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Stupid.
Impossibly stupid. Obstinate. Self-destructive. Idiot.
It took the man half a year to resurface, and Knives had long given in to the capricious nature of his brother. It was an inevitability. Vash would always be his vulnerability. Yet, the fool emerged, almost perishing in Knives' stead, only to vanish the moment Knives' feet touched the ground below again.
He should leave Nicholas to rot. It would serve him right for keeping Knives waiting, for delivering the scare of his life when dark eyes closed, and he remained unresponsive. Tearing through the desert at breakneck speed, Knives knew only one place he could find him: at his pathetic little orphanage, staunchly defending it with his pathetic little heart to his last breath. Knives had waited months, and a few hours slipping from his grasp wouldn't harm Nicholas. He was always fine. Infuriatingly, imbibing his poison, he would emerge unscathed and grinning. Nicholas is fine.
If Knives were brutally honest with himself, he'd see his own idiocy. Nerves tightened around his heart, and an unfamiliar fear festered within him, sending shudders through his being. It terrified Knives, the uncertainty of what it could mean. The chasm in his chest only deepened as Nicholas came into view. Alive. Knives' entire being—body and soul—rejoiced at the sight. Yet, simultaneously, an icy chill settled over him. There was blood everywhere, and Nicholas turned, as if he could sense Knives' presence, sensing him before seeing him.
As their eyes locked, Nicholas' gaze reflected sheer shock, as though he hadn't expected seeing Knives—perhaps hadn't even dared to dream of ever seeing him again. There was an unmistakable desperation in those eyes, silently pleading with Knives to go, to leave him behind. This overwhelming display momentarily paralyzed Knives, freezing him in his tracks. There was no time to dwell on the disbelief, not when action was imperative.
Whipping his arm out, blades sliced through the air and embedded deep into shoulders, pinning Chapel to the sand as Nicholas desperately tore himself away, running toward him. Running toward Knives.
Amidst the chaos, there was shouting, the rhythmic clicking of guns, and suddenly, an eruption of noise. The Punisher's deafening rounds sliced through the cacophony, and Nicholas came tumbling Knives' way. Knives moved instinctively, acting before he could think, before he could fully process the broken form hurtling toward him. He caught onto Nicholas just in time, preventing him from stumbling into the sand below. Both were off balance—Nicholas gasping—he was—
Wrong.
His pulse—it's not right. The scent of blood and decay clings to him, permeating the air around Nicholas. Knives' fingers press into Nicholas' back, delving too deep into soaked cloth and the unnaturally soft skin beneath. Wrong. A tremor courses through Nicholas' body, his weight leaning on Knives far too heavily until he corrects himself, shifting his feet. Wrong. The breath he exhales upon impact is shaky, rattling, and wet.
Knives had dared. Dared to include someone else in his future. Dared to believe this planet could offer him something good, something only for him. Wrong.
Knives had been stupid.
So unbelievably stupid.
"Nicholas—" Knives barely recognizes his own voice.
"Oh, please, don't give me that now," Nicholas laughs, and Knives wonders if he knows. If he's aware, that Knives can sense it. "You gonna stand there and look pretty, or are you gonna help me finish this?"
The world around them ceased to matter. Nicholas was dying, and Knives attempted and failed to process why this feels like it's killing him too.
Chapel regained his footing, and Nicholas was dying. Something inside Knives was being consumed, the fear that had seized his heart now drowning him. Knives had never seen red like this; he had been angry— furious. He had seethed and stewed in hatred. Decades had made him an expert at honing that anger into a weapon, and a formidable weapon it became as it cut through the only thing he could unleash his agony upon.
Forget hiding his strength. Forget mercy. Vash was right. Of course, Vash was right. Distantly, he heard Nicholas shout; he would deal with it later, in the little time they had left. Chapel fell to the ground in pieces, his lackeys next—every single one of them dealt with. It wasn't retribution, but it was only Knives' right. Nicholas was dying, but he threw himself between Knives and the last man standing, or rather lying down, the Tri-Punisher.
Knives’ glare bore all the festering frothing over, attempting to will Nicholas aside, but the man had far grown immune to Knives' intimidation, holding his ground steadfast. "C’mon, blondie, just one—just leave one of them, just this one."
How long until he forgets Nicholas' voice?
The realization crashed into Knives, hitting him with such force it physically knocked the wind out of him. He didn't show it, refusing to let the pain bleed from the fresh wounds tearing through him inside out. He felt frantic, thirsty for anything to quench the devastating and all-devouring anguish inside him. All this planet had done was take. Take and take and take and take. Why shouldn't he take back? Why was Nicholas preventing him from getting what he deserved?
“Knives,” Nicholas tries, regarding him with a caution reserved for approaching a feral creature, perhaps even a wounded one. Knives feels an unexpected urge to laugh, and when he does, the sound escapes him like a bitter, broken echo. “It’s okay.”
“Don’t give me that,” Knives snaps, immediately silencing Nicholas. Okay? Okay?!
“Why,” he struggles against the tremor in his voice, fighting to keep himself from unraveling any further. “Why did you come here alone?”
Nicholas remains silent, his gaze locked onto Knives as he slowly rises from his defensive crouch. The Tri-Punisher lies unconscious behind him, a testament to Nicholas's decision to leave him be. Knives should exploit the chance, seize any advantage. Nicholas might resent him for it in his last moments, but Knives shouldn't care. He retracts his blades, the gleaming metal seamlessly melding back into his arm.
“Why,” Knives repeats, his voice quivering. Nicholas looks at him with a pity that makes Knives want to scream.
“It turned out well in the end, didn’t it,” he says dryly and Knives realizes then—he knows. Nicholas can tell that the end is here. Knives’ blood runs cold, his heart hammering so high in his throat it chokes him. Nicholas smiles wryly. It’s deafening, the sizzle of flesh mending itself but knowing it won’t save Nicholas—won’t save Knives.
“Thank you for not runnin’ crybaby through,” Nicholas jerks his head towards the Tri-Punisher, out to the world, before returning his full attention to Knives. The independent plant clenches his fists to the point of drawing blood. He’s tethered to the ground, unable to think—of deciding what to do. Nothing he could say will change anything. Everything he wanted to say would make it worse. There was so much left to say.
He had made a friend.
He wanted more.
Knives was trying not to tell him, trying to choke down the feeling. Knives is shaking.
“C’mon, don’t look like that,” Nicholas drawls, his voice weaker—his words slower. “Really doesn’t suit you, you’re not gonna cry on me.”
Nicholas shouldn’t die standing. Finally, Knives tears his eyes from Nicholas and looks around, anywhere he could rest the man on—to stretch out the thin seconds left. Nicholas spots something before he does, as if reading his thoughts, and sways over towards it. A couch, sat in the middle of rubble, surrounded by shattered wood and broken bricks. Somehow unscathed.
Knives has never moved more mechanically, sitting down beside the human and staring into the distance in front of them. As if intending to make Knives life worse he could feel Vash’s presence, his rapid approach in their direction. Vash still needed Knives, and he chose the perfect moment to pull his brother back to his side again. Maybe he will.
“I like it better when you talk,” Nicholas cuts through his thoughts, pulling Knives gaze back to him. He’s looking worse, his eyes aren’t focussing back on him. Nicholas is dying. Nicholas is dying. Knives fights the sound that claws its way up his throat.
“Sorry,” he quickly adds, “I know you’re bad at this.” The silence stretches between them. Knives should say something. He’s supposed to be saying something. Nicholas fills the quiet instead.
“I’m glad you came, blondie,” his voice grows softer. Knives is committing it to memory.
“Let’s kick back for a bit, s’pose you don’t got anything on you,” and Wolfwood mimes throwing back a drink. Knives is woefully empty-handed but feels through his tattered robes anyway—for nothing—for anything—
He startles when fingers brush over carton, pulling a very crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the bunching of cloth. Right. Of course.
Knives offers the pack instead, Nicholas laughing as he takes a folded smoke from the beaten pack. “Can’t believe you kept these,” he mumbles, Knives notes it might be more to Nicholas himself than him. “Sentimental thing, aren’t you?”
There’s a flicker of worry that crosses Nicholas’ face and Knives doesn’t dare ask what for.
Instead, he watches Nicholas sink back into cushions and light his cigarette. Bloodied lips pull around the paper, dragging a ragged breath and releasing the puff of smoke wetly. Knives tries not to think of what kind of fluid is filling Nicholas’ lungs alongside the nicotine? They sit quiet, Nicholas smoking through the pack until even the broken sticks are gone. Waiting is agony, the guilt for his impatience feels worse. Knives wants to get this over with, to leave this behind and pretend it isn’t rendering him to pieces as much as it does.
“Talk to me, please,” Nicholas’ voice cracks despite himself, and Knives shatters with it. “I like it better when you do. I’m not picky—tell me I’m stupid, tell me I should’ve stayed put, scold me—chew me out. At least curse me a little.” Knives finally looks at the human—his human—and finds Nicholas staring back at him pleadingly—terrified.
“I—,” and it hurts, it hurts to talk, but Nicholas asked him to, so he does. “Why didn’t you stay with me? Why didn’t you—I could’ve taken care of this. I could’ve done it, and you would’ve been fine. You would’ve been—” Safe. Protected. Cared for. Loved. Knives can’t bear it, even now. He begs—prays—that Nicholas knows. Nicholas has to know.
Nicholas stares at him with shock struck on his blood-smeared face, and Knives could weep with the realization that he doesn’t.
“I didn’t think—“ Nicholas starts, and he coughs, vicious red splattering over his lips, “you cared that much.”
How could he not? How could he possibly not?
“You’re an idiot,” Knives feels wretched. Time and time again, he fails the people closest to him because he just cannot say the things that need to be said. “An absolute idiot.”
Nicholas laughs, even now the sound rich and comforting. “Yeah,” he rasps, “you and me both, hm?”
He moves, then, closer to Nicholas, taking his hand in his—it’s clammy. Nicholas looks up, his eyes distant. Knives realizes he isn’t there anymore, not really. Tears stain Nicholas’ face yet he smiles still. No words fall from his lips again. Knives listens to him breathe, the sound shallower with each intake until it ends on a gentle sigh.
Knives remains still on the couch, unyielding. He steadfastly avoids meeting Nicholas' fading gaze, fixating on an invisible point in the distance as if it holds the answers to everything and anything plaguing him. As Nicholas slowly succumbs to the pull of gravity, his head finds a resting place against Knives. Unruly black hair mussed up, falling in soft peaks across his shoulder.
Their fingers intertwine, an automatic response to the encroaching void that threatens to swallow them both. Knives, rigid, stares ahead, attempting to convince himself that if he ignores the mounting weight against his shoulder, he can convince himself that Nicholas is merely sleeping. As long as he feels the warmth in his hand, the touch on his shoulder, everything remains intact.
His breath quickens, each inhale erratic and unsteady. Something is building inside of him, threatening to surge forth. Knives battles against the encroaching tide, his eyes burning. Yet, he resolutely refuses to blink—he can stave off the unraveling threatening to consume him. The quiet becomes oppressive, each heartbeat echoing louder than the last, as Knives clings to the facade that everything is fine, as long as he doesn't look.
Seconds stretch into an eternity. The facade cracks. Knives can no longer ignore the tears that burn, threatening to spill over. The pressure in his chest bursts, and Knives heaves, choking on a wet sob. Trembling, he turns his head and buries his face in the mop of Nicholas’ hair.
The scent of Nicholas, a blend of gunpowder, motor oil, and lingering cigarette smoke, engulfs him. Desperation claws at Knives as he cups Nicholas' face, holding him close, clinging to the last semblance of warmth. He feels the weight of Nicholas' slack form, unbearable, threatening to crush him.
Nicholas is all but limp and heavy against him, not a sign of life to be found, no matter how much Knives silently screams for it. His breath quick, feverish, Knives pulls Nicholas into a tight embrace, as if through sheer force he can will life back into the man he lost so suddenly, so meaningless.
The thin veneer of control shatters, and Knives utterly breaks. Silent sobs wrack his body, each one tearing through his lungs. The reality presses upon him, a relentless force that leaves Knives gasping for air in a world that suddenly feels too vast and empty.
Knives will forget his voice. He won’t ever forget Nicholas, though. Wouldn’t be able to even if he tried.
He wants Nicholas to go somewhere better.
He hopes there’s a place for them after.
He needs Vash to be right.
Knives would grit his teeth and move forward.
Knives did not get to mourn.
But his heart ached, like an open wound.
Knives could not stop the bleeding.
He stood over a makeshift grave, shallow and poorly.
There’s a vacant space left for Knives, beside him.
Smoke billows from Knives’ lips, blowing out slow and easy.
He tasted nothing like Knives imagined.