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Twin suns beat down on what was once a lush desert oasis. At the heart of the wasteland, another pair of twin suns face each other, surrounded by desolation of their own making.
Knives lies still, defeated. He is at the mercy of his vanquisher, but he’s not afraid. He will go to his end at his brother’s hands, the only way he’s meant to go. Instead, as the dust settles around them, Vash begins subjecting Knives to further torment.
Vash grabs Knives under his arms and drags him over to rest against a collection of rubble. He rips strips of cloth from his tattered coat and uses them to bandage the wounds he himself inflicted. Knives, aching and humiliated, can do nothing to stop him.
“Just let me bleed out,” he snarls.
“I won’t,” Vash says, calmly continuing to wrap Knives’ left shoulder.
The red of the cloth is soaked with the red of Knives’ blood, and Knives decides in that moment that he’s never hated a color more. Vash ties off the ends, squeezing the wound hard enough to make Knives flinch.
“Sorry,” Vash says, apparently repentant for this minor discomfort but not for the far less tolerable crime of crippling and demeaning him.
Vash bandages all of his wounds, continuing to apologize for hurting him as he does so. After the first few times, Knives stops bothering to look annoyed. The adrenaline from their fight is fading, and he can feel his grip on consciousness leaving with it.
Warm hands check his bandages and brush his hair away from his face. He hears Vash talking to him, but he can’t make out the words. It is to those touches and the murmuring of that voice that he finally drifts off.
Knives is asleep and hurt, but he’s not in his healing pod waiting for Bluesummers to bring him news of his brother. He knows because he’s warm.
As he wakes, his injuries remind him of their existence—gunshot wounds from a weapon he’d given Vash to prove a point. He hadn’t thought Vash would point it at him.
A soft sigh brushes across the bridge of his nose, and certainty of his safety settles into his bones.
He finally opens his eyes and is greeted with the sight of his brother, who is sleeping facing him, body only a hand’s-width from his own. The loose shirt Knives is wearing is pulled open at the front and a warm palm is pressed to his chest. It’s directly over his heart, and Knives realizes with a clench of his stomach that Vash must have been monitoring his heartbeat.
He starts to lift a hand to reach for him, but the wound in his arm twinges sharply and he drops the limb back to his side. A sound must escape him, because Vash stirs. He was always a light sleeper.
“Knives?” Vash blinks slowly, still not completely awake. His hand slides away from Knives’ chest. “Are you alright?”
Knives is too exhausted and angry to even consider how he might answer that question.
“It’s...good to see you awake,” Vash says once it’s clear Knives isn’t going to respond. Knives scoffs, but Vash just smiles at him. “Let’s get your bandages changed.”
Vash slides the loose shirt off one of Knives’ shoulders to reveal that in addition to replacing his clothing, Vash also replaced the strips of his coat with proper bandages. Barely congealed blood leaks through the white gauze.
Discomfort starts to set in once Vash exposes Knives’ wounds to the open air. When he’d first woken, the pain hadn’t been notable, but the contact of Vash’s hands, as gentle as he’s being, is taking its toll. Knives focuses on the wall over Vash’s shoulder, trying to distance himself from the sensation.
The room is just an average dwelling, one that could be found anywhere on the planet. All the curtains are drawn, so he can’t even see outside to try and glean any more information. They must be near the former oasis; Vash couldn’t have carried him very far, not while he himself was injured.
He’s forced to come back to himself when Vash secures one of the bandages, causing the wound to twinge painfully. He hisses involuntarily, and Vash’s hands stroke his apology across Knives’ skin.
“You’ll be alright,” Vash assures him.
Tears prick at the corners of Knives’ eyes—from the pain or the indignity, he couldn’t say.
“Where are we?” he asks, teeth gritted around the scraps of his pride.
“Middle of nowhere,” Vash says matter-of-factly. “Forty iles out from LR Town.”
Vash moves on to the bandages around Knives’ thighs. Knives is forced to shift awkwardly to the edge of the bed, closer to where Vash is sitting.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Almost a day.”
Vash isn’t looking at him. Tension stretches thinly between them.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Knives finally asks.
Vash’s fingers falter as he wraps the cloth, just briefly.
“Because I didn’t want to.”
“Selfish, as always,” Knives says to cover his hurt.
Vash laughs stiffly. Even now, after everything, he won’t be honest.
Knives lets the silence simmer, and Vash continues his bandaging, uncaring. When he’s done, he flits out the front door, a fake smile and chipper goodbye on his lips. Knives can’t follow him even if he wanted to, so he’s left alone until Vash decides to return.
From the bed where he’s been stuck for nearly three days, Knives can hear water running. The sound is muffled by the door to the washroom that makes up nearly a fourth of his and Vash’s small residence.
The sound stops after a short time, and then Vash emerges, stripped down to just pants, his shirt folded over his arm. Knives is unaccountably pleased that he no longer seems to possess his crimson overcoat.
“Let’s get you clean,” Vash says.
Knives swallows the urge to argue. Since the moment he first woke up in this place, he’s done nothing but fight Vash at every turn. Just a few moments ago, he had turned his face away when Vash had tried to give him some medication, but Vash had grabbed his chin firmly and forced him to take it.
“This is for the pain,” he’d said, tipping a cup of water against Knives’ mouth. “It’s to help you.”
He’d swallowed obediently. Vash released his chin and ran his fingers soothingly down Knives throat.
Now Vash’s fingers quickly undo the buttons on Knives’ shirt and slide it off of Knives’ shoulders. When Vash had last undressed him, Knives had tried to insist he could do it himself, only to be met with a condescending expression and a, “Knives, you can’t even lift your arms right now,” so this time he keeps quiet.
When Knives is completely bare, Vash puts one arm under his knees and another around his shoulders. He lifts Knives off the bed and against his chest, carrying him towards the bathroom.
It makes Knives feel small. Helpless. But Vash’s skin is warm against his cheek, and he doesn’t struggle.
Vash sets Knives on the edge of the tub, which is only filled enough to cover his ankles. Bending over, Vash dips a cloth into the water, rubs some soap into it, and starts running it across Knives’ calves. When he gets to Knives’ thighs, he carefully avoids the bandages, cleaning around their edges. He parts Knives’ legs and does a perfunctory sweep between them, one arm braced around Knives’ waist to hold him still.
Moving behind Knives, he runs the cloth up his back and across his spine. Free from Vash’s gaze, Knives can close his eyes and enjoy the touch. He can’t remember the last time he let someone touch him. Perhaps it had been Vash then, as well.
Thick fingers scrape against Knives’ scalp, gently forcing his chin down with their pressure on the crown of his head. Once his hair has been thoroughly lathered, Vash uses a small cup to scoop water from the tub and begin rinsing it. He places a hand on Knives’ forehead to keep anything from going in his eyes. It makes something uncomfortable stir in Knives’ gut, something unpleasant.
“Lean forward a bit more,” Vash urges.
“I’m not going to die from a little soap, Vash.”
The unpleasant feeling is only growing stronger, sitting hot and sickening inside of him. Vash doesn’t need to be so gentle; he’s not breakable, and he doesn’t need or deserve this treatment.
“I want to help you, Knives. You’re hurt. Just let me.”
The feeling is so strong now that it’s making him nauseous.
“Does treating me like an invalid make it easier for you?” he manages to ask through the bile churning in his stomach and coating his throat.
“You are an invalid,” Vash says, sighing. “But...yes,” he admits, fingers light on the back of Knives’ neck. “It makes it easier.”
Knives wishes he would wrap those fingers tight and squeeze. His shoulders tense against a threat that won’t come, no matter how he wills it to.
Vash is gone more often than not. Even when he is around, he’s distant. Polite, accommodating, and attentive—as though he’s caring for a stranger. It rankles Knives to his core to be treated impersonally, as if Vash is talking to anyone and not his own brother. He thought, with all their years of separation, that he was used to being without Vash. But having his brother back while not truly having him has only agitated the wound he’d learned over time to ignore.
They were born together, and what they have can’t be severed. Vash can try, can even believe he’s succeeded, but Knives knows the truth. They are intrinsic to each other’s existence.
And yet, Knives wakes up alone on this morning, like every morning except the first. Sometimes, he can still feel Vash’s warmth in the sheets, see the imprint of where he lay. But today, the bed is cold despite the suns just barely climbing the horizon. Vash doesn’t return until several hours later, something metal folded under one arm. He unfolds it to reveal a worn, leather-upholstered wheelchair.
“Some friends of mine helped me get it,” Vash says. He walks over to the bed slowly, palms turned upward like he’s worried Knives will lash out. It makes him want to. “You need sun, and fresh air, and I thought this would be better than me carrying you.”
Knives still has to be lifted into the chair. When he feels Vash’s arms go around him, his arms curl automatically against Vash’s chest. His skin is warm from the outdoors and exertion, enough to be felt even through his clothes.
When Vash places Knives gently into the seat of the wheelchair, his warmth is replaced by cold leather. His hands retreat to the bars, away from Knives’ body. The way Vash touches him—detached, as though he’d like to get it over with as quickly as possible—hurts him in a way he’s never felt before. Knives would almost rather not be touched at all.
The balmy desert air hits him as soon as they’re through the threshold. After so long indoors, often with the curtains drawn, the suns are blinding. He tries to lift an arm to cover his eyes, only for it to twinge painfully, so he squints his eyes against the light instead. There is a rustling of fabric and then the feeling of skin against his forehead—Vash, using his own hand to shade Knives’ eyes.
Knives instinctively jerks his head away from the unexpected touch.
“Only until your eyes adjust,” Vash’s voice says from behind him.
Knives thought he was finally used to Vash’s over-attentiveness, but each new instance sets the acid in his gut to churning once more. There’s nothing to be done, though. He can’t get up, could barely even push Vash’s hand away if he tried.
And so, he settles into the touch. The sun beats down, but his eyes adjust, and when the wrinkles in his forehead uncrease, Vash takes his hand away, as promised.
They stay like that for a while, staring off into the desert expanse. Knives can’t begin to guess what Vash might be thinking about, and his own thoughts are tangled and rotting inside him. But Vash stands behind him, and doesn’t leave like he usually does. He wheels him back into their home, returns him to their bed, and stays.
“We’re going to try something new today, Knives.”
Vash is beaming at him. Knives groans internally. Vash has been relentless for the past few days, pushing Knives to regain his strength. Every day, it’s something new and more—stretch like this, try to stand, do this on your own.
“You’ve been doing so well,” Vash assures him. “I think you’ll be walking in no time.”
The thought fills Knives with apprehension. Getting out of the room has been good for the restless feeling that’s weighed on him since he got here. He doesn’t want to be trapped, forced to rely on Vash for everything. But when he’s healed completely, there will be nothing keeping Vash from leaving, either.
“Sit up and come to the side of the bed.”
Knives pushes down his apprehension for now and does as Vash says. Vash takes hold of one of his arms and helps him stretch it, first away from his body and then above his head. The skin and muscle around his wound twinge, but the area has mostly healed.
“Any pain?”
Knives shakes his head.
“Good, that’s good.” Vash smiles at him again. He’s been doing that a lot, the past few days. It sets Knives off-balance and brings an embarrassing flush to his skin.
Vash repeats the stretches with his other arms, then moves on to his legs. His hands slide from ankle to calf, behind Knives’ knees and to his thighs. A burning heat ignites in Knives’ gut, and his skin feels too tight. He jerks out of Vash’s grip, only for the wound to spasm and make him cry out.
Vash pulls his hands back quickly, a worried look on his face.
“Knives?”
His skin is still burning with embarrassment, and his wound aches.
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want to take a break?”
Knives waves a dismissive hand at him.
Vash studies his face for a moment, then says, “Okay. But if anything hurts too badly, or you get too tired, you need to tell me, okay?” Knives says nothing, and, as usual, Vash takes this for assent. “Let’s try to get you standing, alright?”
Vash holds his hands out and Knives takes them, letting himself be pulled to his feet. His knees tremble, the muscles in his legs still not able to hold his weight for long. But one strong arm comes around his waist for support, and then he’s standing.
“You’re doing so good, Knives.” Vash is holding Knives closely enough that his breath tickles Knives’ face. “Do you want to try to get to your chair?”
Vash backs up, a step at a time, and Knives shuffles after him. When he loses balance, Vash is there to steady him. They make it across the room to the chair, and Knives feels a flash of genuine pride as Vash helps him put his hands onto the handlebars. From behind him, Vash takes ahold of Knives’ waist, though Knives is supporting himself just fine.
“And now, the ‘something new.’”
Vash applies gentle pressure with his hands, urging Knives forward. Knives takes a few more clumsy steps, and then Vash lets go completely. Knives is forced to lean more heavily on the chair, but with it, he’s able to stand on his own.
The strain is enough that his breaths come harder, but he keeps pushing himself. He makes it to the far side of the room, not stopping until the wheels bump against the wall.
He can’t help but look over his shoulder at Vash, who is smiling at him genuinely, clearly proud. It’s… confusing. He wants Vash to look at him like that; it’s all he’s ever wanted. Knives is the lowest he’s ever been—powerless, humiliated—and Vash’s attention only makes him feel more so. It prickles at his skin uncomfortably, and yet, it’s still better than the alternative.
The reality is sinking in, too, that the more he cooperates, the warmer Vash becomes. It should have been obvious, but it’s never been that easy between them. Has it?
Or has he never given up enough ground to find out?
Before, compromise hadn’t been an option. But now, with his goals and ideals nothing more than dust in the wind, it could be. There’s so much less to lose. Vash is safe, at the very least. It’s hard to pretend Knives could do anything to protect him in this state even if he wasn’t. The reasons to fight—with Vash, against his wishes—are dwindling.
Reconciliation emerges as a tempting possibility, forgiveness—for himself—becoming feasible. He could attain everything he’s strived for for over a century, the peaceful coexistence with his other half he’s long been denied. And all he’d have to do is give in. Trample his pride, discard the beliefs of a lifetime. Endure a slew of indignities, the end of which may never come.
Vash holds the wheelchair stationary while Knives clambers awkwardly into it. He strokes a hand from the crown of Knives’ head down to his neck and rests it on his shoulder.
“Good work, Knives. I’m proud of you.”
Mortification twists in his gut, even as pleasure renews the flush on his skin. It would be so easy to give in.
Knives stirs, hovering on the very edge between sleep and wakefulness. He’s wrapped in his sleeping bag, the ground cold and hard beneath him. Much softer and warmer is Vash, tucked against Knives’ side. He has his own sleeping bag, but even with their exceptional thermoregulation, the desert is cold at night. They often zip their bags into one and slip in together for sleep.
They’ve been through plenty of hardship in the years since the crash, but they have each other, and that’s enough. As long as Vash returns to his arms at night, Knives can endure anything.
Vash makes a small sound in the back of his throat, pulling Knives further out of drowsiness. Vash’s face is flushed and his eyes are squeezed shut tightly, so Knives raises a hand to his forehead; it feels a little warm, though not enough to be alarming.
“Vash?”
There’s no answer except another quiet moan. Vash twists around, kicking at the sleeping bag like he feels trapped. He often has nightmares, and this is probably just a particularly bad one. Knives shakes Vash’s shoulder to pull him out of the dream.
“C’mon Vash, wake up.”
“Knives...” comes Vash’s voice, thick with sleep. His eyes open slightly, still out of focus. “Knives.”
When his eyes finally zero in on Knives’ face, the hungry look he gives him sends a thrill up Knives’ spine. Vash closes what little distance there is between them, rolling himself on top of Knives, his breath hot against Knives’ face. He slips one leg in between Knives’ and starts rubbing it against him.
“Vash, what—?” Knives cuts himself off with a groan when Vash’s leg presses up against him and sends a wave of heat flooding through him. Vash’s nose is sliding against his neck, his hands roaming everywhere, and Knives—he wants.
“Knives,” Vash murmurs again, fully conscious this time. He’s looking down at him intently. Knives wonders what he sees.
One of Vash’s hands trails down Knives’ chest and comes to settle in between his legs. He rubs sensual circles there, pulling a moan from Knives’ throat. He feels himself getting embarrassingly wet from just this bit of contact, but he doesn’t care, not when Vash is looking at him with such desire.
Vash leans down, and finally, for the first time, presses their lips together. Knives squeezes his eyes shut and kisses back. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he’s euphoric enough to be dizzy with it, and he never wants it to stop.
“Knives,” Vash says again when he pulls away, like that’s the only thing he can say.
“Vash.” Knives is too overwhelmed to do anything but call back to his twin. He’s never been drunk, but this must be what it feels like. His tongue and mind are slow, and his senses can’t process anything except Vash touching him. He doesn’t need anything else besides Vash’s hands and lips to continue exactly what they’re doing forever.
“Knives,” Vash repeats insistently. Whatever it is he wants, Knives will give it to him. Can’t Vash see that?
Vash moves his hand back up Knives’ body, and Knives whines. Before he can tell Vash to go back to touching him, Vash has placed the hand against his throat. Knives’ eyes shoot back open. Vash’s expression is no longer sensual.
“Everything’s your fault, Knives,” he says, voice shaking with anger. “Rem, everyone—they’re all dead because of you.”
Knives tries to say something to stop him, but barely any sound comes out, Vash’s hand squeezing too tightly for him to breathe.
“Knives,” Vash says once more, and this time, Knives wakes up.
He’s disoriented, no longer sure of where he is. But the scent of Vash still fills his nose, and he can feel that they are pressed closely together. He focuses his eyes on Vash’s face—older than the visage his dreams had provided him but still his mirror.
Vash is looking at him with open curiosity. There’s something underneath his gaze, too, that Knives can’t quite parse. He was never as good at reading his brother as he would like, and never more so than now, when he feels like they no longer know each other.
Their legs are tangled together, and Knives can feel wetness between his own. His belly is warm with arousal, thighs clamped tight around one of Vash’s. He’s breathing hard, though that could be as much from the fear as the desire.
“You were calling for me,” Vash says, gaze still appraising. “I was about to wake you up.”
Knives tries to come up with anything to say, some excuse to hide how much of himself he’s revealed, but there’s nothing he could say that would make him feel any less exposed.
Vash brings one hand up slowly and strokes his fingers across Knives’ cheek, thumbing at the corner of his eye where his beauty mark is. The synthetic material feels strange on his skin. He’s nearly afraid to breathe, lest he break whatever fragile thing is stretching between them.
Vash’s hand travels from his cheek down to his neck, and Knives lets his head fall back. He closes his eyes, certain that now, Vash will give him what he wants. He need only bring his other hand up and press down. Knives more than deserves it, and he won’t resist. He needs it, too.
Vash doesn’t press down though. Instead, he continues down Knives’ neck and across his collarbone, his touch featherlight. Knives didn’t wear a shirt to sleep, so Vash has complete access to his chest and stomach, and he takes advantage of it. Knives gasps when the pad of a finger brushes over a nipple, his back arching of its own accord.
Before Knives realizes what’s happening, Vash pulls his pants open just wide enough to slip his hand in.
“Don’t—” Knives manages through his shock.
He’s soaking wet, and there is a part of him that badly wishes he could just let Vash have his way with him. But this—no, not like this. Vash doesn’t want him, never has, no matter what his dreams may have conjured, nor what he may wish for. Vash is doing it out of some twisted sense of duty, which Knives cannot abide.
“You can’t do it yourself, right?” Vash asks, palm hovering just under Knives’ belly button.
“What?”
“You can still barely use your arms long enough to eat. There’s no way you can take care of this on your own.”
Mortification is becoming a familiar emotion to Knives, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant.
“Fuck you, Vash,” he chokes out, anger and embarrassment tangling inside him and making it hard to breathe.
“Knives.” Vash’s voice is heavy with censure, his eyebrows furrowed. “Why can’t you just accept my help?”
In this one instance, Knives didn’t want to be right, but it seems Vash truly has no intention of refraining from any form of assistance. Surely he knows how ashamed Knives already is. But then again, he’s perhaps the most obtuse, self-deluded creature Knives has ever known.
“Just let me do this for you,” he says into the shell of Knives’ ear.
Knives flushes impossibly hotter, his brother’s touch inflaming his arousal even as his words infuriate him. As Vash’s fingers dip lower, teasing briefly at the trail of hair on his stomach, he relaxes back into the mattress despite himself and closes his eyes with a sigh.
Taking Knives’ acquiescence for what it is, Vash presses close, and Knives parts his thighs for him. Vash doesn’t waste time, his fingers spread Knives’ folds and immediately stroke between them. Knives stifles a pleased groan, unwilling to stroke Vash’s ego by letting it out unfettered.
Vash drags his fingers up and down until they’re coated with Knives wetness, then circles Knives’ clit, setting Knives’ blood pumping hot and fast. He does it again, the slow stimulation making Knives’ nerves spark with pleasure, then again, and again. It’s not until Knives is soaked and panting that Vash’s fingers brush against his entrance, which clenches in anticipation.
Knives ignores Vash’s hum of approval. He knew Vash would get egotistical about this. After teasing the motion several times, Vash finally slides a single dextrous finger inside Knives. Vash doesn’t let Knives enjoy it long, though. He pulls all the way back out and moves back up to Knives’ clit. Knives clenches around nothing, writhing with need.
Vash continues to tease Knives, pumping his finger in and out slowly, then returning to his clit. Knives nearly whines. Vash is going slowly, so painfully slowly. Somehow, Knives manages to keep his mouth shut tightly against any complaints or pleas.
Vash works Knives over until he’s completely pliant in his hands. Only then does he nudge a second finger inside him and start fucking him more quickly. Knives pushes his hips back onto Vash’s long fingers, needing them deeper and harder and more. Vash lays down beside him and uses his free arm to pull him close, giving Knives more leverage to fuck himself in time with Vash’s motions.
The strong arm around his waist—steadying him so carefully as he rides his brother’s hand—is warm and comforting against the skin of his back. Knives wonders if his hot, sticky skin feels good to Vash, too.
He’s panting, and he knows the sounds Vash is pulling from him are undignified. But Vash lets him press his mouth into the crook of his shoulder to muffle them and doesn’t say anything about how he’s rutting against his palm. Desperation starts to creep in when Vash slows down even more, barely even moving his hand.
“Vash,” he finally pleads, still muffled, but he knows Vash hears him.
“Hold on,” he says, voice light and teasing. “I’m just adjusting.”
He slides his fingers out a bit more, only to fit a third one inside. When Knives feels the stretch, he moans, head falling back against the pillow. Vash finishes his arranging, gripping Knives tighter around the waist, and fucks him harder. He presses the heel of his palm up, letting Knives grind his clit against it.
It’s exactly what Knives needs, and the muscles of his thighs strain as the pleasure builds in his gut. His whole body is hot, his breath coming fast and shallow. The pressure intensifies as Vash’s thrusts get rougher, his inner thighs covered with his own wetness. Knives feels his cunt tighten as the pleasure crests, and finally, he shakes apart around Vash’s fingers, moaning loud and uninhibited.
His fingers scrabble for purchase on the sheets as his heels slide against the cloth while Vash lets him ride out his pleasure, moving his fingers only slightly as Knives comes down from his orgasm. When Knives falls back against the bed limply, he slips his fingers out, and Knives’ cunt aches with the loss.
“There you go,” Vash says softly, petting Knives’ stomach. Knives should probably feel condescended to, but his mind is too muddled with warm satisfaction to concern himself with anything else.
A wisp of a sensation grazes against the back of his thoughts, almost like he’s forgetting something. Perhaps it’s the dream coming back to haunt him, the way Vash looked at him as his hands circled Knives’ neck. If Vash were to hold Knives down and wring the life from him, some part of Knives would know he deserved it. He would crave it—divine punishment from the only creature fit to mete it out.
He had barely fought, not once he had his brother’s hands on him. Perhaps he should have.
Visions filter through the gratified haze of his mind—Vash holding him down, taking his own pleasure at will. Knives struggling, but futilely. There would be relief in being conquered. And once he’s been punished, he can be forgiven.
For now, there’s only this. Vash, still fully clothed but drifting towards sleep, and Knives, sated beside him.
Knives lays in bed listlessly. He’s been restless lately, itching for something, but he can't quite figure out what. Ever since he and Vash had—what? Fucked?
It doesn’t feel right to call it that, not only because it’s vulgar.
They haven’t talked about it, not that Knives expected them to. They go about their days as normal, Vash helping Knives to walk, and eat, and bathe. They’re developing a routine, settling into their lives together. Knives can probably do more than Vash is letting him, but Vash is so insistent, it’s easier to just let him do what he wants.
Vash hasn’t left the house. No more departing for hours, leaving Knives to his own devices. When Knives wakes, Vash has already started breakfast, and when he goes to sleep, Vash lies down next to him. It’s comforting to always be surrounded by his presence. His smell, his voice, his everything.
He dare not let himself hope that anything has changed for Vash, but he’ll enjoy Vash staying of his own accord while he can. Vash is getting restless, too, and Knives can tell it’s only a matter of time before he goes again.
Knives turns on his side to look at his brother, who is sitting at their table and failing to read a book. His leg is bouncing underneath the table, and his eyes are dilated and unfocused.
“You were never much for reading,” Knives says. “Could never hold still long enough to finish anything.”
The afternoon sun shining in through the window bathes Vash in warm light, glinting slightly on the gold of his earring. He looks surprised to have been addressed.
“You noticed, huh?” He laughs softly, the sound of it so incredibly beautiful.
Words catch in Knives’ throat—shall I read to you, like I used to? A sharp knock interrupts, killing any chance he might have had of making himself ask.
“Vash!” calls a human’s voice. “Are you in there?”
Vash jumps in surprise, rushing over to the door. Knives can make out two figures from where he is behind Vash—human women, one much taller than the other. Something ugly rears its head inside him. He doesn’t want anything intruding on his and Vash’s fragile tranquility.
“Why are you both all the way out here?” Vash asks, an apprehensive edge to his voice. The shorter woman is trying to look around Vash into the house, but he twists in such a way to block her gaze.
“We were worried about you, Mr. Vash,” says the taller woman. “We haven’t seen you for a few days.”
“Ah, well that’s—” Vash laughs nervously.
“I thought you were done disappearing,” says the pointy voice of the smaller woman. “Now that you can’t use looking for Knives as an excuse.”
Vash’s laughter edges towards hysteria.
The smaller human tries to push past Vash, ducking under his arm, but she’s stopped by the taller woman grabbing the collar of her clothing.
“We can’t just go in without permission, senpai.”
The apparent senior of the two wriggles pathetically in her junior’s hold before going limp, expression sullen. Over Vash’s shoulder, Knives can make out just a bit of the taller woman’s expression, which is a smile both gentle and threatening.
“Y—you guys want to come in? I don’t know if that’s such a good idea...” Vash says.
The small woman kicks Vash’s shin pointedly. He grunts in pain and whines at her, but she uses the distraction to finally slip under Vash’s arm and dart into the room. When she sees Knives, she stops in her tracks, eyes wide with shock.
“Oh.”
He meets her gaze as neutrally as he can manage. He hates her, deeply, but he won’t start problems for Vash.
“You knew it was only one room,” Vash says ruefully, coming to stand beside her. “This is my brother.” The taller woman trails behind him cautiously. “Knives.”
“Hmmph.” The short one crosses her arms and turns her head away from both of them.
“Um, Knives.” Vash is twisting his hands together nervously. “This is Meryl Stryfe. A...” He looks over at the Stryfe woman, who is tapping her foot in annoyance. “A friend of mine.”
Her posture softens just a fraction at that.
“Nice to meet you,” she says through gritted teeth, nodding her head in Knives’ general direction. When Knives doesn’t answer, she stomps her foot and turns away. “I’m waiting outside, Milly,” she calls over her shoulder, and slams the door shut behind her.
The tall woman lets out an uneasy laugh. “She was worried about you, Mr. Vash. I told her you were just busy, but she wanted to come check.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.” Vash speaks to her in a soft, fond way that Knives has never heard from him. “Um, right. This is my brother, Knives.” He gestures towards their bed, and unlike the Stryfe woman, this one approaches him right away.
“Hello,” she chirps, extending one hand toward him. “I’m Milly Thompson.”
The smile she’s wearing is blinding. Knives blinks. After a moment, she frowns slightly, then claps her hands together in realization.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Knives! I forgot your arms are injured!” Her brow is furrowed with worry. “I may not be able to shake your hand right now, but it’s nice to finally meet you.”
He doesn’t know if she’s faking or just insane. When he looks to Vash—for guidance, maybe—he’s met only with a half-smile and a single-shouldered shrug.
Milly Thompson smiles at him again. It’s unnerving.
“I’m sorry for barging in on you both like this. Now that we know Mr. Vash is okay, we’ll be on our way.” She walks toward the door, but turns back around before she exits. “Mr. Vash?”
“Hmn?”
“Don’t disappear anymore, okay?”
Knives watches as guilt mars his brother’s handsome face.
His lips part hesitantly, but after a moment he says, “I’ll try.”
Looking as though he’s promised her the world, Milly Thompson finally follows her companion’s example and leaves.
Vash presses his back and palms against the door and closes his eyes, sighing deeply. When his eyes open again, he looks directly at Knives, a small, private smile on his lips. Knives’ heart thumps loudly against his breast.
“Thank you, Knives.”
“For what?”
Vash walks over to him and pats his cheek.
“Don’t play dumb.”
Knives grabs his hand before he can do anything else embarrassing. Vash narrows his eyes at the fingers circling his wrist, then slides his gaze back to Knives’ face.
“Knives. Are you feeling shy?” Knives wishes he could punch the smirk off of Vash’s face. Vash turns his gaze further up toward Knives’ bicep. “You lifted your arm up so quickly. Was there any pain?”
Knives had done it without thinking, but now that Vash points it out, he realizes no, there wasn’t. He shakes his head.
“That’s great,” Vash says, gripping Knives’ chin so that he can’t look away. “You’re getting so much better.”
Knives very nearly asks. Vash’s proximity, the soft look in his eyes directed at Knives, it’s almost enough for him to smother his pride and ask what happens once he’s fully healed. Vash waits patiently, his gaze expectant.
But fear gets the better of him, as it often does, and the question dies in his throat before he can voice it. Knives drops his gaze, and Vash lets his fingers fall from Knives’ chin.
Knives and Vash’s life slowly takes the shape of a routine. They eat together and clean their little home. Vash helps Knives where he needs it, and every day they do exercises to strengthen Knives’ muscles. Vash’s form of unrelenting care might be irritating, but it seems to be competent. Though Knives is still a much weaker version of himself, his wounds, at least, have scarred over completely.
Vash leaves sometimes, to go into town or visit the two human women, but he always comes back. He brings Knives books, and Knives reads to pass the hours. By the time the suns go down, his body is already exhausted, and he’s pulled into sleep as soon as his head touches his pillow.
Often, he dreams. His mind dredges the depths of his unconscious for things he didn’t know he remembered and plays them out for him like a human movie. There are things he knows aren’t real, as well, and sometimes he’s glad of it. Vash killing him in the desert makes frequent appearances. So, too, does a woman he’d made painstaking efforts to never think of, and yet, within dreams, he can’t seem to escape her gentle voice nor her dark curtain of hair.
She is there in his best memories of Vash, and she is there in his worst nightmares. Sometimes, she’s the one who kills him. Sometimes, she crawls from the wreckage of the ship, her face marred with blood, entrails spilling onto the sand, yet somehow still alive. She drags herself toward Knives, smiling, and tells him, It’s alright. I’ll never leave you alone.
Knives wakes, panting and scared, the vision of her undead face still burning against the back of his eyelids. He jerks the covers aside and sits up, trying to calm his breathing. Vash is nowhere in sight, but steam escapes from under the bathroom door, and he can hear Vash singing, his voice echoing against the bathroom walls.
The tendrils of moisture and the discordant tones of his brother’s song wrap him in a comforting haze, and the remains of the dream fade away. He scrubs a hand across his face. Based on the height of the suns, he slept late, and his stomach growls angrily at him. Pulling on a shirt, he goes to start breakfast, wincing as his wounds twinge.
His pain is mostly manageable, but some days are better than others. If his muscles hurt this much just from a few steps, he’s in for one of the worse days. He tries to ignore it, limping stiffly toward the kitchen, each step sending a spasm of pain up his leg.
By the time Vash comes out of the shower, skin faintly red from the heat of the water, Knives is most of the way through preparing coffee and toast. He can’t manage much more than that on his own, especially not while his whole body is aching, so he drops heavily into a chair and waits for Vash to finish up. Vash takes to the task without being asked, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth while he cooks something more substantial.
“Good morning,” he says cheerily as he sets food and coffee on the table.
“Morning,” Knives grunts.
Knives downs half of his coffee in one go before picking up his fork. Vash has his own plate, but he isn’t touching it, just looking at Knives.
“I’m eating,” Knives grumbles. “You don’t have to watch me.”
“I know. You just seem off, or something.”
“I’m fine.”
Vash stares him down for another moment, but then he gives up and takes a bite of his breakfast. While he’s sitting, Knives can mostly ignore the pain, which recedes to a dull ache. When both of their plates are scraped clean, however, Vash joins Knives on his side of the table and starts him on his morning stretches. At the first touch of his hands on Knives’ arm, Knives winces.
“What hurts?” Vash asks.
Knives shakes his head dismissively. Vash rubs his upper arm soothingly and continues on to the next part of the regimen. They make it through most of the exercises without incident, Knives gritting his teeth whenever the pain flares up. But when Vash helps him stand up to take him to his wheelchair, the weight on his legs causes a sharp burning, and he cries out, stumbling forward against Vash’s chest.
Vash grabs him to keep him from falling, his brow furrowed with concern. He sweeps him up and takes him over to the bed, setting him down on the edge.
“I’m fine, Vash.”
Vash ignores him, pressing his fingertips along Knives’ thigh, trying to find the source of the pain. When he squeezes close to the bullet wound, Knives hisses through his teeth, his leg twitching involuntarily.
Vash switches to a gentle touch, apologizing under his breath. Dragging a chair over from the table, he settles Knives’ leg on his lap and continues his soft exploration. Usually, Vash only touches him functionally; his hands don’t often linger. Even when they’re doing Knives’ stretches, Vash is always trying to push him further than he’s gone before, and Knives can only focus on the strain in his muscles. The delicate skimming of Vash’s hands feels nice.
Vash’s gaze is distant. Knives is watching him, and he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m sorry,” Vash says suddenly.
“For what?” Knives knows better, now, than to expect Vash to apologize for anything that actually matters.
One of Vash’s hands trails purposefully back towards Knives’ thigh, and he circles around the wound with his fingers. Knives has a sudden, sharp vision of Vash thrusting those fingers inside the bullet hole, so visceral he nearly flinches.
“That it came to this,” Vash says, unaware of the lurid turn Knives’ thoughts have taken. His hand won’t stop stroking up Knives’ thigh, over the wound, down to his knee, and then back. “I don’t want you to suffer.”
Knives’ chest aches, an ache so deep that he can’t find the bottom of it. If only Vash sounded less sincere, maybe it would hurt him less. Hot tears form in his eyes, and Vash is far too focused on him not to notice.
“Oh, Knives,” Vash leans in, one hand going to Knives’ cheek. “Does it hurt that badly?”
“I hate you,” Knives says, meaning the opposite.
“I know.” Vash brushes his thumb along Knives’ cheekbone. “At least let me try to help.” Vash stands up and lifts Knives’ leg carefully and rests it on his chair. “Lie back.”
Knives, his leg and chest still stinging, relaxes back into the mattress and closes his eyes. Vash goes to the kitchen and rustles around for a few minutes, returning with a towel full of ice. Sliding back into his chair with Knives’ leg comfortably in his lap, he places it on Knives’ thigh and holds it there.
Not one to hold still for long, Vash brings his other hand up to Knives’ non-iced leg and resumes his mindless movements. He keeps his touch light, never digging in or doing anything that might inflame Knives’ wounds further. Knives can feel himself getting drowsy, the softness of the bed and Vash’s fingers enough to lull him towards sleep. But when Vash’s fingers dip to the inside of Knives’ thigh, he tenses up.
“Did that hurt?”
Knives turns his head, avoiding Vash’s worried gaze. He surely notices the flush on Knives’ cheeks anyway. Of course, instead of moving on or pretending it didn’t happen, Vash does it again, this time with purpose. And then, again.
After a few passes, Knives can no longer keep a strained moan from escaping his throat. Thankfully, Vash doesn’t comment on it. He gives up on the bag of ice, setting it to the side in favor of stroking the inside of that thigh, too. Knives can feel himself getting wet, and he’s only a little embarrassed about how easy it is for Vash to turn him on.
“Knives?” Vash clambers onto the bed and on top of Knives, smiling down at him from his new vantage point. One of his hands teases at the button of Knives’ pants. “Would this be a good distraction from the pain?”
“Are you asking permission?” Knives raises an eyebrow. “Why? You’ll do whatever you want regardless.”
Vash is pouting a bit when he says, “Only because I want to help.”
Knives laughs, and Vash’s eyes go wide. Knives flushes under his attention, but he’s trapped by Vash’s body with nowhere to hide.
Vash touches one shirt button with the pad of his index finger, then plucks it open. After waiting a moment to observe Knives’ reaction, he does it to the next one. Knives reaches to undo the rest, but Vash stops him.
“Let me.”
He finishes unbuttoning Knives’ shirt and removes it, then does the same to his pants. Once Knives is completely bare, Vash’s hands go to his injuries, rubbing his palms over each of them in turn. They’re experimental, curious touches, and don’t hurt at all.
Knives is already soaking wet, just from the teasing. Vash is right that it’s a good distraction from the pain—he’s melting into the mattress under Vash’s hands. If Vash would grab him, twist into his wounds, grip him hard enough to bruise, he’s sure it would ruin him.
“Fuck,” he says when Vash scrapes his nails close to the wound on one of his thighs. Maybe he isn’t as blind to Knives’ desires as Knives presumed.
It doesn’t take long for him to come, not once Vash finally touches his cunt. He shoves his fingers inside Knives’ entrance roughly, making Knives cry out, and fucks into him a few times. His thumb rubs against Knives’ clit, and that’s enough to push Knives over the edge.
His back arches against the mattress, and Vash, apparently pleased with himself, hums quietly, watching intently as Knives pants and twitches against him. Only once Knives’ breathing has slowed does he untangle their limbs and move to get up. Knives stops him with a hand around his forearm. Vash looks at him questioningly, and Knives tugs him closer.
“You too,” he says harshly.
Vash smiles, head tilted in confusion. Knives reaches for the clasp of Vash’s pants instead, and no matter how obtuse Vash is, surely that can’t be misconstrued.
“Knives,” Vash says with a sigh, stopping Knives’ hand. “I don’t need—”
“I want to,” Knives admits, a low growl hiding in his throat.
Vash looks taken aback. Maybe it's because of Knives’ vehemence, or because Knives has yet to ask anything of him. Knives doesn’t believe Vash could truly be surprised by how badly Knives wants him. Not when Knives’ desire has always been there, screaming itself from his every pore.
If he’s somehow unaware, this may be Knives’ only chance to show him, and he’s not going to let it slip away. Determined, he sits up, but Vash pushes him back down.
“You need to limit your movement.”
He hadn’t seemed to care about that when he had Knives writhing under him only a few moments ago. He also hasn’t said no.
“Come here then,” Knives says, letting his fingers slide down Vash’s arm to join their hands.
Vash hesitates, then takes his hand out of Knives’. Knives’ stomach drops. He hadn’t thought that Vash found his touch so abhorrent that he would reject even the offer of reciprocity.
But then, Vash’s hands go to his own clothes and begin stripping them off. Knives watches as the long lines of his legs are bared, his stomach flipping with something like nerves. Vash’s whole body is mangled, covered with old injuries, some of them overlapping. He feels a flash of sickening guilt for having added to them. Despite them all, Vash is beautiful.
Knives watches as every inch of Vash’s scarred skin is revealed. He’s unsure what Vash expects of him, so he waits for Vash to make the first move. Once he’s set his clothing aside, he comes back to the bed, stroking a hand through Knives hair.
“Why don’t you lie back?” Vash asks him.
Knives adjusts so his head is perfectly flat on top of his pillow. Once he’s still, Vash crawls on top of him, hands on either side of Knives’ head. Knives hands go to Vash’s body of their own volition, traveling from the back of his knees to his thighs and over the curve of his ass. His skin is far from smooth, Knives’ hands can’t find a patch that isn’t scarred or pockmarked. Knives wonders if he could spend the rest of his life mapping the marks with his fingers.
Vash is looking down at him, eyes locked on Knives’ face. When Knives’ hands reach Vash’s lower back, he keeps them there, stroking slowly along his tailbone. The moment stretches and thickens between them, quiet and intimate.
Vash is so close that when he finally speaks, his breath brushes across Knives’ face. “Since you can’t move much, how about you use your mouth?”
If Knives had an eternity to learn every word in every language, he still wouldn’t be able to describe the magnitude of his want. Part of him hopes that his desire is painted across his face. At least then Vash couldn’t be ignorant of it any longer. The rest of him hopes Vash will never, ever discern the depth of his longing.
Vash accepts whatever he sees, patting his hand against Knives’ cheek. He clambers up Knives’ body and settles his knees on either side of his head. The smell of skin and the beginnings of arousal hit Knives’ nose, his sight full of Vash’s cunt.
“Are you ready?” Vash asks, gripping the headboard tightly to balance himself.
“Yes.” His mouth is watering at the mere thought of getting to taste Vash.
Vash lowers himself towards Knives, and Knives pushes up and closes the distance to shove his mouth against Vash’s folds. At the first taste, a low groan is forced from his mouth. Vash makes a surprised noise, nearly falling forward, but Knives’ grip on his hips stops him.
Knives can’t help but open his mouth immediately, sliding his tongue across Vash’s folds, everywhere he can reach. He teases Vash’s entrance, Vash’s own wetness dripping onto his tongue.
At first, Vash is mostly just sitting against Knives’ face and letting him have his way. Knives slows down, gentles the touch of his lips against Vash’s wet skin. When his lips brush against Vash’s clit, Vash’s breath catches, and he rocks his hips against Knives for more pressure. Knives, desperate to please, strains his neck upward to lap at Vash’s slit and drag his tongue up and across his clit again.
Vash must notice, because he puts one hand under the base of Knives’ skull to support its weight. His fingers scrape against Knives’ scalp pleasantly, and their support gives him the leverage he needs to keep from falling back against the pillow. He gets his tongue as deep inside Vash as he can, loving the tightness of Vash squeezing against the muscle. More than that, he loves the soft noises the motion pulls from Vash—barely more than breaths, but unmistakably pleased.
After a moment, Vash slides his hand up further, threading it through Knives’ hair and gently guiding his head where Vash wants him. It unlocks something in Knives, to be used, and he moans against Vash’s flesh. He licks frantically, single-mindedly, wanting more than anything to make it good for Vash.
He opens his eyes and can make out a little of Vash’s expression from where his head has dropped to his chest. It makes heat flood his own cunt to see him, eyes closed and mouth open as Knives pleasures him.
Slight pressure on the back of his head tells Knives to move back to Vash’s entrance, so he fucks his tongue inside Vash, twisting it around experimentally.
Vash moans quietly. “Nn, Knives.”
The sound of his name crossing his brother’s lips in such a way satisfies a need that lives deep in his core, and he is well and truly wet again, dripping against the sheets. He eats Vash out until Vash’s thighs are shaking on either side of him and Vash’s moans are barely restrained. The bed creaks as Vash grips the headboard hard, forcing his hips lower. Vash freezes for a moment before crying out. A flood of hot liquid hits Knives’ tongue as Vash comes, and he laps it up eagerly.
Vash can barely hold himself up, his arms and legs are trembling so hard. Knives supports the back of his thighs with his hands as best he can until the twitching stops. Still panting slightly, Vash pulls himself away from Knives’ mouth and adjusts himself further down Knives’ body and collapses on top of him. He curls a hand across Knives’ chest, head on Knives’ shoulder.
Hesitantly, Knives brings his arms up to draw Vash into his embrace. Vash hums and tucks his nose into Knives’ neck, setting Knives incredibly off-balance. His own cunt is still aching with arousal, but he ignores it, settling into the mattress with Vash as his blanket.
It crosses his mind that it had been rather easy, all things considered, to convince Vash to let Knives touch him. It isn’t a simple thing to talk Vash into things he doesn’t want—in fact, Knives isn’t sure he’s ever managed it, not in a hundred and fifty years. He can’t let his mind linger on the thought too long, not when he’s still so unsure what it is Vash wants from him. But another dangerously hopeful thought surfaces on the wave of the first; that perhaps there is more Knives could coax from Vash, if he only asked.
When the Stryfe woman and Milly Thompson come to visit a second time, it’s by invitation. The morning before, Vash asked Knives, “What do you think of having Meryl and Milly over for a visit?”
“Why do they need to come here?” Knives asks.
Vash taps his spoon on the side of his cup, thoughtful.
“I think it would be good for you. To talk to people other than me, I mean.”
Knives would be content to speak to no one but his brother for the remainder of his life, regardless of how long that may be.
“You’ve already made up your mind, then.” There isn’t any bite in his words—it’s a tacit yes and Vash knows it.
After breakfast, Vash takes off to the closest town, where the two women are living. From what little Vash has told Knives about them, he has gleaned that they traveled with Vash for some time while he was hunting Knives. Whatever Knives thinks of Vash befriending humans, they seem to be loyal to him, at least.
Knives doubts he will ever be as magnanimous as Vash, but he will put aside his prejudices, at least for these two. He is enjoying the harmony that living with Vash has brought, and he’d be a fool to damage it.
The Stryfe woman enters far more meekly than the last time, Vash holding the door open for her as she steps in. She greets Knives stiffly before plopping into one of their dining table chairs and turning her back to him. Milly Thompson chats with Vash animatedly, waving at Knives when she notices his eyes on her.
Once Vash and Meryl are sitting too, Stryfe slides a box across the table to Vash.
“Oh, for me?” he says, opening it gleefully. The smell of confection wafts out of it.
“Housewarming present,” Stryfe says.
“For both of you,” Milly adds, smiling at Knives.
Suddenly, three pairs of eyes are on him, and an uncomfortable sensation itches his skin. He should join them at the table, probably, but suddenly the few steps from the bed to the empty chair seem unbridgeable. What’s worse—letting the two humans think he can’t get up, or letting them see him stumble if he tries?
Before he can make a decision, Vash is in front of him, offering a hand. Knives looks up gratefully and is met with a quiet smile. He staggers slightly getting up anyway, but Vash catches his other wrist and doesn’t let him fall, his body blocking the women from seeing him. He walks Knives to his chair with a supportive hand on his lower back, then bustles to the kitchen to make coffee.
“You seem to be healing well, Mr. Knives.”
The smile Milly is aiming at him is a little too brilliant. He jerks his chin in affirmation. Stryfe looks between them disapprovingly. Vash doesn’t notice any of it, too busy gathering cups and plates while he waits for water to boil.
“When Mr. Vash said you’d be living here together, I wasn’t too sure how that was going to work,” Milly says with a little laugh. “I’m glad everything is going well.”
That, Vash does hear, and he flicks curious eyes to Knives. “It’s been good,” he says as he sets Knives’ mug in front of him. “Right?”
Knives looks up at Vash, eyebrows raised. He’s not sure what Vash wants from him—does he think Knives will answer negatively? Is he worried Knives will give his human friends a bad impression? But then, he sees the anxiety hiding in Vash’s posture, the nervous energy radiating off of him. He wants to know Knives’ answer, doesn’t know whether Knives thinks it’s been good here, just the two of them.
He grips his mug for something to do, turning his eyes toward it as Vash fills it with steaming liquid. The back of his neck and ears flush slightly. Vash is so stupid. If he couldn’t feel the two women’s eyes on them, he would kick Vash for even asking.
“Yes, it’s been fine.” The coffee is so hot that it scalds his lips when he tries to take a sip, so he awkwardly puts his cup back down. He can see Vash beaming at him from the corner of his eye.
They eat, and drink, and Knives’ embarrassment simmers to nothing once the conversation turns away from him. The other three are full of stories about people Knives doesn’t know, events he doesn’t remember, updates for Vash on things Knives doesn’t understand. It’s fine, though. Knives has always known Vash has lived an entire lifetime with the humans, and although it still pains him, he’s getting used to it. After all, he has Vash now.
Vash is different around them, which stings. He’s more open. He laughs. Knives hasn’t seen Vash like this since the ship, with Rem and the crew. He assumed that, like him, Vash had left that part of him in the wreckage of their first home. It’s only now, when he can see the casual comfort of long-time acquaintance these three share, that he realizes how wrong he was.
He wants it for himself. To be able to coexist with Vash and have it be easy. They are the only two beings who have known each other for their entire lives, and yet, they don’t know each other at all. They have so much lost time between them.
Vash’s loud laugh rings out, echoing off the walls of the tiny home. He looks beautiful when he laughs. The joy on Vash’s face may not be directed at Knives, not yet, but it no longer feels like an impossible thing—as though their bond is not, in fact, irreversibly broken.
The two women stay long enough for second cups of coffee. The three of them never run dry of things to say, but Knives finds it less grating than he thought he would. Milly is exceedingly pleasant, and she balances out the more aggressive tones of the Stryfe woman. Vash speaks incessantly, but his words are light, airy, and sweet, like the human desserts he loves.
“We should probably head back soon,” Stryfe says when the first of the suns begins to dip low in the sky. “We have an early day tomorrow.”
“And I haven’t finished packing,” Milly adds ruefully.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Stryfe says.
“Let me walk you back to the inn,” Vash says, getting up from his chair. “It’ll be dark before you make it back.”
Both of them wave him off as they get up from their own chairs.
“You know we’re tougher than that, Mr. Vash,” Milly says with a gentle punch to his arm.
Knives can see that Vash wants to protest further, but Milly’s unshakeable smile and Stryfe’s domineering aura win out.
As they head toward the door, haltingly, Vash says, “I’ll miss you.”
The words seem to shock Stryfe and Milly just as much as they do Knives—it’s written openly on their faces, until it melts into warmth on Milly’s and sadness on Stryfe’s.
“We’ll come back to visit soon,” Milly assures him, her eyes growing teary.
“And you could come see us for once,” Meryl says, the sadness in her eyes turning to steel.
“Once Mr. Knives is completely healed,” Milly adds.
Knives feels his stomach swoop unpleasantly.
“Yeah.” Vash smiles radiantly at them. Knives can only just make it out from where he’s sitting. “Shouldn’t be long now.”
Stryfe slips Vash a piece of paper. “Don’t be a stranger,” she whispers. After a moment of hesitation, she embraces him for a split second before rushing outside.
“Mr. Vaaaaaaaaaash,” Milly says, her tears finally dripping from her eyes as she throws her arms around him. “I don’t want to leave,” she sniffles into his shoulder.
Vash puts his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head. “I’ll see you soon, I promise.”
“You promise?” she asks wetly.
“I’m done running, remember?” His lips brush against the top of her head while he speaks, muffling the words slightly.
Knives feels like an intruder, but has nowhere to escape to even if he could do so easily. He can only sit, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that they creak, choking on bitter envy. A promise of a future together is something Vash has never bestowed upon him.
When Milly finally pulls away from the hug, she hastily wipes her tears on the sleeve of her coat. She laughs a bit when Vash smiles at her.
“Guess I should get going. Senpai is waiting.”
Vash ushers her out the door and closes it gently behind her. He rests his head against the wood until the sounds of the two women’s footsteps fade. Only then does he turn to Knives, the remainder of his sorrow still resting on his brows.
“They’re returning to their hometown,” he says, fiddling with the paper Stryfe gave him. “Or, well. The place they work, at least.”
“How wonderful for them,” Knives says, unable to keep the bile from his voice.
Vash’s eyebrows rise. “Knives?”
Knives clenches his teeth, burning with a sick mix of jealousy, anger, and embarrassment at having let it show.
“You’re angry?” Vash asks, ducking to try and meet Knives’ eyes. Knives avoids his gaze, but Vash places a gentle hand under his jaw and turns his face upward. “At least tell me what I did.”
Knives wonders if Vash can feel how tense the muscles under his hand are. He looks disappointed that Knives doesn’t say anything, letting go of him with a heavy sigh.
“They won’t be coming around anymore, if that’s the problem.” He smiles sadly, flipping the little paper around in his fingers. “They’ll be too far from here.”
Knives snatches the paper, crumpling it slightly in the process. It’s a business card that reads BERNARDELLI INSURANCE, CO. with an address and phone number listed underneath. He turns it over, and scrawled in pen is an additional address and the words Milly and I’s apartment. No need to call ahead.
“You should have gone with them,” Knives says, forcing the words out past his barely unclenched teeth.
Vash’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“You clearly want to go with them.” Knives laughs humorlessly. “So—go.”
Vash always leaves him, and he should’ve known better than to let himself hope that this time would be different. Vash could at least spare him the waiting.
Vash looks confused and a little hurt.
“Without you?”
“How else?”
“I’m not going to leave you while you still need me.”
“I don’t need you,” Knives hisses.
Vash’s brows furrow and the corners of his mouth turn downward with displeasure. “Someone has to look after you. You’re not well enough to be left on your own.”
“And whose fault is that?” Knives spits.
Vash brings a hand up to Knives’ upper arm and brushes against the scar there. Even with the fabric of his shirt separating their skin, Knives’ flesh prickles at the sensation.
“Mine,” Vash whispers.
Knives’ breath catches. His body longs to relax into Vash’s touch, even as his heart pumps bitter acid through his veins.
“You could’ve killed me. Spared yourself the burden.” Knives doesn’t know what to make of the expression on Vash’s face.
“I didn’t want to.” His hand travels up and over Knives’ collarbone, and he follows it with his eyes. “I told you, Knives.”
“I don’t believe you.” Knives has always been the one who had to make the hard decisions for both of them. If it weren’t for him, they’d still be on the ship, being treated like monsters—or dead. “I could see the conviction in your eyes. You wanted to and were too weak to follow through.”
“I came there to save you.” Vash’s voice is as hard as steel. “And I did it.”
Knives grabs Vash’s hand and forces him to press it against his neck. “You wanted this.”
“Stop telling me what I wanted.” Despite his words, Vash makes no move to try and take his hand away.
“Someone has to. After more than a century of life, you still can’t be honest, not even with yourself.”
Knives takes Vash’s other hand in his and brings it up to his neck. There’s no resistance from Vash; he stares at Knives blankly, frustration radiating off of him. When both of Vash’s hands are settled around his neck, Knives grips Vash’s wrists tightly and makes him press down. He leans into the hold, squeezing Vash’s wrists hard enough to bruise.
“It’s not too late,” he says, voice thin from the pressure on his airway.
Vash exhales sharply, his eyes fixed on Knives’ throat. The fingers against Knives’ skin flex, and then Vash holds his hands there of his own accord. Knives’ swallows, the movement of his throat bringing the sensation of Vash’s hands on his skin into sharp relief.
Vash flicks his wide eyes to Knives’.
“I’ve thought about it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. A thrill of fear darts up Knives’ spine, even as his heart races with excitement. Vash’s eyes are wild, his breaths coming fast and shallow, as though he too can’t quite get enough air. He’s never looked more beautiful.
When Vash’s fingers finally, finally tighten, Knives closes his eyes, an ecstatic kind of relief coming over him. His instincts are telling him to fight, but he ignores them, letting calm take hold. Finally, he will get what he wants—he can’t fear death when it’s at Vash’s hands.
He never loses consciousness, though. Before Knives can register the movement, Vash’s hands have slid up his throat and jaw. He pulls Knives towards him roughly, and Knives’ eyelids fly open when Vash slams his lips against Knives’ own.
Knives makes an involuntary noise, pulling back in shock, but Vash keeps his hold on his face and doesn’t let him move away. He gentles his mouth against Knives’ own, one hand sliding to the back of Knives’ head. Their lips slide together softly, noses bumping, the heat of Vash’s mouth like a firebrand.
Vash pulls away just far enough to breathe, then comes back for one more kiss. One hand goes back to Knives’ throat, but Vash’s touch is caressing, not violent. He brushes his fingers along Knives’ collarbone, and something inside Knives cracks open.
“I’ve thought about this, too,” Vash says, his lips brushing along Knives’ cheekbone. He moves closer to Knives ear, nips at the underside of his jaw.
Knives chokes on a sob. The sweeping euphoria of the previous moment is gone, and in its absence, he’s left empty. The hand on his throat burns; the lips on his skin are cold. He places both of his palms on Vash’s chest, not knowing himself whether he wants to pull him closer or push him away.
Vash kisses him again, thumb and forefinger on the back of Knives’ neck tilting his head upwards. Knives lets him. He’s angry, or sad, or maybe both, but Vash is here, and he tastes so good. He doesn’t fight when Vash ushers him to their bed, nor when Vash gets above him, trapping him between his limbs and starts kissing him again.
“Isn’t this better?” Vash asks in between kisses. “I don’t want to hurt you, Knives.”
“Why not?” Knives asks desperately, and Vash freezes.
“You want me to hurt you?”
“How can you not want to?” Knives asks, and—he’s finally figured out the real question, the one he didn’t know to ask. “Why won’t you punish me?”
Vash’s expression, which had been perplexed, transforms with some unknown realization.
“You want to be punished?” he asks.
“What? No, I—”
“You do,” Vash insists. He leans in close, Knives’ vision going blurry while trying to focus on him. “Do you think you deserve that?”
Knives can’t answer, doesn’t know himself. He knows he wants Vash’s lips on him again, wants Vash’s hands on his throat, wants to be with him forever, wants Vash to never leave him ever again.
He looks at Vash desperately, their faces so close together that Knives could count Vash’s eyelashes. He doesn’t know what Vash sees of his thoughts, but suddenly he’s being kissed again and it doesn’t matter.
“I’m not going to punish you, Knives,” Vash says, his lips brushing against Knives’ mouth. “And I’m not going to hurt you.” He sits back on Knives’ hips, and puts one hand on Knives’ neck, eyes locked with Knives’. “At least not in the way you mean.”
“I think I need you to,” Knives says, feeling like he’s going to throw up his own beating heart.
Vash strokes along Knives’ jaw. “It’s alright.” His voice is soft, placating. “I’ll help you. I’ll figure out what you need.” Vash’s surety is difficult to oppose. Knives closes his eyes, his heart still pounding in his throat, hard enough that Vash can probably feel it against his fingers.
Vash leans in, his hand tightening ever so slightly, forcing Knives’ jaw upwards. His metal hand slides across the back of Knives’ head and through his hair, gripping the strands and pulling. Knives’ head is trapped on both sides by Vash’s hands, his neck completely exposed. Lips, and then teeth, touch the delicate skin there, sending electric sparks along his nerves.
Knives lets out a soft moan, and Vash, encouraged, bites harder. He sucks at the place he bit, making it sting pleasantly. Vash kisses and bites along the underside of Knives’ jaw and down across his jugular, stopping to nurse some of the bites into bruises. Sometimes, Knives can feel the tip of Vash’s tongue dart out from between his lips to tease at the purpling skin.
It seems that Vash will cover every bit of his neck, and Knives is content to allow it. Arousal burns lowly between his legs, Vash’s ass rubbing against him every time he moves. Vash sits back eventually, undoing the rest of Knives’ buttons that have made it this far and pulling his shirt open. He admires his handiwork, first with his eyes, then with his hands.
The nascent bruises throb slightly under Vash’s touch, a pleasantly aching collar that covers the entire column of Knives’ neck. Why Vash was willing to bruise him with his mouth but not his hands, Knives doesn’t know. Vash is a hypocrite in all things. He moves his palms down from Knives’ neck and across his collar bones, then pushes the shirt from his shoulders.
Vash turns his attention to the scars on Knives’ upper arms, caressing them reverently. He puts his mouth on them, sucking lightly. Knives’ breath is stoppered in his lungs, his whole body buzzing softly.
“Here,” Vash says, guiding Knives’ arms above his head and urging him to grip the headboard. He kisses one of Knives’ wrists, moving back down his body to kiss his chest. His eyes flick to Knives’, and he takes one of Knives nipples between his lips and licks lightly.
“Vash.” Knives is shocked at his own body’s reaction—his cunt throbs, gushing hot arousal.
Vash doesn’t heed his admonishment, suckling at one nipple and then the other until they are red and overstimulated. Helpless under his ministrations, Knives squirms, lifting his hips to try and find relief where Vash’s ass is pressed against him.
“Vash,” Knives repeats urgently.
Vash finally pauses, looking up at Knives consideringly. He watches Knives face as he licks lightly at one hardened bud. The sensation on Knives’ sensitive skin is too much, and he releases one hand from the headboard to push Vash away. The look Vash turns on him is pathetically disappointed.
“Do you need me to stop?” he asks unhappily. “I will if that’s what you want.”
“When has what I wanted ever mattered to you?” Knives asks.
At first, Vash looks hurt. Knives tries not to dwell on how badly that pains him. But when Vash sees Knives’ open, waiting expression, some of the misery melts away. He makes an aborted motion to touch Knives again, like he’s still not quite sure if he should.
“So, you’re saying I should stop considering what you want?” The corner of Vash’s mouth lifts a bit as he says it.
“When did you start?”
“Knives,” Vash says, half-admonishing, half-pleased.
He takes Knives’ wrist in hand hesitantly, tugging it back above his head. Knives’ wound twinges slightly at the change, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Vash kisses him, but he’s being far too soft and gentle, like he’s lost the surety of Knives’ desire.
So Knives bites him.
It’s hard enough that Vash yelps and jumps back, a tiny speck of red blooming on his mouth. Vash’s eyes are wide, and he touches the spot with a finger as though to check that it's real.
“Knives... what—?” Vash’s breath is coming hard and he’s slightly flushed. Disheveled looks good on him.
Knives raises an eyebrow at him, and then, under his breath, Vash lets out a soft oh, and lunges forward. He takes Knives’ mouth again, any semblance of gentleness gone. His tongue presses against Knives’ lips and forces its way inside, sliding across Knives’ teeth and the roof of his mouth. Knives moans, the coppery taste of Vash’s blood mingling with his saliva.
He makes his way downward, nipping at a few of the bruises he’d made earlier, tonguing Knives’ sensitive nipples. The kisses he places on the soft parts of Knives’ stomach are close-lipped and chaste. Knives longs to put his hands in Vash’s hair, push it back to see his face, but he leaves his fingers wrapped around the posts of the headboard obediently.
When Vash arrives at the trail of hair leading to Knives’ cunt, he nuzzles against it. Knives’ stomach swoops—it tickles, and it’s so worshipful that he could cry. Vash takes Knives’ pants off, but rather than put his mouth where Knives needs it, he lowers his lips to one of the bullet wounds on Knives’ thigh. The scar tissue tingles, but not painfully so.
Vash strokes his hands up the backs of Knives’ thighs, slow and firm. He licks experimentally, then harder when Knives’ thigh muscles twitch involuntarily. He does it again on the other thigh and Knives nearly thrashes, so pent-up from the arousal that he’s losing control.
“Shh,” Vash murmurs against Knives’ thigh. “I've got you.”
He kisses along the inside of Knives’ leg, licking the crease between his leg and pelvis. His breath is warm against Knives’ soaked cunt. Finally, he puts his lips on Knives’ outer folds, and Knives’ groans, unable to help it. Vash’s tongue teases its way further into Knives’ wet heat, lapping at the slick skin and adding to the wetness. The tip circles Knives’ clit, and Knives bucks against it, chasing the sensation. Vash takes mercy on him, slipping two fingers into his mouth, which he sucks gratefully, before putting them inside him. When Vash places his lips on Knives’ clit and sucks, it takes Knives over the edge and he comes, squeezing tightly around Vash’s fingers.
Vash sighs happily against Knives’ twitching cunt. “You taste amazing,” he says, placing a kiss on Knives’ lower stomach. Knives is already full-body flushed with arousal, but his cheeks heat all the same.
Knives has the thought that he’d like to return the favor, but he can’t voice it, because Vash’s fingers start to move inside him again. Vash’s gaze is locked on Knives’ cunt and the place where his fingers disappear inside him, Knives so slick with his own arousal and Vash’s spit that the motion creates a filthy wet noise.
“I want to fuck you,” Vash says. “So badly.” Knives moans, his back arching, pushing Vash’s fingers deeper. “I can get something, you know,” Vash continues excitedly. “A harness I can wear that lets me fuck you.”
Knives whimpers, Vash’s words and his fingers far too much for his restraint to hold up against. Vash laughs like it was startled out of him, a pleased edge to it.
“Oh you like that,” he says delightedly. “I’ll get it for you, Knives.” He positions himself over top of Knives, fucking his fingers inside him as deep as they’ll go. “It’ll be so thick and long, it’ll take awhile for you to be able to handle it. But I’ll help you.” He leans down and captures Knives’ lips, thrusting his tongue inside Knives’ mouth and fucking it in and out sloppily.
Vash aligns his hips with his hand and thrusts them forward, using the force of the motion to fuck his fingers into Knives even harder. Knives is helpless to do anything but lie back and let his mouth and cunt be plundered, gripping the headboard as tightly as he can.
“When your legs are better, I’ll have you on your knees and take you from behind,” Vash promises, panting against Knives’ mouth. “I’ll have you against the wall, and over the table, too. If I get tired, I’ll sit you on my lap and have you do the work. Do you think your thighs are going to be able to handle it?”
“Fuck, Vash,” is all Knives can get out, the deluge of words and sensations overwhelming him.
“Mmhmm,” Vash says, a coy lilt to it. He takes his fingers out so suddenly that Knives gasps, his cunt clenching on nothing. Vash grips underneath Knives’ thighs and pulls him against his own cunt, pushing his hips up along Knives’ wet folds. “This would be easier if I could put your legs over my shoulders,” he says. “But for now, lie back and let me take care of you.”
Knives clings to his back, gripping hard enough that his nails bite into Vash’s flesh, making Vash’s breath catch. Knives digs in harder. Vash moves his hips down, rubbing their cunts together. Knives moans, and Vash does it again, both their cunts dripping and sliding together, coating their thighs.
“You—you look so good under me,” Vash gasps before latching on to Knives’ throat with his teeth. He grinds their cunts together single-mindedly, his thrusts getting less and less controlled as they both rush towards orgasm.
On an upthrust, Vash’s clit catches against Knives’ hole at just the right angle, and Knives comes for the second time. He moans lowly into Vash’s ear as he writhes under him. Vash doesn’t stop moving his hips, the only sign he’s noticed Knives’ orgasm that he presses a kiss to his temple. He chases his own pleasure, his clit bumping against Knives’ clenching hole, the wet heat of his cunt sending shockwaves of pleasure across Knives’ overstimulated nerves.
He cries out when he comes, shaking against Knives. Knives hopes to hear that noise every day for the rest of his life. Vash’s arms are trembling, and Knives tightens his hold around his back to pull him down onto his chest before he collapses.
“Knives,” Vash murmurs after a few moments, when both of their chests are no longer heaving, and their heart rates have slowed. Knives runs a gentle hand through Vash’s hair, feeling possessive in a way he hasn’t dared to since his injuries.
“Vash?”
“Do you believe me now?”
Knives inhales deeply, tries not to feel like he isn’t afraid of the depth of his own emotions. “You’re going to stay until I’m healed?”
“And after that.”
Embarrassingly, Knives feels tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t say anything lest Vash notice. Vash lifts a lazy hand to Knives’ chest, stroking his skin so lightly that Knives can barely feel it.
“Did you think I would leave you?” His fingers make their way up to Knives’ neck, brushing mindlessly against his bruises. “I spent a century chasing you, Knives. I won’t let you go.”
Knives can’t respond. There’s too much inside him; fear and hope in equal parts, and every ugly and beautiful emotion he’s ever experienced. He tightens his fingers in Vash’s hair, his other arm holding his waist. Vash knows him well—will know what Knives is trying to convey.
When he wakes up in the morning, some of the doubt will return. A lifetime of misunderstandings is not something he can simply bury and forget. But for Vash, he’s willing to try. Sweet Vash, who’s already snoring softly against his shoulder, uncaring of the sticky mess between their legs and all over their sheets.
Senses full of his brother’s scent and feel, Knives has never felt safer in his life. In all his years of life, there’s never been a place he’s belonged, not until now. He lets himself drift, knowing that in the morning, Vash will be there in his arms.