The deeper they got, the more he cursed the part of the experiments the Eye had done on him that had given him enhanced senses. It was subtle, at first, but before long, the smell began to hit, and the nausea he'd felt before began to resurface. By the time Vash spoke up, he'd resorted to taking in short, shallow breaths, if only because the thought of breathing in what he was smelling through his mouth was somehow just as bad as breathing it in deep through his nose.
That was the stench of himself, decaying in the ground.
He gave a short nod, an affirmative hum that almost sounded more like a queasy moan. Vash was right. The sand wasn't giving as much as it had, the rounded rim of the bucket meeting subtle resistance. So he tossed it to the side and began using his hands, too. It wasn't long before his hands brushed against fabric and he slowed, his movements becoming gentle, almost reverent.
Slowly, he uncovered an arm, folded on top of the other, on top of a chest. He recognized the small, shining crosses on the cuffs of the jacket, and the white shirt sleeves as much like his own. The skintone, though greyed and bruised, was more like his than Nico's. It should have been enough. It was enough. But something in him couldn't stop, even as his hands began to shake. Some morbid, ghoulish part of him had to know the man buried there, how much like himself he was, where the similarities and the differences were.
And the more that he dug, the more the little details of what he was seeing began to sink in.
His clothes, despite the stains of decay, were whole, free of bullet holes and the blood of the wounds that had left his own clothes beyond ruined, soaked almost every inch through. His body had been laid to rest with so much care, his form gently posed and not just placed haphazardly in the ground. The man wore, of all things, a black leather choker - or was it a collar? He could barely rub two braincells together at the moment to know the difference - with a small silver cross to match the ones on his cuffs. His jaw was more square than Nicholas', though maybe not by much, and his hair was shorter, the fringe near his ears long enough that it could have almost been sideburns.
There was a difference between the filth of decay and the filth that had covered Wolfwood when he'd sat down on that couch to share a drink with Vash. What covered the man in front of him wasn't the same blood and vomit. He had been washed clean when he'd been put into the ground.
And that was the realization that pushed him over the edge.
His sobs broke out sharply, horrified, shameful, grieving things. This wasn't Nico, it wasn't even an exact twin to Nicholas. This man had been laid to rest with love and care and grief, his body had been prepared, as for a quick, but still proper funeral. Cleaned, clothes changed. This man's Vash had put more care into this burial than he had ever seen for any of the other burials he'd done. And Nick had just desecrated that, for no reason.
Whether it was the smell finally hitting him as he took in deep gulps of sobbing breath, the guilt and horror hitting him all at once, or a combination of all of the above, the nausea hit him even harder than before, and he stumbled to his feet, rushing away as far as he could before his body emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the sand. Even after he had nothing left, he was left retching, shuddering and choking on the sand.
His hands shook, covered in gore, and it made it all worse, made him scrub them in the sand to wipe it away and leaving his hands scraped raw. And then he sat back on his ankles, rocking and sobbing, the dissociation passed and leaving him horribly, wretchedly lucid.
He had done that. He had put Vash through that, because he'd been too stupid and too stubborn to actually consider what he would have wanted, hadn't even bothered to give him the courtesy of letting him make the decision of whether he wanted to help on his own. He had just left him alone, run off on his own, and made him suffer through the same thing that had made this man's friend put him in the ground as a result.
He had known, logically, what that meant. On some level. But not like this. Not the way seeing the clear evidence of his mourning laid out in front of him made him finally understand.
And now, he had added "desecrating that grave" to the list of his misdeeds.
WHOOPS Here's another Emetophobia warning!
That was the stench of himself, decaying in the ground.
He gave a short nod, an affirmative hum that almost sounded more like a queasy moan. Vash was right. The sand wasn't giving as much as it had, the rounded rim of the bucket meeting subtle resistance. So he tossed it to the side and began using his hands, too. It wasn't long before his hands brushed against fabric and he slowed, his movements becoming gentle, almost reverent.
Slowly, he uncovered an arm, folded on top of the other, on top of a chest. He recognized the small, shining crosses on the cuffs of the jacket, and the white shirt sleeves as much like his own. The skintone, though greyed and bruised, was more like his than Nico's. It should have been enough. It was enough. But something in him couldn't stop, even as his hands began to shake. Some morbid, ghoulish part of him had to know the man buried there, how much like himself he was, where the similarities and the differences were.
And the more that he dug, the more the little details of what he was seeing began to sink in.
His clothes, despite the stains of decay, were whole, free of bullet holes and the blood of the wounds that had left his own clothes beyond ruined, soaked almost every inch through. His body had been laid to rest with so much care, his form gently posed and not just placed haphazardly in the ground. The man wore, of all things, a black leather choker - or was it a collar? He could barely rub two braincells together at the moment to know the difference - with a small silver cross to match the ones on his cuffs. His jaw was more square than Nicholas', though maybe not by much, and his hair was shorter, the fringe near his ears long enough that it could have almost been sideburns.
There was a difference between the filth of decay and the filth that had covered Wolfwood when he'd sat down on that couch to share a drink with Vash. What covered the man in front of him wasn't the same blood and vomit. He had been washed clean when he'd been put into the ground.
And that was the realization that pushed him over the edge.
His sobs broke out sharply, horrified, shameful, grieving things. This wasn't Nico, it wasn't even an exact twin to Nicholas. This man had been laid to rest with love and care and grief, his body had been prepared, as for a quick, but still proper funeral. Cleaned, clothes changed. This man's Vash had put more care into this burial than he had ever seen for any of the other burials he'd done. And Nick had just desecrated that, for no reason.
Whether it was the smell finally hitting him as he took in deep gulps of sobbing breath, the guilt and horror hitting him all at once, or a combination of all of the above, the nausea hit him even harder than before, and he stumbled to his feet, rushing away as far as he could before his body emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the sand. Even after he had nothing left, he was left retching, shuddering and choking on the sand.
His hands shook, covered in gore, and it made it all worse, made him scrub them in the sand to wipe it away and leaving his hands scraped raw. And then he sat back on his ankles, rocking and sobbing, the dissociation passed and leaving him horribly, wretchedly lucid.
He had done that. He had put Vash through that, because he'd been too stupid and too stubborn to actually consider what he would have wanted, hadn't even bothered to give him the courtesy of letting him make the decision of whether he wanted to help on his own. He had just left him alone, run off on his own, and made him suffer through the same thing that had made this man's friend put him in the ground as a result.
He had known, logically, what that meant. On some level. But not like this. Not the way seeing the clear evidence of his mourning laid out in front of him made him finally understand.
And now, he had added "desecrating that grave" to the list of his misdeeds.
"What've I done??? Oh God, what've I done???"