A/N: Writer’s block still wants to show its ugly, dilapidated head, so do the author a favor, and pardon the crap-assness of this chapter. I have college my first college class tonight, and I’m a bit nervous. Not to mention my head feels like its constipated; all bloated and fat and ready to explode, ‘cause I can’t write.
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Disclaimers: Based upon the facts that I do not live in Japan, my name is not Yasuhiro Nightow, and I began collecting the anime well after the time that it was made, we can all deduce that I do not own Trigun.

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Somewhere in time, there is a circle.
Somewhere in time, the circle will be complete.
Somewhere in time, love is forever.

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Somewhere around me, there is a light. I cannot fully discern the source of this light. It’s more like an envelopment that becomes me, and who I am. It comes from the inside out. Imagine that… a backwards light. Is it possible for light to travel backwards? If so, would the light swallow its own trail of itself, and become nothing more than darkness, having never existed?

I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.

The light that has become myself fades slightly, and I open my eyes, squinting uncontrollably at the darkness that suddenly encompasses my surroundings, like someone has placed a blindfold over my eyes. The darkness, though, permeates my body, making my heart painfully ache with its utter nothingness, and it suddenly feels as if my body and soul are gone from themselves, perhaps separated from one another by the pull of whatever lies to the extent my current location.

Am I dead?

No. I’m breathing. Dead people don’t breathe, and besides, I still have my body. Looking down, I realize that I am still fully intact, though it is definitely a former manner of myself. The clothes I had been wearing, the black slacks and vest and navy blue shirt, are gone, and I find myself wearing my red coat, and the black underclothes that had always accompanied it. I reach a lone hand up to my head, where a dull pain is emanating, and find that my long blonde hair is no more. The tresses have shortened themselves, and are spiked up into the air. The scent around me is familiar. I can taste the dust of the dry desert air. When I close my eyes, and open them once again, the darkness is gone, and a familiar setting surrounds me. It is a scene of a barren region, with nothing more than the brightness of the sun to greet me.

Either I have fallen back in time, or this is a delusion. Considering that I do not believe time travel is possible, at least in the most relevant of terms, I can deduce that I must be dreaming. I close my eyes to the harsh sunlight that reflects off of the sand all around me, and when I open them again, I am confident that I am dreaming. Nicholas is in front of me, smiling one of his crooked grins, an equally crooked cigarette settled comfortably between his lips. One of his hands moves slowly, and the motion causes a blurred trail of itself to follow behind, as if time itself has slowed. The hand reaches forward, towards my face, and I can do nothing more than sigh into its expected touch, imagining the slightly roughened, calloused flesh brushing against my own. The hand stops suddenly, the palm of it open towards my face, and a beam of light so bright that it is nearly harsh on my pupils shoots forth from it.

I reach out, trying desperately to hold Nicholas’ body together as it dissipates in the light like some sort of perverted oil floating upon the ripples of a body of water. My hands come back empty, and when I close my eyes and then open them again, everything is gone but a light, blinding and yellow, in front of me.

No, wait, it’s not in front of me. The light is above me, but still in front of me. If above is in front, then below must be behind. Left is still left and right is still right, so I must be lying down.

I take a moment to gather my senses, to try and discern just where I am, who I am, and what I am doing in such a strange place. Momentarily, I feel as if I am nothing and everything all at once. It is a very strange, unnerving feeling. Somehow, I feel as if my body has been taken apart, piece-by-piece, and then put back together in some sort of odd, jumbled unorganized lump. I blink slowly, and, as if that simple action has granted me my sense of self, and I remember everything that has occurred.

Finally noting my surroundings, I realize that I am in a hospital bed. There is a faint antiseptic aura to the room that I taste and smell when I breathe. I’m naked too, feeling totally exposed, even though no one is in the room, and I’m covered with a blanket. I close my eyes once more, blocking out the light above for a moment and savoring the darkness that it grants me. A pain is identified, pinpointed in my upper left thigh, and it begins to fade away just as quickly as it had arrived, if it ever did arrive. When I open my eyes, the light is still there, blinding me. I stare at it.

Finally, deciding that I have much more important things to do than to lie in a hospital bed staring at a light on the ceiling, I sit up, the flimsy blanket falling off of my chest to puddle around my waist. Everything is too familiar about this place, and I almost expect Wolfwood to be hovering at the foot of my bed, and then carelessly toss my silver gun onto the cover enveloping my lap. I take a moment to look around. My clothes are on a table adjacent to the cot-like bed I’m occupying, the shirt, pants, and vest folded crisply and stacked in a pile, my gun resting at the height of the mass.

I remove the blanket from around my legs and tilt my head slightly, studying the bindings that are tightly wrapped around my thigh. There is only the slightest hint of blood seeping through the bandage. Considering that it does not hurt, and doesn’t seem to have bled too much, I am confused as to why I would have lost consciousness. It feels as if I have been asleep for days. However, judging by the position of the suns in the sky, I am almost certain that I have been cataleptic for no more than thirty minutes.

The only thing I can really bring my mind to comprehend is one simple, dull-witted fact: This sucks.

Having come to this startling conclusion, I turn my naked body around and settle my feet onto the floor at the side of my bed, earning me a faint plodding sound that resonates in the undersized, nearly bare room. I reach over to the small table beside me and retrieve my pants carefully, attempting to keep the other pieces of clothing and the gun from falling. Unfortunately, my head is pounding and I feel dizzy, so the gun falls off the stack and onto the floor, where it fires a lone shot towards the ceiling, causing some of the wood to splinter and flake to the floorboards. I mentally cringe at the sound it makes, and cover my head with my pants as some of the wood flutters down around me. That stupid gun is really going to raise the costs of my hospital visit.

As I sit there with my pants covering my head, staring at the pieces of ceiling that are now at my feet, the door opposite me opens suddenly, and I reflexively attempt to conceal as much of my body as possible with the clothing in my hands. Nicholai stares at me from the door, wide-eyed and concerned, and the only thing running through my mind now is the question of why he’s here. “Vash, are you okay? What happened?”

I stare dumbly, only my groin area covered by the pants.

He looks around me, notes the ceiling-flecked floor and the gun lying next to my feet, and, more than likely, figures out what happened. I’m relieved at that because, right now, I don’t think I could bring myself to speak in any coherent language. His mouth is set into an uncharacteristic frown as he takes a few long strides to where I am standing. His hand then settles on my shoulder, and I half-expect him to jerk it back once he feels the scarred flesh underneath his hand. He doesn’t. His touch is so soft, and so familiar. Again, I’m sure that if I were to close my eyes, I could see Nicholas standing in front of me. I feel like I’m going to cry again. “You should be laying down,” he informs me, and I look towards the floor like a small child who has just been punished.

His hand, gentle but firm, pushes my shoulder and forces me to lie back onto the mattress, the pants still held in position to cover myself. I stare up at him, looking into his smoky dark blue eyes, probably with a look of pure infatuation. He looks back at me, at my eyes. He ignores my body and my scars and looks at my eyes, the entire aura of himself radiating compassion and understanding that I never thought possible in anyone other than myself. Right now, at this moment, I don’t care about anything else but him. I don’t care that a dull ache has returned to my leg, or that my brother was the one who caused it, or that I should be working on finding out the problems with the water-refinement for Maya, or that the hospital bed is uncomfortable. All I care about is the fact that even though I’m lying on this bumpy hospital bed, and it is no longer needed, his hand lingers on my shoulder, his body set firmly upon the mattress, slightly hovering above me. I lick my suddenly dry lips, wondering, due to a moment of pure insanity, what it would be like to kiss him. I could just reach up, simply lift my hand to his face, and pull his lips to mine. Too many times have passed in my life when I could have done that. Too many times I have given up the chance at happiness, fleeting or not.

Defying all logic and sense of control, I do what my heart tells me to do. It is a callous, stupid act that I really shouldn’t perform, but my mind is running itself in ragged, tired circles around the same objective. If I don’t do what needs to be done at some point in my life, who’s to say I will ever get another chance? With that in mind, I lift my hand weakly, still staring deep into his eyes. His eyebrows knit themselves together, probably in confusion, as I swallow hard and deep in my throat, willing my hand to move forward, feeling all at once as if I’m taking a leap of faith off a high cliff.

Finally, my hand reaches his face, only two of my fingers willing to brush themselves against his slightly bronzed skin that is so much darker than my own. I stare at the contrast a moment, wondering if the difference in skin color represents a barrier of lifestyles that could never be breeched for the two of us. I hope that I am wrong, for once. Time seems to slow down as he leans back from me slightly, nearly putting enough distance between us that I can no longer feel his warmth beneath my fingertips. Then, time stops as his hand removes itself from my shoulder, and, for one horrid moment, I fear that I have done the unforgivable and that for the remainder of his life, this man will hate me. I let my hand fall limply onto the bed beside me and I look away from him, turning my head as far as it will go so that he can’t see the tears that are wanting to fall from my eyes.

“Vash…”

His voice sounds choked, a bit uncertain. Lighter than a whisper, but loud enough to be understood, he annunciates the word so that I know he’s trying to get my attention, ready for an explanation of some sort.

“When I was a kid, I used to have these… dreams.” I nod in response, so that he at least knows that I am listening despite the fact that I still can’t bring myself to face him after what I have just done. “Before I even heard of you, all the stories my father used to tell me, I used to dream about some dorky guy in a red coat with spiky blonde hair.” My eyes widen at that, and I suddenly find myself confused but intrigued. There is a smile in his voice when he says, “he loved donuts.” I small, sad smile falls upon my features, and I finally turn my face to him. He is staring down at the floor, his hands entwined in his lap, his thumbs rubbing together nervously. “I dreamt that I was a man, back then, and that I used to travel with this guy in the red coat, and that we were friends. Then, when I heard the stories, I realized that I was dreaming what had happened in the past, more than likely.”

All I can do is stare at him. My mind has frozen itself into a block of ice and my heart as stopped beating. For some odd reason, I feel as if I’m suffocating.

“I know, it sounds really stupid. But, it’s true. I used to dream that I was that guy, Wolfwood. I dreamt that I was him before I even knew who he was, and I became friends with Vash the Stampede in my dreams.” His face suddenly turns to me, his jaw set firmly and his eyes piercing. “Regardless of these facts, Vash, I am not Wolfwood.”

My heart flutters, and then sinks in my chest. I feel as if someone is trying to forcibly remove it. My lungs are collapsing and I hold my breath, fearing that if I were to attempt to breathe, it would hurt more than the harsh, pained words he is using. They feel like a proverbial slap to the face, a wake-up call that I’ve needed for so long now. Wolfwood is dead. He isn’t coming back.

“Vash, I’ve wanted to meet you all of my life, but unless you’re willing to recognize me for who I am, and not use me as a replacement for someone you lost, I don’t want to be around you. It hurts too much.”

I have to respond… I have to tell him something… anything. “I… understand.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. For a moment, I fear that I have said something wrong. I have a tendency to do that. “Do you understand, Vash? Do you know what it’s like to be a replacement? To be second best? To have someone want to be with you, only because they remind you of someone else? It makes you feel insignificant and worthless. I hate feeling that way, Vash. When you realize that I am who I am, and that it’s never going to change, don’t be afraid to find me. I’ll be waiting.”

With those words, he lifts himself from my bed and begins to leave the room, his hands in his pockets and his head lowered. I feel awful. I feel like an evil, heartless, cruel person who has only been using him. I’ve only wanted to be around him because he reminded me of Nick… not because of who he really was. I’ve always thought myself to be somewhat compassionate towards other peoples’ feelings, but I have totally overlooked his. He reads me like an open book and, though a bit unnerving, he could tell that Nicholas meant so much to me that I would be willing to disregard the fact that he is someone else completely, and use him as a replacement for my unrequited source of infatuation. I am just like my brother. I’m sure of it now. Knives used Legato like I am using Nicholai. He forced him to become me, in a way, so that he could have his brother by his side.

Shit. I am my brother. No, I am not going to let that happen. Not to me. This is not happening to me. I have to stop it. He’s leaving the room. The door is open, and he’s stepping out. “Nicholai!” My voice sounds desperate and childish, but I don’t care. Not anymore. It’s time for me to stop being a total idiot about everything, and to grow up. It’s now or never.

He turns around, still holding the door open. I fumble for words. Funny, a moment ago I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Now, faced with his hurt expression and the inevitability of him leaving the room, and leaving me alone, I find myself incapable of speech. “I… you… the…”

He stares at me.

Finally, a sentence forms and spills from my mouth before I can even stop it. “How did I get here?”

He releases a short, hindered laugh, his mouth twitching upwards into a smirk that looks too similar to Nick’s. Damn, not again. It may look like Nick’s, but it’s not. Right. It’s Nicholai’s smirk. When I look at it closely, his mouth is a bit smaller, his lips fuller, and his canine teeth more pointed, making him look like he’s giving me some sort of fanged smile. “I brought you here. I saw your brother shoot you and when he left, I picked you up and carried you here.” I do have a faint memory of someone awkwardly carrying me. I had been jolted and nearly dropped, and it had not been fun.

“I said something to him that I shouldn’t have said,” I inform, shrugging helplessly. “He has a bit of a temper.”

Nicholai scoffs at me. “Vash, that guy’s nothing more than an emotionally juvenile megalomaniac with a superiority complex.” I stare at him. He shrugs, crossing his arms and letting the door close itself behind him. “He’s a jerk.”

I smile, shake my head, and then laugh. For once in my life, I laugh without pure reason, without any restraint, and without any worry, and the feeling gives me a sense of total confidence and purity and release. I feel lighthearted, like the uncomfortable weight of what has previously transpired between us has been lifted. Now that I think about it, Nicholas’ jokes never really did that.

As my laughter fades, and silence slowly falls back to the room, only briefly marred by my short, spasmodic chuckles, Nicholai takes a few steps towards me. I smile at him, my thoughts resume once more, and I am able to say what I had wanted to say, my words serious. “Nicholai, I’m sorry that I treated you that way. I don’t want you to leave, but I can’t promise that it will never happen again. Just give me some time, and I’ll realize reality.”

He nods in affirmation. “I can do that. Why don’t we go out for some drinks tonight, if your leg is feeling better? Spend some time together?”

I grin. “It’s feeling better now! Let’s go!” I leap from my bed and proudly march towards the door, ready to be given a second chance at everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ve made a million mistakes in my life, and hurt so many people, and caused too much suffering to ever be forgiven. Fortunately for me, I have found my angel, and he’s willing to give me another chance. He’s willing to accept the fact that no one is perfect. He’s willing to accept me for who I am, and everything that being who I am includes. It’s like a dream come true.

“You’d better put some clothes on first.”

I turn around to see him holding up my pants, then look down, quickly covering myself with my hands when I realize that I am naked. God, right now, I wish I were dreaming. I’m so embarrassed.