it's cold and it's sort of merciless | closed

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Who: Knives & Vash & Vash(u)
What: Catchall log
When: Throughout the month of October up to November 5th.
Where: The Church mostly.

Content Warnings: Mentions of suicide ideation and past misanthropy most likely. Will update with warnings as they come up.



[if there was one positive thing knives could say about the church, it'd be the distance between it and the rest of the town. there were few interlopers who ventured out this far and most of the ones who did were either headed out of town or wandered the graveyard that sat behind the church itself. knives hadn't felt much of a need to interact with many of them unless stricken by curiosity-fed boredom, still learning how to carry himself around those whom he once upon a time would have cut down without a second thought.

times have changed and so has he. unfortunate or fortunate, it didn't matter now.

at least there is plenty to do to keep knives occupied; the few books he found on fishing and hunting, while outdated, are useful enough that he's gone out to try his hand at both. it was interesting learning about skills he would have never considered before back on no man's land, the frozen basin itself a marvel when he first came upon it.

inside the church the living quarters were small, especially with three people - plants - all taking up space together. what could go wrong?

Comments

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[vash's attention was akin to the very suns themselves, and knives was the flower constantly turning towards its warming attention. he had wanted it for so long, so terribly lonely and sunk under the weight of his own fear and unquenchable anger. two emotions that drew from the same poisoned well. knives could never forgive humanity for what had been done to them, to their sisters, but--

they had made a choice. he had made a choice. and vash had made a choice. so disgustingly simple.

knives understood he had been the villain of this story between them, his motivations unnecessary in order to be passed down generation by generations of those that had survived his murderous crusades. a fitting ending for such a character, he thought.

but now he stares back at vash demanding, eyes widening a fraction. whatever this feeling is, heart squeezing and reaction delayed, he breathes through it with a sigh. fool of a brother, vash never learned.]

Idiot. Of course you have to eat. [his heart still squeezing, he pushes through in order to bring a spoonful of broth to vash's lips.] You better not let V's bad habits start influencing you now.

[amo]

[ There's a sullen and childish protest about to tumble out of his mouth when he's told he has to eat, but it's waylaid by what Knives follows it up with. Vash's brows knit together in confusion and he stops staring at the spoon like he's looking down the barrel of a gun, effectively distracted from his inner nonsensical conundrum. ]

V...?

[ It takes him a moment of reaching through the dark sludgy waters of his mind to catch hold of what it means. That's him. The other him. Skittish and inexperienced and prone to denying himself anything he needs, be it comfort or food. V for Vash, for another unconventional brother (frérot) gained, a nickname bestowed by Knives that he's been happy to co-opt. It doesn't make sense for the knowledge to slot into place the way it does and for him to be brought up here in this mishmash of memory and dream, but Vash is mollified enough by the realization. The frown is lifted briefly with the relief of knowing, the distant look in his eyes somewhat disappearing as he returns to himself.

That still leaves him with an inexplicable sense of dread when the spoon comes back into focus though.

Vash can't help it, unable to articulate or even form a coherent thought about why it bothers him so, he can only staunchly purse his lips together and shake his head, mumbling with all the grace of a spoiled, sulking child. ]

I'm not hungry.

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[a whipcrack of anger hits him as he watches vash deny the spoonful with such frustrating petulance that knives nearly cracks the spoon handle as he channels that heat away from his wagging tongue. instead, he sighs, low and jaw tense as he tries to work past his flaring temper. the worst of it all had bled away with the last of his hair's fine color, but the coals still simmered low and patient for any excuse to flare again. the energy needed to reach down into that old well was too much and he was too tired, too exhausted, to waste himself further on something that just left him feeling cold and empty.

inhale, exhale, the irritated crease between his brows stays behind however. he sets the spoon back in the bowl, setting up for this stupid game vash was insistent they play.]

Why is that? You haven't eaten all day, Vash.

[he contemplates his options here; vash needed to eat, needed to drink, needed to rest and all of the above were non-negotiable.]

What will make you hungry?

[amo]

[ Try as Knives might to temper it, the ire is obvious to Vash. The sight of it has him dropping his gaze guiltily yet he holds fast to his delirious conviction. Knives tells him he hasn't eaten all day (he hasn't?) and asks a question that Vash has no real answer for. It goes beyond a mere loss of appetite while fever burns up his insides and congestion makes it hard to breathe — his body already plenty full with sickness and infection to spare room for much else. Or so it feels like.

He could try to explain the undercurrent of irrational fear that's sunk its roots into him or he could make up an excuse, maybe even argue that he's already had the tea so what does the broth matter when it's both just liquids anyway? Trying to make a choice between what to say and how to say it feels impossible when picking a thought to focus on is like trying to corral unruly tomas chicks; they go scattering in every direction, darting right between his fingers when he comes close to catching one.

He can only open his mouth to speak and let himself be surprised by whatever comes out first. At least that's the plan before a sudden itch in his throat has him hastily turning his head away, launching into a coughing fit instead. Another small mercy, maybe, even if it doesn't feel like one when his chest rattles like the frame of a sandstorm-battered window about to give. He's left wheezing and drained in the aftermath. Too exhausted to try and make sense, frankly.

His hand wends its way into Knives' shirt when he looks back, fingers curling tight into the hem of it. Vash settles for the only request he cares to muster in repeat, voice hoarse and faint. ]

Just stay.

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[the bowl sits heavy in his palm, the spoon left to partially sink into the broth. patiently, knives waits for vash's thoughts to catch up in the haze of his fever all the while watching the way his brother's face twists and flickers as he struggles to catch the words he wants to say. knives thinks he may already know, but he could be proven wrong. he'd been wrong before and vash had a habit of surprising him, in the best and worst ways.

he knows what he wants vash to say, but he knows that simply won't happen. not yet, not here.

the coughing fit has knives tensing, quickly setting the bowl back on the side table to free his hands in case-- in case of anything. anxiety spikes and boils his blood, electrifying his veins until all he can feel is the discomforting static beneath his skin. if he could shoulder the burden of illness for vash, he would without question or complaint. but if onlys wouldn't help him here.

he needs more tea, more for vash to drink to soothe his throat.

vash's hand curls into the fabric of his shirt and knives stills for a moment, heart hammering and breath stilling in his lungs. just stay. just stay. his eyes searching vash's, cornflower blue meeting summer skies.]

Vash.

[his hand moves up again, palm still warmed by the bowl, to cup vash's fever flushed cheek. knives leaning forward, foreheads pressed together. if only he could take his fever from his brother like this, wishing he could tap into their heritage once more to achieve the impossible. he looks into his brother's eyes, unwaveringly clear.]

I promise you, I will stay.

[amo]

[ The hand coming up to cup his cheek is a welcome soothing touch, though it doesn't compare to when Knives leans forward and further invades his space. Vash feels such relief when their foreheads meet, their connection becoming a more palpable thing buzzing pleasantly underneath his skin, reassurance of his brother's presence calling out to him. Not that long ago the sensation would have send him running, any kind of resonance with Knives only spelling disaster and bodily violation, but not now. For once his mind is not leaping to those awful memories.

Instead he thinks of their small frames utterly dwarfed by the size of their sister's bulb, standing hand in hand in front of it, foreheads pressed to the glass, the ship's continues hum in the background. He still remembers that sister's voice, her gentle trilling in their minds. It was comforting the same way he feels comforted now even though it's not quite the same; they can't sing back to each other like that.

His brother's eyes are so bright, he could swear they're glowing. (Like V, his mind supplies.) As a moth drawn in by the light, he can't look away. He doesn't want to. Staring into all that blue gives him the sensation that he's falling into the sky. Vash still remembers what floating in zero gravity is like, too. How peaceful that felt.

It feels like that. ]

You really swear it?

[ A childish echo, hearkening back to childhood promises, spoken to each other under the dappled light of the garden's trees, in the vast echoing halls of their ship, or hushed under the blankets of the bed that was supposed to belong to only one of them but they decided was theirs anyway. ]

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I swear it.

[the promise is absent of any flourishing ritual, no blood spilled or oath to recite to set in stone those words. knives doesn't need any such things, not when his duty lays here right before him. despite their current circumstances, having vash here now was a second chance knives didn't know he needed nor deserved and yet the universe had conspired to gift it to him regardless. he would take care of his brother until the end found them both, together.

their connection is a soft hum, nearly imperceptible but to knives it rings clearly as the wind rattling their windows. his thumb brushes over the heated curves of vash's cheeks, old relics of tenderness unearthed after having been left forgotten for so long. if there was ever a time to indulge for vash's sake, it was now.

knives moves to slide a heavy hand over vash's nape, fever quietly burning his palm. it's meant as a reassurance, or some attempt at it. everything he's done since vash fell ill has been some attempt or another, every step further into uncharted waters.]

Will you be good and eat something for me?

cw: ...slightly incestuous smooch??

[amo]

[ There's no gesture to go with the oath, but there should be. It's important enough that it warrants one in Vash's delirious mind. They need something to seal the vow with, make it as solid as it can possibly be to ensure that, this time, they won't be parted again. A simple pinky swear won't do. All the pinky promises they've made in their youth have been broken, no amount of swearing they'll swallow a thousand needles or sticking them in eyes if they lie has helped, so that gesture is rendered meaningless. Using blood is out of the question, any promise made on the basis of requiring hurt won't do at all when there's been more than enough pain in their history.

Vash's mind spins torpidly trying to think of something adequate, still half-distracted by the too-blue eyes in the dark of the room. The tender thumb along his cheeks doesn't help much either. The warmth blossoming in his chest at the touch threatens to pull his attention away, tempting him to close his eyes and surrender to the feeling of floating in hazy warmth. It's even better than drifting in zero gravity, actually. Space is cold and this isn't. Knives is so close and so warm, their connection a feathery soft presence vibrating under his skin, and he'd love nothing more than to let himself be lulled back to sleep just like this.

But he can't. Not yet. There's a promise to seal.

He's too busy to acknowledge Knives' repeated request for him to eat, sudden inspiration striking him at the hand on his nape. There's an intimacy there that Vash follows up with on impulse, fevered mind jubilant at having thought of something they haven't shared before and that doesn't require pain or any threats of it. It's so simple, too. All it requires is for Vash to tilt his head just so and lean in ever so slightly to press his lips against Knives'. It's meant to be nothing but a quick peck like the fleeting presses against cheeks from their childhood mother figure, but Vash finds himself lingering once the contact is made. Although Knives' lips are rough against his own — no doubt split and torn from worrying canines, worrywart that his brother is — it's still... nice. Like the hand on his nape. Like the attentive care with which Knives has been looking after him this entire time.

A few seconds of lingering, luxuriating in the thrumming of matching frequencies, can't hurt before he's letting his head fall back again, murmuring with satisfaction. ]

There, sealed it. Now you can't break it.

[ Mollified and assured by a promise fully made, he finally relents to his brother's pleas even though his heavy-lidded gaze more suggests he's about to drift off any second than actually listen. ]

I'll be good.

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[warm lips pressed against his own and knives is stunned by the surprisingly gentle affection. for a brief half moment he doesn't register the sensation, unable to recall a time where he had been kissed like this. flashes of old, old memories of affectionate pecks on his cheeks, hands tangled together as he and vash ran through ship hallways with only their own laughter echoing after them. it was all so long ago now, all brought back by this simple yet meaningful gesture.

selfishly, he enjoys it. vash's lips hold the remnants of tea, softer than his own broken and worried lips. split skin breaking under sharpened fangs, blunt nails that dig and scratch around nail beds, all of it symptoms of the anxiety that bubbles just beneath his surface. yet right now his thoughts and worries fall back as vash's tenderness envelopes him entirely. only for a moment, but a moment is all he needs right now. enough to chase back the rising tides that threaten to drown him whole at any given moment.

he hasn't moved since vash pulled away, lips parted slightly as the warmth starts to fade with the miniscule distance still left between them. only a moment later does knives realize his heart is hammering away a storm, pounding between his ears that leaves him dizzy. his mind reboots itself slowly, one part at a time. first his breathing, then his hands, fingers twitching against vash's skin where he had left them before they kissed. finally, he blinks.]

Vash...

[he starts, but stops suddenly. the reality settles in again and vash's current state returns to his attention, still feverish and exhausted already. knives just barely resisting the urge to swipe his tongue over his lower lip. he inhales deep, once more knocking their foreheads together before finally sitting up again. his thumb brushes over vash's cheek, just over their matching mole, before moving to readjust the blankets around his brother.]

Go back to sleep. I'll stay here with you.

[he'll bring more tea and soup that hasn't cooled to a lukewarm temperature after vash is out. knives looks away finally from vash, lips still tingling and heart beating rabbit quick in his chest.]

[amo]

[ In the morning, when the fever breaks and clarity of mind is returned to him, the gravity of what he's just done and what it might mean will hit Vash and terrify him into running for the proverbial hills with his usual cowardice; it's simply too much, too honest, too needy. He'll lie and hide behind claimed forgetfulness brought on by the fever's attempt at burning the sickness out of his system and cooking his brain in the process. There will be excuses and feigned ignorance, a stout refusal to look too closely at his own feelings as he willfully pretends he hasn't already betrayed them.

But right now, even in his current state (or perhaps more because of it), Vash is perfectly content. Knives presses his forehead to his again and there is just the simple joy of closeness and being together like they'd been as kids. It pulls the corners of his mouth up into a smile that has his eyes turning into crescents, only slightly on the loopy side of things. Appeased by the promise and the tender attentions of his twin's thumb, he finally relinquishes his tight grip on Knives' shirt, leaving him plenty free to pull back and fuss with the blankets as much as he likes.

Vash is pretty certain he was meant to be doing something else — although he already can't recall what that was — but he said he'd be good and so he offers no protest when his brother bids him to go back to sleep. ]

'kay.

[ It's not a difficult request when he's floating somewhere in the thermosphere, warmed through and through by the proximity of a sun, lulled by lazy heat.

He rolls onto his side in easy compliance, facing Knives as he adjusts his position and makes himself comfortable. Not even the faint odd whistle in his breathing bothers him now, if he's even cognizant of it. (Not really.) The only thing left to do once he's settled is to give Knives' sleeve a gentle tug before leaving his hand turned upward on the mattress in plain view, his palm open in a gesture that's both an invitation and a silent ask to take it. ]

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[it's almost surprising how little it takes sometimes to have vash actually listen to him. his hands linger over vash, uncertain even as he watches his brother relax and smile through the fever and discomfort of illness, nestling back into the comfort of warm pillows and knives' promised company. somehow, this made vash happy and knives still didn't know how to make it make sense.

his lips still burned fresh with the memory of their kiss. it didn't make sense, but he suspected it would be yet another question without an answer. for all he knew and understood vash, two halves of one whole, his brother truly acted the part of a mystery too well sometimes.

the slight tug at his shirt sleeve is all he needs to move his hand to vash's open offering. he traces his thumb along the lifelines of vash's palm as he watches vash drift away from him again, towards the warm and inviting heat of a sun that evades knives even now. he waits for a while longer yet, silent in his watching as vash slips beneath the veil of muggy, feverish dreams, counting each stuffy inhale and rasping exhale. it was hard to gauge if vash was actually recovering or if this was a turning point for the worst, but knives couldn't afford to lose himself to gut-wrenching panic just yet. not yet.

he lingers by vash's side, hand in hand, for almost an hour, unwilling to part from their connection. as much as he wanted to, he couldn't sit by and stand watch like some grieving sentry and twitch with every hitched wheeze his brother coughs out. his hair would go gray sooner than it had turned black at this rate, no doubt. tucking vash's hand beneath the blankets, giving him one last cursory look-over, brushing back sweat-sticky bangs from his temples, knives gathers the mug and bowl to take his leave. the soup was cold by now, evident by the slight coolness of the chipped ceramic against his palm as he carefully pushes the door behind him to close - leaving only a crack open, senses attuned to any unfamiliar noises that may yet come from vash.

and for a long, longer than he'd like, moment knives stands there. both hands occupied with dishes as he stares down at the floor, mind caught up in the undercurrent of unease.]

[skelters]

[ with vash's illness, things have been ... well, things could be better, for sure. it's like walking on eggshells - vee avoids walking too heavily, putting things down without rattling or making a sound, not even daring to breathe whenever knives moves, walking in and out of the bedroom, now made into what has nearly become now a makeshift sickroom for his other self. it isn't that he is not worried - but vee knows when whatever help he could give around vash isn't welcome, not when their brother is glued to his side at every waking (and sleeping) moment. the line of knives' brows grow tense day by day, the set of his shoulders stiffer, so naturally vee gravitates towards the tasks that have previously been the other plant's duty, just to give him more room to spend fretting over vash's side.

the back door opens with a little creak - as much as vee tries, the old hinges squeak, especially when the wind is blowing this way. he slides in quieter than the door and shuts it quickly, carrying a basket of fish in the other hand.

knives isn't hard to spot as vash struggles out of the scarf and jackets he had bundled up in, hanging them to give them a chance of drying out - hopefully. the way he holds himself makes vee smile uneasily, though he tries to mask it as best he could - and he makes his way over to the other. ]

I'm back, [ he greets softly, coming to a stop near knives but putting himself in a position where he can lean and sneak a peek through the cracked open door, seeing the motionless figure with his untidy mop of dark hair still safely in bed. he waits, silently, until he can catch the sound of breathing - as laboured it sounds, it isn't as bad as it had been before. maybe. ]

How is he doing?