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On the morning of July 21st, long before the parent sun could dare to crest the horizon, Knives silently padded past the uneven lump that was his brother pretending to sleep on their faded couch, and slipped out into the cool darkness to sit beneath his apple tree.
It had become a magnificent thing over the years, reaching high into the sky after nearly a century of careful cultivation. The young human who’d first laid eyes on it had died of old age many months back. Knives had not mourned him. Living in peace with humans was one thing, liking them—loving them enough to regret their loss—was by far another.
There were very few humans whom Knives could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that he might have loved. And by the time their absence had seen fit to strike him, he had simply been too tired to grieve them. Not that it mattered. Vash had always grieved more than enough for both of them.
Knives let his head rest against the sturdy trunk, pressing back until uneven bark could be felt through the minor cushion of his unruly curls. He needed to cut his hair. It was to his waist now and black as pitch. He couldn’t be bothered to braid it most days and chose, out of indifference, to let it hang free instead, wild and curving like the branches above him.
It was a clear night. Three of the five moons were visible. No clouds to hide the stars, no wind to rustle abundant leaves. Still, Knives felt a chill. He tucked one of his legs beneath the other. His feet were bare and he almost wished he’d had the foresight to slip his boots on. But he appreciated the sensation of damp grass and soil beneath his soles too much to truly entertain the idea.
The tree and all of the flora that surrounded it was his. Not belonging to him but created, grown, birthed by him. Alive and thriving because of his care. On days like the one currently creeping up on him, Knives welcomed the reminder.
He still wore the rumpled clothes he’d worked in the day before. There were grass stains on his jeans, smudges of dirt on the rolled-back cuffs of his shirt. Both had been bleached of color by countless hours under the suns. The fierce rays had made their mark on Knives too. Freckles covered his arms and face and fingers.
Your own little constellations, Vash had remarked once, maybe fifty or sixty years ago. Of course he’d ruined the sentiment a moment later by poking at them under the guise of showing which “stars” were connected. Knives had retaliated. The ensuing scuffle had been childish, and resulted in bite marks and a near-tragedy with one of Knives’ emotional support tomato plants. But the imagery had stuck with him nonetheless.
It seemed fitting. For as brief as his life amongst the stars had been, the wounds left within him were indelible.
Some actions simply could not be forgotten or forgiven.
His thumbnail found its way to his mouth. It slid along his teeth, smooth and blunt and thin. He bit down but not through, holding it between sharp canines.
That was how Vash found him.
“Chilly out here.” Vash sucked air through his teeth, shoulders lifting in an exaggerated shiver. He’d brought the old blanket they kept draped over the back of the couch and wore it like a cape, hands clenched in the light blue flannel to keep it bundled around him.
Knives glanced up, still worrying at his nail. “No one’s forcing you to join me. Did you run out of whiskey?”
“Don’t be mean.” Vash sat beside him with a little oof. “This sky’s too pretty to miss. And somebody”—he pinched the blanket’s edge and shook it until Knives acquiesced, pulling it to wrap around both of them—“has to make sure you don’t catch a cold. You’re such a baby when you’re sick.”
Which was a mild way to say he turned into a pathetic wreck. It happened so rarely that it always took him off guard, and each time his body saw fit to succumb to illness he would get such a high fever it just about boiled his brain. He’d see things that weren’t there. People who didn’t exist any longer.
Knives leaned into Vash, lightly bumping their heads together. “Like you’re any better.”
“Aw, c’mon. Cut me some slack.” Vash was smiling. “I can’t be that bad or else you wouldn’t hover like a mother tomas whenever I so much as sniffle. You’d be out back hiding with the flora for a week.”
Knives glared, cheeks warm. “Nonsense. I don’t hover.”
“Okay.”
“Stop giving me that saccharine look, Vash. I don’t.”
“I said okay.” Vash laughed. It was too loud, too big.
“Are you still drunk?”
“Mm. Maybe a little.” Vash’s smile didn’t dim but the line of it grew tenuous. “Today’s just…” He swallowed. “Sorry, it’s really difficult.”
There was nothing Knives could say that hadn’t been said, screamed, whispered, sobbed before. The date rolled around every year. It never got easier. And no matter how many times he lived through it, whether he spent the day in the garden or hanging laundry or curled up in the bathtub while the water lost warmth around him, he would eventually be undone by a simple fact.
They couldn’t go back.
Knives couldn’t take it back.
It made no difference how many tomatoes he nurtured, how many apple trees or patches of grass or geraniums he sang into existence. His actions—he was unforgivable. He knew it. Everyone knew it.
And Vash had forgiven him anyway. Their sisters had forgiven him.
Because they loved him.
It didn’t make it right. It didn’t fix anything. But it helped. A little.
“Let’s go inside. I’ll make, um”—Vash sniffed, rubbing at his eyes—“cake or something. You can have the leftover batter.”
Knives didn’t trust himself to speak. He shook his head, eyes trained upwards.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Vash said, a faux lightness entering his tone. “I know how much you like it.”
Knives quietly cleared his throat. “You go in first. I’ll sit out here a bit longer.”
“Oh. Did you want to watch the suns rise?”
“Not that long. Just…a few more minutes.” He shrugged out of the blanket. “Here. Take this, I’ll follow you soon.”
“There’s no rush. I could stay out here with you.” Vash twisted the blanket’s hem between his fingers. “Unless you wanted to be alone?”
Knives had never wanted to be alone.
“No,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Stay or go. It’s fine. I don’t care.”
Vash settled back against the trunk and rested his cheek on Knives’ shoulder. “I’ll keep you company, then.”
The space behind Knives’ eyes itched, growing hot. He didn’t want to give in to the feeling. He couldn’t. Not now. So he leaned his head against Vash’s, and looked up at the stars.