Blood On Your Hands

Donuts tasted differently with blood on your hands, figuratively and literally.

Vash picked at a little of the dried gore under a fingernail then gave it up as a lost cause.

Vash... what happened?

It had been about a week since he had faced Knives, he wasn't keeping track. A week since they had fought and he had put bullets into his brother's body from a dead man's gun. He'd shed his red coat then and gently carried his brother's limp body back to town. He'd keep his promise, he'd take care of Knives.

Oh Vash....

He had bandaged his brother's wounds better back in town, pouring water over then and wrapping them in clean cloth to keep the harshness of the outside world away from them. And he laid Knives in his own bed, and then he just had to wait.

Vash... you shouldn't, no, it's not right.

He was still waiting for Knives to wake up, he'd show him that this world wasn't so bad, that it was possible to find Eden in the middle of hell.

Please Vash, just let me...

It had been hard though, especially with the girls. They had always been so supportive of him, he couldn't understand why they would suddenly want him to get rid of Knives, not want him to keep him there. Knives was his brother, and sure he'd done some wrong things, but Vash could change him. He knew he could.

He got up from the table, not even noticing the way people stared at him, how they inched away. They always did that, no matter what he tried to say. He had more important things to do. He'd left Knives alone long enough.

Vash, you've got to, don't you see? Knives is...

He opened the door quietly to keep from disturbing the figure in bed, laying so still. White sheets and white bandages barely contrasting with pale skin and white-blond hair. Vash thought he was beautiful.

"I'm back, Knives. I went to get donuts, have you ever had them? They're great. Once you get a little better then we'll go get them, as many as you like." Vash chattered cheerfully as he checked to see if the bandages needed changing. He kept hoping Knives would go ahead and wake from his coma; it had been a week, hadn't it?

He used some of the spare bandage and a little of their water to wash his hands. Knives wouldn't want him touching him with dirty hands,

"Please wake up, there's so much I want to show you, there's so much here if you just look for it, and..." I'm lonely went unvoiced, Knives would be offended if he said he was lonely with him right here. Even if he wouldn't wake up.

"Remember when we first got here? How it was so empty and scary and you wouldn't mind when I crawled under your blanket with you? Even as we got older." And maybe... just maybe, it would help, and Vash eased under the sheets, close by his brother's unmoving form.

"In the morning you'd tease me about it, but at night it was just us." And this was hard, much harder than just getting into bed. Knives was always the one to start the touching, patting Vash's back soothingly, rubbing at it then slowly working a hand down, getting past his suit to tease and penetrate flesh while Vash could only cling helplessly.

He did his best, avoiding the bandages as he stroked down Knive's belly, wrapped fingers around unresponsive flesh.

"Remember this? Remember how it was just the two of us, under the billions of stars?" And he moved fingers lower, to circle then press in, as Knives had done to him so many times before. And there was no gasp, no arching from the bed, no coaxing a moan from his throat, but his body didn't resist either. Vash probed further, stretching the already relaxed muscle.

"It's all right Knives, you can wake up now. It's just the two of us now, the way it should be."

He didn't want to hurt him, even unconscious, didn't want to tear his wounds open further. He moved Knives so carefully, positioning him so he could press into him. A soft gasp slipped from Vash's lips, and he could almost pretend Knives made it.

And it was quiet and tender, Vash murmured words of endearment, begging Knives to hear them. And he placed kisses all over his slack face and stroked gentle hands, real and synthetic, over uninjured skin and made love to him as best he could.

And afterwards he stayed pressed close to him, like they were once more children lost in the desert.

Vash, please listen to me, Knives is dead.

Because he wasn't going to listen to others anymore, not even when Meryl repeated those hurtful words over and over until hot water came out of his eyes and he presses his hands to her mouth and throat to make the words stop and things had broken and ripped under his fingers and his hands had gotten wet, but the words had stopped. And now it was just him and Knives, like it should be, forever.