Finally I manage to find my voice and speak.
"What do you want from me, Wolfwood?"
He stops everything and lazily watches me with his easy expression.
"What do you think, Vash?"
I shake my head; I'd rather not make any verbal guesses, thank you. He shrugs and lets go of my hand, standing tall and proud.
"I want to be touched by a god again. A merciful god. A loving god."
He pins me with his stare, fires lighting behind his smoky blue eyes.
"You're a god, Vash. And I want you."
He comes forward, sending me retreating into a most convenient wall, and kisses me. Not directly, or rather, mouth-to-mouth, but on my cheek. Then along my jaw. And around my neck, on my neck, under my chin...
Something in me wants to take him for granted, and show him that I'm not the gentle, merciful twin or god I'm made out to be. That something wants to thrust him upon the bed and hold him there, kissing and groping and feeling my way around his body. Finding what spurs him on to greater heights; taking him deeper into his own private world of emotion through my affectionate intervention.
This something scares me, and I want to run away from it. But it urges me to run with it, and I'm scared that I just might.
His mouth at my neck makes my mind wander in such directions. My breath comes out in short gasps now, and I think I may be losing myself to him and his urgings.
If I am not human, then saying "I'm only human" as an excuse for giving in will not apply in this.
But I'm only alive. I'm only a creature with basic needs and desires, like humans. See? I'm not that much different after all.
Knives knows this, I think. Perhaps that's why he's so fearful of all the spiders: because the butterflies aren't all that different from them. Why he wants to kill them. Because in order to survive, the spiders must feed off the butterflies. But sometimes, when they interact...
I am drawn back as he moves up again and holds me captive by my mouth. Such a willful tongue to be engaged with mine. And lips, a little rough from the suns, motioning at gestures or words or something that entices me to speak back. His fingers in my hair work at freeing what stiff, haughty bond I have created for appearances; when this is done, he finds the curves of my ears an alluring detour. Then he breaks and wanders them with tongue and lips and teeth, sending me helplessly down colorful tunnels of thrills. My body shivers with an anticipation I might have only imagined before; it's been much too long, sadly, since I've had the pleasure of feeling like this.
Hands run along my chest as one would polish a blade: with gentle strokes and tugs that work to rid it of the tarnish that conceals the silver. My shirt now unbuttoned, I let it fall off of me and onto the floor; I can't help but wonder if a pattern of lost clothes to the hardwood will continue.
Of course, my own hands roam his body freely, so I have no right to complain. Fingers dance upon his upper body, searching for places to pluck away at that suddenly unnecessary cloth that has come in the way of my exploration. I smooth at his bare chest, when I finally manage to uncover it, marveling through touch at what wonders I may find. Soft skin belying hard muscle underneath makes for an interesting attraction, so I move down (with hands and mouth and eyes) to discover what fascinations are there.
Promptly I notice those twin nubs on either side of his chest, braced with a happiness that begs out for more... so, I caress one with my slightly coarse thumb, and take the other to my lips, though not leaving out my tongue and teeth, for to do that would deny the question of pleasure set before me. And I must answer, now mustn't I.
Before me he gasps for breath, now playing the one to be taken, rather than the one that takes. I imagine he does not mind this reversal of roles at all, considering that he's mussing up my hair pretty well, murmuring words I can't identify, leaning into me, trying to be just a little closer than before. All in all, he's enjoying himself, I'd say.
And I suppose I like it like that.
I go back up and steal a long kiss from him, pushing him away, walking forward; we've become greedy bastards, changed from ones who will go slow to build up that sacred heat, to ones that sacrifice it for our own hungers. I guide him to the bed, so he lays down, and I lay atop him. I move my kisses to his neck, and my fingers begin to slide around the top of his pants.
"God...," he moans. "Oh God..."
I pause, but he seems not to notice yet. "What did you say?" I whisper.
Obviously confused, he says, "Huh?"
I sit up, kneeling between his legs like some devotee getting ready to pray on a temple, his body. "What did you say." It's no longer a question.
His eyes roam me for a moment; he seems to have no qualms in seeing the scars I am often uncomfortable with showing. "I don't get what you're saying, Vash--"
"You said God."
He blinks, frowning, worried. "Okay, so what about it?"
I frown back, cold. "I'm not your God."
He sits up on his elbows, licking lips that are wet and darker than usual. "And what makes you say that...?" Something indiscernable and liquid floats in his eyes as he watches me, waits for me to respond.
"I'm not like him. Like Knives." I brush my fingers against my lips, staring at him. He's lovely to watch, when looking at me while he breathes, chest rising and falling, with that dark air around him. Why did he say those things earlier? I'm not a god. Even if I were, I don't believe I could be anyone's personal god, all to just one person. Save everyone, ignore the individual? Hardly, but sacrifices for the good of everyone have to made sometimes. And as long as it doesn't cost a single life, then okay. Fine. But I'm still not a god.
"And I'm not your god, Wolfwood." I get up and move away from bed, and from him. His eyes try to sear my back, but I don't turn around.
If we were ten thousand iles apart now, in rooms on opposite sides of the world, I think we would still be closer than we are now. He makes no sound, save breathing; I stand alone with thoughts of gods and anger and sex and salvation to batter and crowd my head. He watches me. But he will get no satisfaction in seeing me do nothing.
Do something.
He rises, sheets sliding behind him in whispers louder than whatever thoughts race through him. But - and I think this is important - he sighs, just once, and decides that being close to me and my back are what matters. Chin props on my shoulder, warm like the arms that wrap around me, and I suspect eyes are closed too. His eyes. Dark blue and gray shuttered from what reality he wishes not to witness.
Gods have everything, right? Gods have no needs. But this feels like a need now. Another sign of mortality. I find want for more signs.
"Then be completely and totally different from him, Vash. You don't have to be your brother."
"Aren't I already there?"
"Perhaps. I suppose... this is unlike him too."
"What is?"
"This refusal."
I pause, thinking. I did refuse him, in a way. I just don't want to be made out to be something I'm not. I'm not like my brother, not in those ways.
So I say, "But that's only because I was being compared to him. Stop it."
Now he pauses. I wait.
"Does this mean I'm not really being refused?"
"...I guess so."
A kiss on the neck is all that tells me he's smiling.
"Hmm?"
"I was right. You are just a normal guy."
Now let us be, gods.