Here, [ vash is uncomfortably close again, like he doesn't quite know what the acceptable boundaries are; like he has a hard time choosing between two extremes. he always seem to be veering from one to the other like swinging pendulum - or more like a wrecking ball, to be precise, with the distance of his swing only increasing the damage at a later point. their shoulders are almost brushing together - before vash is shifting, side stepping halfway behind the other's shoulder to cut off the gust of wind that swings around the van. the tiny myriad of tinkling sand hitting the metal frame almost sounds like rain, if such a thing ever existed as a concept on this arid planet.
they've been driving all day - the next town is still iles away, too far to see still beyond the horizon - and they've pitched camp for the night to let the engine have a chance to cool down. there is nothing here but sand and the stars that peek through the windworn holes blasted through the rocks overhead, some hundreds of years ago. the air is full of noise like whistling, like the rustling of wings, whenever the air passes through at just the right pitch to have the rocks singing.
before wolfwood could ask. or retort - or do anything else, really, vash is reaching around, pressing something into his hand - almost fumbling with the motion and pulling back as though he is afraid of the repercussions. it's a pack of smokes - his usual brand, even - and not even crumpled with how carefully he must have been keeping it this whole time. ]
Just - Anyway! You might be out before we could get to the next town! So!
[ his hands flutter in front of him, as though he thinks he could physically push the words out, or else pull them back, let the rambling disappear into the ether, before vash just resorts to his usual tactics; an awkward, trailing laugh. ]
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(almost but not quite;)
they've been driving all day - the next town is still iles away, too far to see still beyond the horizon - and they've pitched camp for the night to let the engine have a chance to cool down. there is nothing here but sand and the stars that peek through the windworn holes blasted through the rocks overhead, some hundreds of years ago. the air is full of noise like whistling, like the rustling of wings, whenever the air passes through at just the right pitch to have the rocks singing.
before wolfwood could ask. or retort - or do anything else, really, vash is reaching around, pressing something into his hand - almost fumbling with the motion and pulling back as though he is afraid of the repercussions. it's a pack of smokes - his usual brand, even - and not even crumpled with how carefully he must have been keeping it this whole time. ]
Just - Anyway! You might be out before we could get to the next town! So!
[ his hands flutter in front of him, as though he thinks he could physically push the words out, or else pull them back, let the rambling disappear into the ether, before vash just resorts to his usual tactics; an awkward, trailing laugh. ]