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Chapter Text

There is something inexplicably liberating about playing the piano. It's a human-made object, which should appall him that he invests a considerable amount of his precious time in using it, but each time he strikes a key, then another, until a harmony builds and crescendos, Knives cannot deny that his heart stirs with the notes it produces. It's a musical piece he can play from memory, and he would not commit any mistake even with his eyes closed. He sits grounded on the sleek black stool, his hands sweeping across the black-dyed keys. It seems there aren't enough fingers to hit every chord he wants. His left hand chases the extremely low octaves before leaping closer to the centre, while his right one spins the melody with rising intensity.

It wasn't always like this.

Knives glances up at the Plant immortalised with its mouth agape in a rictus, face contorted with its dying breath, four wings spread wide as if it would descend to strike judgement. This planet and these parasites deserve more than judgment. They deserve punishment, deserve eradication. Knives will carry the Plants' will for them and enact their rightful vengeance, and he seals this promise with the dying notes of the piano which reverberate in the empty dome.

He savours them, tasting their vibrations in the air until they flatten and die. Soft sighs and whines scratch against the back of his mind, as if demanding he keeps playing. The Plants enjoy what humans call music, a language that far exceeds what can be expressed on a single piano. Human instruments, just like their brittle bodies and fickle souls, are limited to what they can hear, to what they assume to be what everyone else hears.

Knives speaks to the Plants in the only way he can since his other half isn't here to do so. The same composition he plays over and over always start slow, muted, to rouse them from their slumber or quell their anxieties. Then he follows up with a constant rhythm reflecting his resolve, like a marching drum on the path of war. He weaves his anger in the melody in an escalation of both speed and volume, and the previously rather simple notes branch out in complex harmonies. That's when he feels the Plants responding to him the most, their strange but mesmerising frequencies tangling with the notes as if seeking to absorb them, but Knives is incapable of deciphering them.

"Master Knives."

Conrad has been hovering on the edge of the room for four whole minutes now, the sound of his breathing repugnant compared to the plants' intricate melodies. The human waited for Knives to finish before speaking, a smart move. It's logical that when a superior being is occupied, they should never be interrupted.

"The Punisher wants an audience with you."

Knives narrows his eyes by a fraction at the mention of the name. The Punisher. Conrad's promising experiment for his ridiculous dreams, Bluesummers' favourite toy to chew on and spit rarely in one piece, and finally an errand boy sent to spring a trap on his twin brother. The sources imply the "errand boy" graduated to an integral part of the human companions that attached themselves to his other half like revolting leeches.

Knives never met the Punisher. Since he already had to tolerate Conrad’s presence, he didn’t wish to taint himself with another parasite in his vicinity. Yet he knows the Punisher very well, for his weaknesses and inner workings are as easy to glean as any other ordinary human’s.

And just like any other ordinary human, Knives has no interest in his drivel.

"Send him to Bluesummers," he orders.

Conrad's voice irritates his eardrums once more, this time timider. "He insists it’s important. I believe it concerns Vash the Stampede."

Another name that makes his eyes narrow to slits. "The Stampede" is such a useless moniker. His name is Vash, and it should only be uttered by those worthy of his presence. Had Conrad not held a key position in Knives' plan, he would've beheaded him before he even had time to finish the name's soft, sibilant end. 

Quietly, Knives analyses the scientist's words ringing in his ears. Insists. Believe. There is no guarantee that his other half is finally here, but the slightest chance he is overrides any reticence Knives might feel. If the Punisher lies, if the human attempts to use his pathetic excuse of a brain to manipulate him, if the parasite retaliates in any form, Knives will simply dispose of him. Not even one of Conrad's abominations would survive a swift beheading.

Knives rises slowly, his back unfurling from above the piano. "I will hear him."

Conrad nods his head, his glasses and the implants on his left temple glinting in the natural light flooding from the glass ceiling. His footfalls drag across the floor as he leaves, as if his legs are too heavy to lift anymore. 

Knives smells the Punisher before he sees him, pungent wafts of acrid smoke mixed with sweat. Unlike Conrad's weary trudging, the Punisher bursts in his view, body strung taut like a wire. His signature weapon, which is the only notable feature about him, is missing from its usual spot on his back. 

"Knives," he says, only for the scientist to immediately correct him.

"Master Knives."

The Punisher promptly ignores him. "It's your brother. He needs your help."

Evidently. Vash always needs his help. He needs him to make him realise the errors in his way. He needs him to properly terminate the human race so they can be free once and for all from their parasitic hold. He needs him to lead, as a big brother should, and to achieve his potential. He needs him because they are two separated halves who only require each other to survive.

Yet the human suggests a different kind of help, one that forebodes an apocalyptic conclusion.

"These markings of yours, his turned red."

Tendrils of razor-sharp metal slither from Knives' back, as if reacting to his spikes of dread. Red, like entire rows of overworked Plants shrieking into the void. Red, like the fluids maintaining their sister's decapitated but alive body.

The Punisher’s voice falters for an instant before he adds, "I've never seen them like that before."

Red, which clouds his vision and gushes from the human’s shoulders as Knives' blades bury themselves in his skin. It's far from shallow cuts, yet Knives had the magnanimity to slash non-vital points rather than his tender and inviting neck. Fortunately for him, he might still possess useful information, and dead bodies do not reveal their knowledge.

"You didn't bring him to me," Knives states.

The Punisher splutters and gasps, but Knives doesn't need him to answer at all. It's obvious now that his other half is not here. The Plants would've told him, and for the first time Knives would've understood them clearly. They would've greeted their second saviour with a glorious hymn even blunt human ears would hear, yet now their silence is deafening.

"Where is he?"

"Here, in JuLai," he rasps. "Montana Hotel."

Knives commits the name to memory.

"Explain to me in details what happened to my brother."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I have many details to share. One moment Spik-- he was fine, then the next he's collapsing and glowing red. I think it's got something to do with the Plants he was healing. I don't know shit about your alien biology, so I came to you." 

Knives disregards his blatant disrespect as he focuses on the part about Vash healing Plants. He stands completely still, yet his knives quiver around him, emitting notes of metal like rattling windmills presaging a storm. All this time, his other half could’ve healed their sisters, yet instead he spent his time to gallivant with humans? Or rather, he chose to split his attention between the two judging by the Punisher's revelation.

It's not enough. Knives must obtain Vash's entire devotion. Knives deserves it, not some parasites like the man before him whose gaze burns into him, even behind tainted sunglasses. 

The Punisher had a mission of great importance, yet he failed. Judgment.

Knives retracts his blades from the lacerations, spraying blood across the floor. The human grits his teeth, but he doesn't even have time to apply pressure on his wounds when Knives' blades lunge forward and skewer his collarbone. He howls a curse as Knives lifts his impaled body inches above ground. Punishment.

"What I do to him is none of your business."

"But you will--" He hisses when Knives twists the blades in his flesh yet stubbornly finishes his sentence. "You will help him."

"I will," he admits. "Because he is mine."

Despite his predicament, the parasite's lips twitch as if to smile. Knives jabs a third tendril at his chest, piercing through muscles and bones alike.

Eradication.

Montana Hotel is a decrepit establishment on the very edge of JuLai, a half-singed sign engraved on the door. It would only take one gust of wind to dislodge it from its crumbling foundations and tip it over the city's rocky promontory. That, or Knives could simply slice it multiple symmetrical pieces, its human inhabitants included.

He enters the inn, ignoring the parasite blabbering in his peripheral vision. Two red silhouettes are huddled above him to his far left, while a crumpled figure shrouded purple lie motionless on the right. Apart from Knives, there is a singular being on this disgusting planet whose blood is cool despite the extremely high temperatures. 

Knives forgoes the stairs and floats to the second floor, to his brother, flinging his door open with such force it slams back closed. Vash lies on a bed with his ankles extending over the frame too small for his lithe body, eyes closed under his ridiculous glasses. For once he doesn't don his atrocious red coat, which is neatly folded on a bedside table. Knives considers slashing it to ribbons before another hint of red, more subdued, monopolises his attention.

The Punisher didn't lie. Instead of healthy blue pulsing with life and energy, the hue identical to the colour of Knives' eyes, his twin's markings glow eerily crimson. They spread from his forehead, partially hidden by rebellious tufts of blond hair, to cross his eyelids, then curve around his cheeks and follow the angle of his jawline before disappearing below his turtleneck. Knives knows them by heart. As opposed to a musical composition, it's not something they created. It's inherent proof of their superiority, of their connection.

Now, however, it's infected. Knives spent the last century working to repair it meticulously, each step of his plan flawlessly executed until this one. Vash is right in front of him, but he's not ready. Knives expected as much but not like this, expected his brother to keep eluding him physically and to protest verbally. Now that his markings are red, unpredictable variants may affect the operation to convince him to join his cause, which constitutes a risk Knives cannot take. This is an additional step he didn't plan for, but similarly to any obstacles daring to stand in his way, he will emerge victorious.

Knives kneels by the bed and plucks the glasses resting on the bridge of Vash's nose, tossing them above his shoulder and allowing himself to smirk at the sound of shattering glass. His other half doesn't even twitch. 

"I've come to save you, dear brother mine."

Just like when they were children, he intertwines his fingers with his brother's, the one humanoid hand he still retains. His skin is clammy to the touch, like a flower speckled with morning dew. Like a human struck by fever. He closes his eyes and dismisses the thought.

Knives pictures a string stretching between them as thin as spider silk, unbroken despite the decades and misunderstandings. Vash has always been the best between the two to communicate through their bond. His infectious joy and awe at everything and nothing used to constantly seep through Knives' mind, tricking him into believing the treacherous parasites. When they crashed, he'd hoped his epiphanies, his desires which ultimately should be his twin's desires too, and his vision for their future would surge through Vash in return. Instead, he shielded his mind and drowned further into his delusions, but never ruptured their bond.

The string starts bright blue, but as Knives delves further, vibrant red encroaches and pollutes the deeper parts of their connection. He bristles as the rot rakes against his brain, as if seeking to contaminate him as well. His gifts don't allow him to cleanse Plants, but if he can purify one in the entire world, it would be Vash. Their relationship is special, unique, as they are a different breed of Plant entirely. 

The rot appears as a sulphurous mass when Knives plunges into Vash's psyche. Images flicker in his mind, all tainted scarlet as if steeped in blood and permanently stained. Knives recognises his own self, younger, brighter, stupider. The soft smile etched on his face as he admires his twin devouring their first birthday cake speaks of merrier times. Then a shadow eclipses his child self, that woman coming into view, touching him and Vash, spinning lies and pricking them with her poison.

Knives snarls as an urge to rip out the memory swells within him. He will, but not now, not yet. All in due time. For now, he watches through the crimson veil the scene blur and shift to the two of them in the shade of a gigantic tree. Again, she stands between them like a barrier. Knives banished everything ever related to her, safe for Conrad, including her face, but in Vash's mind every minute detail is excellently captured and memorised, as if he'd seen her yesterday.

Stop thinking about her, he thinks, lest his rage overtakes his self-control.

As if cognisant, the scene changes once more. They're finally alone, although they remain prisoners in the parasites' ship. Back against the walls, sitting on the floor with their legs spread in front of them, a young Vash holds a finger to a marking on his thigh and another one on Nai's. Slowly, he traces down the patterns they would later realise are identical. Knives remembers this memory fondly, as does his twin, as he should, but this haze of red is unacceptable.

Removing the rot proves more a challenge than Knives calculated. It required sustenance to propagate and has almost entirely ravaged Vash's mind, infiltrating every corner of the bond. Prying it too sharply would shatter the link beyond repair. Dislodging the rot gently is bound to take precious time his other half might not have. Letting it fester is unconceivable.

Knives makes his choice within a second. He touches the rot with a forefinger, the mass rippling as if with anticipation, sensing new food to devour. Red vines curl around his finger until they dig into his knuckles, anchoring themselves firmly before encircling his wrist. Thorns start blooming into his skin and drinking his essence. The pain grows as steadily as the vines' expansion, but Knives lets it embrace him. His own blue markings begin to flicker like a dying Worm, undoubtedly fighting against the invading force.

It's only when the rot draws him forward that Knives pulls away. With all his strength, he yanks his arms away, now fully concealed by pulsating vines, staggering backwards as the rot coils around his ankles. Generally, he has no trouble with anything related to raw power, but it feels like he's trying to move every ship of SEEDs fleet combined using his bare hands. What started as tiny pinpricks across his body erupts into scorching heat that set his blood afire. He's never encountered such levels of pain, not physically at least, and it momentarily petrifies him. Before he snaps out of it, the rotting mass managed to gulp his entire right arm down to the elbow.

Knives grunts as he doubles his efforts, almost dislocating his limbs in the process. He bites down on his tongue to avoid screaming and the taste of iron floods his mouth. The rot will not take him, just as it will not take Vash. No, Knives will absorb it willingly and purge it himself. He can most certainly accomplish what Vash cannot since he, unlike him, didn't idle this past century. The ideal scenario is to transfer the rot to a parasite and relish in their agonising death. But death will not claim an Independent today.

Knives cries out in triumph when the mass shifts in his direction. He keeps dragging the rot across their bond until its crimson fumes dissipate from Vash's mind and start clouding his. His arms seem to crumble to ash from the blaze decimating his insides, and he doesn't understand how he's still standing, how he can find enough footing to take a step back and pull. Still, he perseveres, the thought of his twin suffering from the same ordeal fueling him.

As Knives finally retreats on his side of the bond, he catches a glimpse of Vash's psyche tinged in pink, a remnant of his illness, but already it turns cooler, healthier. Red has no reason to swathe his twin, not in his mind, and definitely not in the clothes he wears. Red is her colour, but blue is eternally theirs. With a faraway cerulean glow enveloping the edge of his vision, Knives severs the connection.

He gasps, eyes flying open and blindly clutching at his heart. It's like he's been catapulted back into his own body, but he's not alone. The rot burrows deeper into his marrow and crawls through his veins like live Worms. A red film clings to his sight, no matter how many times he blinks, like first blood he never fails to spill.

A low whine comes from ahead of him, and he jerks his head towards the sound.

Vash. His beautiful twin, his other half, and his markings blue like the sky. Knives contemplates him, the pain ebbing away from the briefest memory as he basks in his success. Then it slams back into him with such vigour he almost topples over, his head pounding as if his heart migrated from his ribcage to settle there. 

Knives hauls himself to his feet, his hand slipping from Vash's. He must seek the scientist who, despite torturing their Independent sister, is the only one who can assist him. He doesn't trust him, but he trusts the terror he cultivated in him for over a century. If only to atone for his mortal sins, Conrad will do his bidding as long as Knives commands it.

The trek to the door took him four wide strides and a mere second when he first entered. Now, he's reduced to regulating his breathing as he staggers at least thrice slower towards a vertical plank of wood. When he finally reaches it and fumbles to turn the knob, the door opens from the other side to reveal two humans gaping at him.

"Out of my way," Knives hisses with far less venom than he can usually muster, and his words mustn't look intimidating as he wobbles forward.

He might've even crashed into them if they didn't step aside quickly enough. A glint of metal catches the light. One of the parasites has a gun.

"Who are you?" The other starts yapping. "Where's Wolfwood? What did you to do Vash?"

Knives whips his head around to sneer at them and immediately regrets it when the world tilts uncontrollably. He leans against the wall as he attempts to steady himself, his breathing becoming more ragged. 

"Hey, are you–? "

There's movement on his left, vaguely resembling a hand approaching him, and Knives wreathes his body his blades instinctively. His control on his Gate, which he honed for decades, is now sluggish, reminding him of his first clumsy attempts at reigning the myriads of tendrils unfolding from his body. Her companion, the tallest of the two, grabs her by the back of her shirt, saving her from a knife nicking her cheek. A shame. 

With the humans giving him a wide berth, Knives stumbles down the flight of stairs, using his blades to stabilise him. They leave dents and holes in the walls and ceiling, and when the parasite by the exit doesn't stop screeching, Knives silences her for good. Her blood is almost imperceptible in the red haze, but the sound of her head thudding to the floor and body slumping down on the counter strike like thunder. 

Knives winces as he leaves this disgusting place, his markings a foreboding shade of sanguine.

Chapter Text

Under the laboratory's harsh lights, Conrad observes Knives with an impassive expression, eyes roaming from the crown of his head to his toes.

"This is a new development," he says, and although he tries to bury it under layers of aloofness, Knives hears an undercurrent of curiosity.

With a whip of his blades, Knives cuts his own hand, causing blood to pearl around the shallow incision. Conrad instantly scrambles to grab a test tube and places under Knives' hand just as blood drops fall. The scientist watches it drip like he's graced with a rare occurrence of drizzling rain.

During their century-old partnership, Knives generously gave him blood vials on two occasions, but never had his markings turned red like sick Plants. His lips curl in distaste as he recalls Conrad's suggestion to sample them. Before he'd finished his sentence, Knives had almost scalped him. The last thing his sisters needed is for yet another greedy human to harm them.

"This is the only sample I'll grant you," Knives warns. "Find a cure. Now."

"Of course, Master Knives."

His skin is just starting to mend itself, dermal tissue weaving together at a preposterously slow pace for such an insignificant injury. If Conrad notes it, he wisely doesn't comment on it.

"If I may ask, how did this… predicament come to be? Your answer would greatly guide—"

Knives bares his teeth as he growls, "Out of my sight."

Conrad obliges and scampers away like a cockroach.

Slowly, lest the world starts capsizing again, Knives turns his attention to the second figure in the room. Elendira hadn’t moved from her shadowed corner during his conversation with the scientist, and her eyes had stayed locked on Knives like the barrel of a gun.

"If you have wish to speak, do not make me wait."

She straightens, then shrugs. "No, nothing," is all she says before leaving as well.

A quiet moment stretches into two, then three, and when the fourth second elapses, Knives is dry-heaving on the floor. It's disgusting, it's humiliating even if no one bears witness to it, and it's agonising. The rot has fully taken root in his lungs, stealing his air and releasing noxious spores instead. 

Gripping the lab counter, Knives rises to his feet. Glass vials and jars reflect the colour of a dimming sun, and he demolishes them all with his blades until the floor is covered with shards. Now they look like red geranium petals, as if she breached his base of operations and strewed them to ridicule him. Knives recoils with a snarl and grinds them to fine dust.

Since all he can do while Conrad toils is to endure, he trudges back to his quarters. If a passerby has the misfortune to cross his path, he will kill them immediately because he will not lose face in his own headquarters. His blades hover around him, ready to shred anyone and anything to ribbons, but the corridors are empty. 

Between the scientist's lab and Knives' rooms are the tanks he accumulated, each one of them containing a Plant, with various degrees of care. More than half is red, overexploited, abused, and depleted. Knives always hoped they would find enough respite to bloom blue again, but now that Conrad has the sample he ardently desired, hope is more than a concept.

Of course, it could've happened a long time ago if his other half had worked alongside him from the start.

As he stumbles by, Plants begin to unfurl. Knives halts in his tracks, frozen. Throughout the years, the petals only opened during their final moment, their features distorting and their body arching as humanity siphoned every last trace of their energy. He clenches his jaw as he expects the liquid in which his sisters are suspended to become as crimson as his markings, but nothing happens. Or rather, something extraordinary happen when the Plants' wide, unblinking eyes contemplate him, truly seeing him for the first time since he rescued them from men's clutches.

Knives discerns himself in their irises, his posture crooked, his face flushed, red sticking to his skin like dried blood. He averts his gaze.

Under any circumstances, he would bask in their attention, but this is no state to greet them properly. How can his sisters believe Knives is their saviour when he looks like this? He blocks out their incomprehensible whispers from his mind, barely audible over his thundering heartbeat. Their gazes linger heavily on his back as he retreats to his quarters, and even after he's collapsing on the piano bench, he still feels like he's being watched. 

The rot rattles against his ribcage as it attempts to pry it open. He grits his teeth under the onslaught of pain and digs his fingers in his chest as if he can extract his heart before it decays. Blood crusts underneath his fingernails and streams down his hands. It blends in with his markings, ruined by gashes he's inflicting on himself, by the recklessness that took over him when he saw his other half so still, so lifeless. Is this what Plants feel like as they decline? Is this what his other half suffers each time he purifies their sisters? 

Blades encircle Knives until they shield him from the outside world, as if unconsciously, he desires their protection. He refuses to act like a wounded animal, to squirm like a crushed Worm, to whimper like a child. He's over one hundred and fifty year olds, he orchestrated the downfall of mankind, and he will see it through—

—but it hurts so much.

His control wavers. His blades scrape and score and slit, spinning around him with none of the finesse he displayed at Jeneora Rock, twisting and spasming as extensions of his body. Drawing a wide arc, one knife nicks the Plants' pedestals, causing showers of stone dust. He's vaguely aware he's destroying his room and the few possessions he actually cares about, but it's better to raze everything down than to let the rot plunder his mind. 

Knives' blades smash through the piano, splitting the keyboard in a crash of discordant notes that reel the world back in focus. He stares at the carnage numbly. Black keys are scattered on the ground like blackened fingers. The upper panel is clawed out to reveal its bowels, the strings cleaved and the hammers shredded. One of the legs is sliced clean, and the piano bench is reduced to an indistinguishable pile of rubble.

That's when Knives notices the shadow hovering behind him, immobile. How long have they been there? How much did they see? How did they even reach this place?

"Nai."

Knives' breath, already coming out in soft wheezes, hitches. No one calls him by this name anymore. Part of him refuses to acknowledge it, but the other half gasps in relief, like it's his first intake of air after drowning in an ocean of solitude.

"Vash," he murmurs.

Even if his heart shudders with something akin to joy, it's too early. Ironically, his twin came to him willingly, and Knives is the one who has to delay his own plans.

Vash's lower lips trembles as he says, "What did you do?"

It's rhetoric question. His actions are plainly written on his skin, and Vash's disapproval is as evident with his horrified tone, a rare frown on his face like a cloud passing over the sun, and his eyes blown wide in dismay.

He edges closer, and Knives' blades automatically whirl to aim at him.

"Stay away," he says through gritted teeth.

Vash looks confused as he raises his hands in surrender with no weapons in sight, not that he needs any to deliver a fatal blow. "I won't hurt you, Nai."

Indeed, if he wanted to hurt him, he wouldn't have crept up on him quietly.

"You don't have to bear the pain," Vash continues. "It's not yours to begin with."

It's such a flimsy argument Knives almost laughs, but holding his blades aloft, poised to strike, is sapping his energy faster than he anticipated. Vash is smart and patient. He knows Knives is weakening, that it's only a matter of time before his Gate closes, and when that moment comes, he will pounce.

Knives has to make him leave, one of his specialities, and for once it's an asset and not a scar that never mends. 

"Even after knowing our sisters' agony, how can you side with humans?"

"They don't all know how to regulate their Plants' output, but we can teach—"

"We cannot teach parasites how to care for a species that isn't theirs. How many red Plants did you heal because of their greed?" When Vash falls silence, Knives yells, "How many?"

His twin clenches his fists and his jaw remains locked. The specific number doesn't matter since even a single Plant is one of too many.

"How many did you fail to save, then?"

Vash shudders, eyes fluttering as if he recalls unpleasant memories. Knives didn't have to guess; he knew Vash had been too late for some of their sisters since he is but one person, especially since he refuses to ally himself with Knives, and the Plants are scattered all across this forsaken desert. This is simply humanity's nature to drain their resources to the last drop, and that's exactly how they consider them: resources.

Knives leans on the demolished piano as he stands up, bombarding Vash with questions. "How much pain did you endure for the sake of our kin, pain you could've avoided by getting rid of the problem at the root? When will you understand that as long as there are humans Plants cannot thrive?"

Anger flitters across his twin's face, a spike of white, hot rage that makes his markings shimmer before they ebb away. "Coexistence is not only possible; it's a necessity. If you could just—"

"If I could just lie down and allow them to trample over me? I will rip their throats before they even attempt to touch me."

Vash half bristles, half flinches at his words, his body coiled as if ready to bolt to the exit. Knives is pushing all the right buttons and speaking all the right words. It's almost comforting to know he can still coax his brother in the direction he wants, even when a rift almost as vast as space separates them.

"They're not all like that! Many of them are kind and helpful. Roberto, Meryl, Wolfwood—"

Knives scoffs, the sound as brittle as a shard of ice. "Wolfwood? You mean the Punisher?"

"Yes. No," Vash corrects instantly. "His name is Nicolas D. Wolfwood."

"Who cares about his name? Of course he isn't like other humans. His mission was to deliver you to me, intact." 

Knives detests how his twin's expression remains unfazed, how he meets his gaze head-on defiantly. It would've been better if Vash didn't know, if he believed and had his faith shattered. No, instead Vash knew about the Punisher's true purpose and let his guard down. He didn't do it because he wanted to reunite with Knives but as a chance for that murderer to redeem himself and to atone for his sins.

Knives should've killed the vermin when he had the chance.

"Return to the pests you adore," he seethes. "Let them hunt you for sport, stab you, drain you. We'll see if you can last another century."

Vash's gaze hardens. "No."

Knives has every intention to fire a few blades at him, just enough to scare him, but they respond with meager quivers. "Leave before I take your other arm," he threatens, but it sounds like a plea even to his own ears.

"No," his brother repeats, softer. "I know you won't." 

Knives sags against the rubble, and one by one his blades disintegrate as his Gate shuts down. Vash steps forward slowly, kneeling in front of him with a tender smile. 

Knives wants to carve it out. He wants to memorise this moment. He wants to return to the time where he could smile back.

"You say it's human nature to kill Plants but you still sent Wolfwood after me. You knew he was a man of his word and that he would not hurt me."

"I used his weakness against him," Knives hisses. "That is all."

Vash's smile doesn't falter despite what Knives just said. "A weakness based on love and devotion. If he's really as cruel as you think humans are, he wouldn't have cared. He might even have disobeyed your order just to spite you."

It's like talking to a steel wall. Did his brother not grow at all during their separation? Like a child, he believes what he wants and blindly ignores the facts, even when they're explicitly told to him. And then there's his self-righteous smile, as if he's forgiving Knives when it's Knives who should be forgiving him for abandoning him, as if he thinks Knives has erred.

"How can you be so—?"

The rest of his sentence dies in his throat when the crushing pain in his chest skyrockets, pinning him in place. Vash is instantly by his side, his flesh hand reaching for him but Knives swats it away as agony lances through his spine, like a sledgehammer pounding on his vertebrae. Hallucinations dance beneath his eyelids, haunting specters from his past and conjured from nightmares. Their first-anniversary birthday cake melts in a puddle of blood, and an eyeball, exceptionally blue like his own, rolls from oozing layers as thick as tar. It spins towards him, gaining momentum as it grows into an infinite purple maw with stars for teeth targeted at him.

"Nai!"

A calloused hand brushes his forehead, and their bond sparks to life. Vash's emotions pour through their connection, unfiltered and unabashed. He wants to overwhelm Knives with torrents of worry, and while it's delightful to confirm that his other half cares about his wellbeing, Knives pulls away. 

"You have to give it back," Vash cries out.

Knives manages to crack his eyes open to glare at him. Vash's crisp silhouette has become blurry at the edges, and he can only perceive his twin because of his shock of blond hair amidst the crimson rot's rising tide.

"Your hair's already darkening." What about it? His face must've betrayed his thoughts since Vash says, "It happens when we use our powers."

"Gate," Knives grunts, because he can't believe Vash still doesn't know it's called a Gate. Is he not interested in the slightest in what their abilities had to offer?

"Fine. When we use our Gate, as a sign of our limits. Nai, when you healed me, you absorbed everything, over a century's worth of decay. It's too much for your body to handle and now it's killing you."

As much as he wants to reply that he can handle this, mostly out of pride rather than belief, his tongue is heavy like lead, and each and every one of his bones feels dissected and pulverised, leaving crippled, vulnerable, incapable. 

After using his Gate for such a long time with no visible consequences, Knives foolishly assumed it was endless. Still, it doesn't change anything. This is precisely why Vash needs him. Humans are forcing him to restlessly use his Gate to heal their sisters, but together, they can surpass their limits to achieve a true state of perfection, of godhood even. After this entire ordeal is over, the plan will carry on smoothly since his other half is already here. Plus, since he's completely cleansed of the rot, there won't be any risks of overloading his Gate.

It's perfect, really, if only Knives wasn't coughing blood in his brother's arms.

"Nai," Vash cries out, his voice raw with fear. The last time he called his name like this, the fear had been directed at him, not for him. "Nai, please."

Knives doesn't even have the energy to wipe his mouth and chin. A lock of hair skims his nose, ominously dark, just like Vash said. He really did set off a countdown and trapped himself under a sand hourglass. Is this the Independents' limits? A mere two centuries? 

"Give it back," Vash pleads, tears gleaming in his eyes. 

It's a familiar sight. It's almost endearing if it wasn't so irritating, so soul-crushing. Knives acts for their sake and Vash stupidly disagrees.

Their bond stretches taut. One more pull and it could snap, so Knives, forever rational, fortifies his mind. A perfect mirror of his Gate, his mental shields take the form of blades interlocking and stacking into impenetrable walls, sealing Vash on the other side, sealing the rot within.

In their intangible world, his brother starts pounding against his defences, and physically, he squeezes Knives' shoulders tight enough to bruise.

"Stop, why are you doing this?"

There are many answers to that question, but none Vash would find satisfactory, and none that truly convinces Knives himself. This is a burden Vash carried because he was a fool, a consequence of trusting humans, and the price to pay for not heeding his advice from the start. By taking the decay away, Vash will have learned nothing. It's for his own good since pain appears to be the only language he understands.

It's for his own good, but Knives can't bring himself to let it go. The rot must be addling his mind. He feels it slinking through his synapses and heading straight for the brain.

Something cool drips on his face, almost sizzling on his smouldering skin. A tear. Knives cannot see Vash's features since his twin's markings flare with a radiance that rivals the zenith sun. Red and blue clash, immiscible like oil and water. Vash's presence seeks to consume him when it should be the opposite. 

"No one," Knives mumbles as his eyes close, "hurts what's mine." 

Falling stars paint the darkness, plummeting to the ground. Tortured Plants emerge from the craters, skeletal limbs reaching towards him before hitting an invisible wall. They surround him, their bodies piling in a mountain that obscures the sweltering sun, and Knives realises he's the one trapped behind glass, floating in a tank. Bubbles escape his mouth as he screams. 

Reality slips from his grasp, his old name ringing in his ears before the vacuum of space swallows it whole.

Chapter Text

"Nai."

He stirs, frowning. Blades of glass rustle beside his spasming hands. 

"Nai," the voice repeats, then lets out a giggle. "Wake up."

He opens his eyes to a familiar azure sky speckled with artificial clouds drifting languidly across the dome. His fingers dig into the earth as they curl into fists, tearing clumps of sod. If he cranes his neck, he'll see the single tree planted in the middle of this room, as fake as the rest of humanity. If he turns sideways, he might find Vash huddled under the shade, knees drawn to his chest as he reads a book balanced on his kneecaps.

Knives takes his chance. She waves at him. 

He springs to his feet, flesh rippling to metal as he brings his hand to her neck. She doesn't flinch, doesn't even glance down at the blade drawing blood from her exposed neck. Instead she smiles.

"I've been waiting for you."

Her voice is gentle, deceptively so, drifting in a breeze that shouldn't exist in this sealed environment. Her words seem to spiral around him, intent on caging him. Knives scowls. He knows what lurks beneath her facade. Better yet, he knows she's not real. 

"Nai," she calls him by the name he destroyed along with the humans' fleet, "what's wrong?"

He ignores her and unleashes his blades which hurtle towards the dome. Instead of shattering this illusion, they bounce back helplessly. Scowling, Knives calls forth additional tendrils, twinning them to create something akin to a lance that he launches again at the dome. He gets the same result and a dull throb reverberating through his bones, as if he himself smashed his body against the glass.

"Please, stop, you'll hurt yourself."

In the blink of an eye, the lance veers back at her and pierces her abdomen. When Knives looks back at her, her lips are curled in a sheepish smile, one he knows so well, for it's practically plastered on Vash's face.

"You must've been lonely."

"Lonely?" He echoes despite himself. He's far from lonely. Apart from the gaggle of humans devoting their pitiful lives and limited skills to him, his sisters are a constant hum—

It's so silent. There's no distant purring, no faint clicks and trills, no long sighs that last entire minutes. For the first time, he's cut off from the hivemind.

"I'm sorry, Nai."

Knives laughs. He hasn't laughed in a long time, and it escapes his throat like glass splinters, strains his vocal cords as if they'd forgotten how to produce this sound. 

"I should be grateful," he chuckles hollowly, and he wonders why he's entertaining this delusion. "For showing me that humans cannot be trusted."

Tears well in her eyes, her expression contorting in pain. "I'm sorry I didn't protect—"

His blades clash against her teeth and rip through her gums, her last word an unintelligible gurgle that his mind completes nonetheless. 

You.

His blades, as honed as his resolve, proceed to shred her meticulously. First, the treacherous mouth that baptised him, that spewed rivers of lies and poisoned dreams alike. Second, the eyes that witnessed Tesla's mutilations and simply looked away, somehow the same eyes that crinkled in pride and stared at him fondly. Then the limbs, hacked one by one, the hands that squeezed his own, the arms that embraced him, the legs that ran after him in a field of flowers. The shoulders that carried him, dislocated. The torso that served as a pillow for his weary head, eviscerated. The cheeks that demanded goodnight kisses, slashed.

Knives is panting when he's done, whipping his blades briskly and further drenching the grass with her blood. What remains of her lays crumpled on the grass, unmoving, unlike his own chest rising and falling too quickly to his liking. 

He has to leave. This place is not real, she is not real and she's never been real, just an illusion from the rot.

The viscera twitches. Knives steps back as the bones and blood gather to form a grotesque imitation of a body, one he recognises instantly. The eye he perforated, the eye that should be brown, is now blue, fixed on him like the barrel of a gun.

"Tesla," he whispers.

His surroundings glitch, the floor vanishing from under him, and he's freefalling through a void of darkness. When he hits the ground mere heartbeats again, it's to No Man's Land's coarse sand pricking into his skin. Dunes loom over him, their saffron hues muted under the glint of a full moon. Wrecked spaceships drift through the sky with plumes of fire escorting them to their end. The scene is familiar, forever ingrained in his mind as his first feat against humanity, yet instead of Vash crying and screaming as he backpedals in the sand until he stumbles in his own feet, Tesla blinks at him with her single eyeball.

For me.

She speaks through his mind, her mouth long gone. Her voice is subdued and high-pitched like a child, and Knives remembers she didn't even live past one year of existence.

"For you and for all of us."

For you, she says, her tone not quite repetitive. She stresses the last word, as if in accusation.

"Yes," he concedes, "because I also am a Plant."

The eyeball stares. Knives never had the chance to properly meet his older sister, but he wonders if this is what judgment from an older sibling feels like. The sudden urge to justify himself grips him, and he breaks eye contact to focus on the ruins of the SEEDs fleet, on his accomplishment. Those who are fundamentally right don't have a reason to be defensive.

After a minute, Tesla whispers, Scared.

"Do not be. I'm forging a future where Plants will never go through the pain you endured."

No, she says with a solemness that chills his bones. You. Scared.

Knives is too stunned to reply. Just like her, this conversation with Tesla is a figment of his imagination where he's seemingly insulting himself. He is most certainly not scared. He's the most powerful being on this planet and on the cusp of victory. Humans can never dream of defeating him, not with their limited intellect and fickle nature where they're most likely to butcher one another first.

And Vash... His other half is too soft to do what must be done, too gullible to harden his heart, too peace-loving to accept that only one species can thrive to the detriment of the other. The rare moments Knives does experience fear, it always concerns Vash. What news will reach him today — townspeople stoning him on sight, gunslingers managing a lucky shot, a bout of dehydration in the middle of the desert, or his brother's own stupidity? This lastest episode with the rot must be the pinnacle of idiocy.

The end. Tesla's eyeball tilts, glancing above his head. Soon.

Knives palms his hair, pulling at a lock darker than the night. Even without glass to show him his reflection, he knows there's more black than platinum blond now. 

Deep down, he always knew. He always knew he is not immortal, just like everything else in this galaxy or the next, and perhaps the only instinct he has in common with the parasites is to delay his fate. In in all his scenarios, Vash always returned by his side since it is right, but in this inexplicable nightmare, Knives is facing death alone. 

"There must be a way to reverse it," he grumbles.

Why?

He didn't expect this question, especially when it's evident.

"Do you want me to die?"

Not quite.

Knives chuckles. His own mind is much more impertinent than he expected, but it remains confined within the bounds of his knowledge. It's merely entertaining him, for there is no answer to be found that he doesn't already know of. 

"I will find a way. I always do."

At what cost?

"Whatever it takes."

Even Vash?

"Of course not. I'm doing this for him."

For you.

Knives is very tempted to flick the eyeball, but the illusion of his sister keeps him in check.

"I just absorbed his decay. Isn't this proof enough that I'm acting for his sake?"

For you.

"How is this for me? Is it wrong to care for my brother?" 

Not care. Control.

He can't believe he's arguing with himself in the form of his dead sister he never spoke to. He pictured his mind as elegant and efficient as his Gate or as his quarters housing his piano, not this incoherent exchange while seated in the sand.

"It wouldn't have to be like this if he simply listened to me," Knives replies.

Listen. Do you?

Yes, Knives listened to his screams when Vash jerked awake from nightmares, then listened to his sobs as he clung to his tunic, his hair tickling Knives’ nose and tears dampening his collarbone. He listened to his brother's nervous laughter, so obviously fake, too rapid and airy, matching with the forced crinkles near his eyes. He listened to his doubts about humankind, confessed in the privacy of their shared bedroom, knees brushing and breaths in sync. 

Will you? 

Knives nods. The eyeball stays silent. He sighs, relieved that his consciousness and him are finally on the same page. 

In the distance, debris crashes onto the planet's surface, and a mushroom cloud of dust erupts at the impact. The ground rumbles, the wind whipping through his hair and carrying grains of sand that chafe his skin.

"When I'll find a cure," Knives muses aloud, "there will be no more Last Runs. The Plants will be safe, this planet will be ours, and Vash..."

He doesn't know why he can't finish that sentence. 

Waits for you, Tesla completes in his head.

Knives tenses, whirling around to face the eyeball. "What did you say?"

The eyeball stretches as if squished until it divides into two. He watches, awestruck, as the eyes multiply exponentially until a wall of them stares down at him. His skin morphs into blades but he doesn't attack. There's something familiar with their pure white sclera, the irises of the the palest blue. 

He takes a step back as he cranes his neck, noting that the eyes keep expanding in an arch above him. "What the—"

Come back, the voices say, for many more echo Tesla's like a choir of angels surrounding an emissary of God, to us.

The words are simultaneously murmured and shrieked in his ears, the tone both tender and authoritative, smooth like a tomas' feather and abrasive like emery. He vaguely hears her among the chaos even though he killed her twice, and others he's never heard before, all feminine, all drilling the order into his soul.

Come back. Come back. Come back.

Knives falls to his knees as he grips his head, the voices he longed his entire life to understand ripping through his own thoughts. His connection to the hivemind is a black hole in his mind, steadily broadening until he's hollowed out, unravelling his existence.

Come back to us.

****************

Knives awakes with a gasp, eyes fluttering open then immediately closing when the brightness burns his retinas. He jolts into a sitting position, snarling when a hand braces his back. His blades protrude from his shoulder blades like porcupine quills, and the contact hastily disappears. 

"Easy, Nai, easy. It's just me."

His flesh shifts back in an instant. Vash's voice comes from his right, and he reaches blindly for him. A warm hand holds his own, fitting perfectly in his palm, fingers lacing together naturally.

"I'm right here."

"I cannot see."

Knives meant to speak it as a fact with irritation sprinkled on, but he hates how pathetic he sounds. His throat is hoarse, like he's a child who's been bawling for hours.

"It'll come back. You were..." Vash pauses, hesitation radiating from him in waves. "You were unconscious for a while."

'A while' for Plants is a terrifying prospect, although Knives suspects even seconds of unconsciousness become 'a while' when the mind devolves into panic. 

"Is he dead yet?"

His vision may be impaired, but his sense of hearing is impeccable, recognising the Punisher's annoying drawl growing closer along with the sounds of his foosteps.

"You," Knives growls, and Vash's mechanical hand firmly grabs his shoulders.

"Stop, you're still recovering."

Even if he wanted to overpower his brother, he couldn't. He's holding on the last shreds of his pride to keep his body upright, and if he's not careful he will droop straight into Vash's arms. While he might've allowed himself this moment of weakness when it was just the two of them, now he'd rather meet with death again.

"What is he even doing here?" Knives grumbles.

"You left me here, asshole." The Punisher then snickers. "Nice hairdo, by the way."

"Wolfwood, you're not helping."

Vash's warmth fades away, and Knives swallows down his bitterness. Evidently, as soon as the parasites shows up, his brother leaves. He did it before, and he'll do it again. Now that Knives is relatively unharmed, Vash will use this opportunity to slip away, and their game of cat and mouse will resume like nothing happened because— 

Knives startles when hands, one warm and one cool, brush his temples. Something hooks around the top of his ears and bumps against the bridge of his nose. He frowns, causing the glasses to slide, but Vash gently pushes them back up.

"It'll help. Trust me."

He blinks a few times, doubtful until colours return. Red is first, his twin's garish coat, the puffiness around his blue eyes, his lips pulled in a trembling smile. Light dances around him in soft shades of turquoise and grey, refracted through gurling water. A row of tanks so tightly placed their borders touch surround him, and the sliver of space to squeeze through to exit the circle seems like an afterthought. The Plants are curled on themselves, slumbering. Some of the tension in Knives' shoulders seep away.

Vash waves tentatively at him. "Hey."

In the background, the Punisher glowers at him, for once without his sunglasses. Knives freezes. He broke his twin's glasses, and he highly doubts Vash carries another pair. The Punisher stands without his ridiculous sunglasses, and Knives is wearing glasses.

Vash catches his wrists before he can wrench them from his face and crush them between his fingers.

"Stop, Nai!"

"I'm not getting help from a human!"

Said human barks in laughter. "Too bad it's too late."

Despite the shades, Knives glares at Vash so intently his twin shrinks on himself. "What's he talking about?"

"Well..."

"Who do you think helped your brother drag all those Plants around you?"

Knives reassesses the tanks, yet at first glance none of them have sustained damage, which is equally good and unfortunate. Good, for his sisters deserve the best environment. Unfortunate, because Knives doesn't have a reason to cut down the Punisher. Does he really need a reason, especially when the human takes a drag out of his cigarette and proceeds to pollute the air his twin is breathing?

Gradually, the darkest colours come back in his field of vision: the Plants' distorted shadows, Vash's mole, his dark hair in the tanks' reflection. His roots appear dipped in jet-black ink, making his skin even paler, and half of his hair has darkened as if he went through a miserable dyeing session.

"It was necessary," Vash insists, his smile waning, "to save you."

Alarm dwarfs any lingering fury Knives still has against the Punisher. "What did you do?" He asks although he already knows.

Vash turns towards the closest Plant, raising a hand to the glass. "Not much. They volunteered."

Come back to us, they told him, like nymphs dragging him to the depths of an ocean, not seeking to drown but to heal.

The faintest hint of pink is visible on their folded wings. They must've split the decay through themselves, each one sacrificing a portion of their life essence for him. Knives didn't deserve it. He is supposed to be their guardian, not their protégé. He's responsible for keeping them unharmed, but he drained them like any lowly human would. They stole away his choice... just like he did to Vash.

No, Vash is different. In this sense, his other half is like their sisters, meant to be treasured, meant to be protected. Knives is the only one with the conviction and the power to do so.

Vash doesn't seem to think so as he says, "You'll have to be careful, Nai. You can't use your Gate as recklessly."

A minor setback. Knives clicks his tongue, addressing at the Punisher. "Bring me Conrad."

"Bastard's dead," the human responds smugly as if he himself killed the guy.

Knives mutters a curse. His Gate must've been unstable when he passed out, severing his control over the scientist's deteriorating body. 

This becomes a moderate setback, but not an impossible obstacle. He knows Vash visits humans who survived the Fall, the same crew who further drove them apart. As much as Knives would rejoice in their slaughter, some might possess knowledge comparable to Conrad. It will be unpleasant to further antagonise his twin by enslaving the few worthwhile parasites, but this is, as always, for the greater good.

Tesla's voice rises unbidden in his mind. For you.

Knives shakes his head as if he can physically get rid of her. Now it makes sense why his consciousness was contradictory; he'd been conversing with the hive. It stings that his sisters didn't seem convinced Knives lived and breathed for their sake, but in the end they understood.

"Nai." Vash's tone reminds him of the rare times she scolded him, prompting Vash to run to him for comfort. "Could we... put an end to all of this?"

Knives narrows his eyes. "This?"

"Yeah..."

Vash falls silent, bowing his head and lowering his gaze to the ground as if he cannot bear looking at Knives in the eyes. With a lopsided smile, he scratches the back of his neck. 

They both know what he's referring to. The century-long feud that never should've been, pitting his hatred against humans against Vash's fondness for them. The extended and painful separation of two halves starting to chip, unable to fit like before. 

Knives wants nothing more for this to end, and even with Conrad gone, everything is ready to wipe the slate clean and start anew.

"We can. Vash, I'm so close to creating the world we dream of. By using your Gate, we can access the higher dimension and use it to conceive new Independents. We wouldn't be alone anymore."

"At what cost?"

Knives flinches, his gaze sweeping over the Plants floating in their tanks. All of them are closed and not interfering, but he swears he hears them murmuring the same words, followed by their next reply: Even Vash? 

"Nai?" His brother observes him, eyebrows pinched together. 

"Just humanity," Knives answers easily. Vash is not humanity, and Vash doesn't belong with humanity, so it is fine.

But it is not fine, not when it's his brother's turn to draw back. "You can't do that, not again."

Technically, as much as it pains him to admit it, Knives didn't annihilate humanity — the Punisher idling behind them and pretending not to listen to their conversation especially hammers the point home —, so he wouldn't be doing it again.

"I'm doing this for..." Knives stops himself, a sense of déjà vu washing over him like sheets of ice. 

Vash practically pounces on the chance to speak during a rare lull in his speech. "Killing humans is not the solution. Plants need humans to calibrate their environment, and humans needs Plants to survive. It's all—"

"We can calibrate their environment just fine," Knives interrupts with a huff. "And they wouldn't need it if they became like us."

"Please, Nai, listen..." 

Vash's mouth keeps moving, and his hands gesticulate to emphasise his claim, but white noise crackles in Knives' ears. 

Listen. Do you?

He's been so confident to say 'yes' when he didn't, not really, not since they landed on this planet. He can't remember half of the things Vash said to him. Something about killing her, which he partially acknowledged. Something about humans deserving second, third, fourth chances, which he wholly rejected. Loneliness and resentment simmered, scrubbing his twin's words clean from his mind or twisting them into his own versions supporting his ideals. In the end, Knives couldn't listen since Vash avoided him, and every subsequent attempt was belittled or met with undiluted animosity. 

Will you?

He'd nodded, believing it would be as natural as a bird taking flight. Knives has but one wing, which perhaps steered him astray when he clawed his way to the sun.

"—ai? Nai?"

Vash looks on the verge of crying as he calls his name. The Punisher has edged closer, one hand outstretched as if to squeeze his twin's shoulder in a reassuring manner or to yank him to safety. He freezes when he realises Knives is watching him, clearly expecting his wrist to be severed from his body.

"Nai? Are you with me?"

"I am," Knives breathes.

He calmly removes the sunglasses, tossing them at the Punisher who adroitly catches them. He stares at him skeptically, and instead of putting them back on, he wipes them thoroughly with the hem of his shirt. Grunting, he decides to shove them in his pockets like they're contaminated material. It almost makes Knives lose his newfound resolve.

"You look content," Vash murmurs.

Traces of anxiety underline his tone. Knives cannot blame him. Typically, his contentment is diametrically opposed to his other half's. It speaks volume on how much they were disconnected.

"Are you entirely against killing humans?"

Vash frowns in confusion but replies, "Yes."

"Even those who hurt you?"

His gaze softens, as if he understands where this is going. "Yes."

"And those who are ethically evil? Morally corrupt?"

Vash nods, and Knives pretends he didn't hear the Punisher's not-so-subtle "Like you." He doesn't take it personally. After all, he's the antithesis of mankind.

"What if they hurt Plants?"

"Then we'll show them how to take care of them."

"If they don't listen, or if they worsen their situation, what then?"

"Nai," Vash sighs admonishingly.

Knives couldn't help himself. He had to prod, but his brother is adamant about this pacifist business.

"What if I kill a human?"

"Accidentally, right?" When Knives turns away, Vash leans forward, repeating, "Accidentally, right?"

"Right," he concedes through gritted teeth.

"Then you make up for it by saving ten more!"

"Sounds like a pain."

Vash opens his mouth, undoubtedly to protest, but the Punisher beats him to it by groaning, "You have no idea."

They share a glance charged with something akin to understanding. Who knew Knives would find something in common with a para— He should stop insulting them if he wishes to abide by his twin's principles.

His twin's principles. Surprisingly, it doesn't feel like defeat or surrender. Both of them tried enforcing their vision on the other, fraying their bond, and only succeeded in driving them further apart. Now, cerulean threads weave into a stronger filament linking them together, and Knives can feel his brother's cautious elation and aspirations for the future. In return, he doesn't hide his reservations about it, but also plants the seeds of hope and affection.

Vash beams at him and bounces forward. Automatically, Knives spreads his arms open to receive his hug, his grin infectious. His other half's hands find their usual place in his back, and his forehead rests on the crook of his neck. When was the last time they touched and it didn’t end in a fatality? When was the last time their minds aligned and rode the same wavelength?

Vash eventually pulls away, and Knives has to clench his hands into fists to keep himself from reeling him back to him. His twin flashes him a knowing, toothy smile, and the Punisher is almost his mirror image behind him, with more mischief injected into his smirk.

Knives clears his throat, sensing that his reputation as a logical and collected being is compromised. "If humans keep acting like complete imbeciles, I might fall back on old habits," he warns.

Vash's face brightens, as if his 'old habits' do not entail genocide. "Don't worry, Nai! Wolfwood and I will stop you."

The Punisher loudly swears while Vash laughs, the same sound as when they were children, bubbling up his throat and chiming delightfully. Knives almost joins in, then smoothens his face into a neutral expression before his brother's enthusiasm swoops him away. Logical and collected.

Still, Knives doesn't fight the small smile curling his lips as he stands to his feet, taking place next to Vash, just as it should be.