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at least there is plenty to do to keep knives occupied; the few books he found on fishing and hunting, while outdated, are useful enough that he's gone out to try his hand at both.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?

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[coming down that mostly-shoveled road now was knives, dressed in far warmer clothes than their first meeting, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and in his other hand three fish of varying sizes dangling together by fishing wire. their scales glimmering iridescent under the fickle sunlight, dead eyes watching as knives comes upon vash with an unreadable expression.

he knows vash would work himself to the bone and beyond if he simply continued walking into the church. unfortunate traits shared amongst idiots who put others above themselves regardless of the consequences. it drove knives up a few fucking walls and more than a few times now he'd spat with his twin over what constituted as being too helpful.

instead of walking past vash, knives stops and slides the canvas bag, filled with the ice fishing gear he'd collected from around the town, off his shoulder before shoving it into vash's chest.]

Come with me.

[under the guise of helping him skin the fish, inside the warmth of the church. the roads would be covered in snow again by nightfall anyway. he's already turning away to head inside, better follow after him quickly!]

[skelters]

[ when vash notices him appearing from around the bend in the road, knives would see that - as somehow fucking always - he wavers slightly, uncertain of his footing, for a fraction of a second before the smile switches on and he waves a hand at the other. it seems like as much as vash tries he can't really seem to break the habit; fumbling before speaking to him, darting out of his line of vision as soon as knives look at him, always looking back at knives (always when he isn't looking) with something that isn't quite curiosity and isn't quite fear and isn't quite pity but rather some awful mix of all three. some other times he doesn't look at him at all, pointing his eyes in the other's direction but it only just seems like he is doing it out of some misguided sense of politeness. it's not really quite sure which is worse.

vash makes an utterly stupid, startled sound as knives unceremoniously shoves the bag into his chest - stumbling back a few steps even though that shouldn't be that heavy at all (and it really isn't, he should really learn how to act better). ] Um, but I'm already-

[ too late. knives is already heading inside without waiting for vash to answer. left holding the ticking bomb, as always.

vash looks at his retreating figure as knives disappears through the doorway, then back again, at the snow, at the falling flakes from the sky already on the way to obscuring the other's footsteps here, at the shovel tipping over unsteady from where he's dug it in too shallow in the mound of piled up frost.

and with an inaudible sigh, vash is going to sling the bag over his shoulder, picking up the shovel with the other hand and following the other. he takes an inordinately long amount of time kicking the snow off himself, his boots, his coat, brushing it off the shovel as well and going so far as leaning it carefully next to the entrance. he's clearly stalling. ]

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[vash is stalling and knives can sense it, a honed instinct to detect his brother's bullshit. while vash hangs by the doorway, knives whistles from inside, pitched harsh with all of his waning patience for vash's lollygagging tendencies.]

Get inside and close the door already.

[he's busy at the kitchenette sink, metal bucket at his feet currently holding the caught game he brought inside with him. as per his twin's request (as if knives had any room to object), he's been trying to be gentler with vash. the motions are unsteady, leaning all over again where the middle gears are in his tone and actions after a lifetime of moving at top speed. the differences between his brothers (something else he was adjusting to, not because he disliked the idea, but because until now he's only ever had sisters in the plural. kin was kin, in the end.) rivaled their similarities, but knives' keen eye couldn't miss the way vash, in all his blonde hair and affable smiles, jumped and twitched in his presence. flight before fight and knives knew he certainly wasn't doing a very good job at easing the younger plant's skittish tendencies.

whenever vash does manage to drag his ass inside and close the door, knives will speak up again as he stands at the sink rinsing the skinning blades under a thin stream of faucet water. the cold temperature of it turning the tips of his fingers pink.]

We'll start with the fish first.

[skelters]

[ the piercing note of the whistle makes him jump, and vash has to scramble to catch the handle of the shovel before it tips and goes clanging all over the ground - shutting the door with a bang that sounds too loud in the space, making him wince and cringe all over again as though the echo is a physical blow. ]

Um- Okay!

[ the boots and the layers left hanging by the door to dry, vash shuffles over silently on socked feet to stand by knives' side - close enough to peer into the bucket to see the catch he's made for the day, but not close enough so that it actually might just have a reverse effect than what it intended - which is to say, to not annoy the other more than he strictly has to. but vash's plans, however well meant, always seemed to have a way of going sideways, no? ]

... You'll have to show me how, again. [ vash smiles - all the wrong angles in its rightness, straining to hold itself up. ] ... Sorry.

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Mhm.

[unsurprised, or at least judging by his lacking reaction to vash's apologetic response, knives doesn't seem as outwardly annoyed by vash's ditzy manners. they're still dancing around each other, or rather, vash is. when knives looks at the younger plant (younger in the way his hair still shined under the sunlight, all gold and dirty blonde) he can see the secrets inlaid in his every action, both small and large. it isn't his business to ask, having lost any such privilege a long time ago. it hadn't stopped him back then and the dark hair now donning his brother's head was one of the many prices he paid for arrogance.]

Pick one. [vash is closer to the bucket and thus, his duty to pluck a fish to start with. knives looks up from the blade, now clean, to peer at vash with a tilt of his head.]

Have you used a blade before?

[skelters]

[ vash keeps watching him - not directly, but out of the corner of his eyes as though he is expecting knives to make sudden movements - but also, not in a way that he is scared, more in a way that one would smother an unruly cat in blankets. it is half and half, really, the way he shifts his weight as he steps closer to the bucket as though vash is ready to run away or leap closer both at the same time. ]

I have cooked before.

[ a little petulant, a little huff dusting the tattered edge of his words, and the smile wavers with the way vash frowns momentarily - before coming back around again with an automatic, thoughtless snap like a magnet sticking itself back onto the surface of his face.

he might have cooked before, who knows? he might not be as bad as it, though that is up for a debate.

fish, however, is a new thing altogether - and vash can't help making a face as he reaches into the bucket and picks one up, fumbling with the slimy texture of it before taking it up by the tail. ]

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What a wonderful surprise. Does that mean you won't need my help, then?

[snark for snark, but the teeth behind it are dulled. knives watches as vash struggles with the fish, silent and expectant for vash to figure out some way to pick it up. never mind he had struggled briefly too the first time he handled a fish, but that information wasn't necessary for vash to know. he taps the blade on the hardwood cutting board, a silent set it here.]

I know you aren't squeamish.

[fish laid out, knives angles himself so that vash could watch how he works the tip of the blade right behind the gills and fin, cutting down until he hits the backbone. at first he works quietly, expecting vash to watch as he glides the blade, following the line down the spine until metal meets bone. it had taken knives a few tries in learning how to fillet a fish, his first attempt he had broken the ribcage and left bone splinters in the soft meat. it was a challenge to go by only written direction from a book that predated him by a few centuries at least, but knives wasn't known for simply giving up on the first attempt.

the first half of the fish comes away easily after he makes his cuts, pinbones broken as he separates the flesh from the rib cage. the sensation of metal moving through flesh is one knives is quite familiar with, a way to scratch the itch of a habit he cultivated over a century and a half of unchecked behavior. he sets the first half of the filet flesh side up on the side before turning the blade to hold the handle out to vash.]

Your turn.

[the fish is turned over, uncut side and glossy eye staring up at vash as they both wait for him to start. knives is a close presence by his side, shoulders brushing with vash's as they share the same heat.]

[skelters]

[ i know you aren't squeamish.

knives has a way of throwing his words out like his namesake, and they always hit their mark. it takes probably everything vash has (and then some, surprising himself with the steadiness with which he picks up the fish and lays it down, transfixed upon the board) to not flinch at the statement. i know. i know. i know what to do to help fix this. i know how to fix this. i know what you are like. i know you better than you know yourself.

vash bites the inside of his cheek, feeling the hot burst of capillaries under the press of his teeth, stickysweet against the side of his tongue as he presses it to the rot of bruises. it burns, like getting a punch to the face. it doesn't feel good - but that wasn't the point of it anyway. ]

Uh-huh, [ he mumbles, only half following the movement of the other's hands, hearing the rasp of knives' palm along the slivered scales, the tip of his blade nothing more than a whisper as it slices through skin and flesh, clicking along the vertebrae - a neat separation. a lot of practice. it makes him want to laugh - some kind of hysterical mirth bubbling out no matter how hard he tries to hold it in, seeping between his fingers hot and red and visceral like heartblood. he stares at the fish's eye instead - meeting the sightless glossy sheen of it, the whites filmed over.

the knife feels heavy in his hand as vash takes it from the other. ]

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[vash the stampede is an enigma to everyone by his own purposeful design. knives knows that in their own world, their universe parallel to his, that this set distance vash puts between himself and others is because of knives. he made his life one long, torturous existence and yet despite all of his attempts to enact the same kind of pain knives felt himself, vash found ways to find love and peace. his brother was quite simply amazing, a tenacity to survive and thrive in the harshest of conditions.

there's a level of understanding that comes innately to knives when he regards this brother, vash the stampede, with his dirty blonde hair and skittishness that speaks volumes of a life spent on the run, among so many other things. he doesn't presume to know this vash well, but some things ring true even across their differences and knives acts first on instinct, allows it access to his reflexes and decisions. it's only recently that he's come to understand that he can't always rely on his instincts when they've become so finely tuned to playing the predator.

his companion's little mannerisms, anxiety that seeps through the fine hair cracks, don't go unnoticed by knives. it's why he moves closer without asking, one arm reaching around vash to settle a hand over the one holding the blade now. a steadier hand over a steady one. he watches over vash's shoulder, so close he can hear his pulse.]

I've decided finally. [a pause, almost threatening to leave the statement hanging there without a finish. but after it dangles there, knives continues.] It's troublesome calling you both the same name, so I've decided on a nickname for you.

[skelters]

[ he doesn't feel amazing. right now, with the knife edged in his hand and the cold, limp body of the fish suspended under the fingers of the other, he feels rather ordinary - he feels fragmented and lesser than, just some faded imitation of the real thing that burns hot like the western stars low over the horizon, no matter the dulled colour of their hair. he feels unthreaded, the seams of his smiles hanging loose no matter how hard he tries to haul them in. he is not a keeper but a liar. he is a cheat and a coward. he is an enigma only because he doesn't even fully understand it himself, going round and round in one spot like a blocked drain circling murky water.

what else would you call a thing, after all - that has only survived this long with no merits of its own but only through running away?

knives steps in closer, standing half behind him and close enough that vash can feel the steady rise and fall of his breaths. close enough that he would, perhaps, feel the buzz of his heartbeats speeding up in response to the proximity that has the wires buried beneath his skin prickling, fine hairs raising all along where knives reaches around and lays his hand over vash's own. he stares down at the point of the blade, at the fine-knuckled hand on top of his, and chews on the inside of his lip - worrying at the skin until it feels scraped raw, like the flesh that parts with the path of the knife as he makes the first cut. ]

What is it?

[ he hopes that his response doesn't sound too delayed - it's just from concentrating, nothing else. it's not very convincing even to himself. ]

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Vee.

[v for vash, stupidly simple but there are certainly worse nicknames to pick from. knives continues to work, guiding vash's hands along in the motions as the fish is worked down into nothing but parts to make use of later. flesh and bones carefully separated, knives keeps his focus down, but his attention on vash himself. this close, pressed together, he counts the rushing drumbeat like a metronome. fingers at the keys of an untuned piano, the song trapped inside threatening to run at the slightest spook. so, he holds on. firm, but not so tight to leave bruises. not again.]

Although, I could simply go back to calling you brat.

[the teasing is featherlight, a slight tilt of his head that brushes their cheeks together for a brief moment. the curve of his lips pulled into momentary amusement.]