[ he gets through about a half of the sandwich before stopping - and he does it cautiously, awkwardly, with a small sidelong glance at where wolfwood is laying down, as if he is afraid that the other man would say something about it - when his stomach twists with nausea. he would like to eat more, if only it meant pleasing wolfwood, knowing fully well that it's something that his body needs, but not quite being able to push past the tension that cuts through the hunger.
vash chews on the inside of his cheek, looking at everything else but. to him, the act of eating now is almost like a reward, but right now, he doesn't feel like he deserves it; what right does he have? it makes him feel sick, but for another reason. blaming himself, mix of guilt and worry and shame twisting in his guts.
beside him, wolfwood is quiet too - the air feels thick with questions, with words going unspoken, and vash feels them prickling all through his skin like some awful static - like a burn of inflamed nerve endings. ]
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vash chews on the inside of his cheek, looking at everything else but. to him, the act of eating now is almost like a reward, but right now, he doesn't feel like he deserves it; what right does he have? it makes him feel sick, but for another reason. blaming himself, mix of guilt and worry and shame twisting in his guts.
beside him, wolfwood is quiet too - the air feels thick with questions, with words going unspoken, and vash feels them prickling all through his skin like some awful static - like a burn of inflamed nerve endings. ]