A.N: God forbid the characters to be out of character, but I believe they are. O.o; Or, in my opinion they are. Anyway, this was a really weird idea that came to me directly after the last episode. I don't know. I'm insane. People are well aware of that fact by now. I wrote this for the every so awesome and lovely Kelly. ^^; Enjoy.

Disclaimer: If only. O.O

WARNINGS: some non-con, lime-ish, very… not sane, and yaoi. Knives/Vash to be specific. Although it's more one-side. But, shh. No one has to know that. XD

Palefire

Written by Firefly-chan

I just wanted to show him of what he could be.

He was everything that I wasn't. He was perfection in its purest form – its most innocent and illuminating cast. He stood above all else, and he radiated with such superiority that none could surpass. Yet… he was so fragile that if he were to be touched, he would break beneath it. And I knew then that action had to be called. What else was I supposed to do?

But she owned him. She held him in such a way that I could not obtain myself. She knew things about him that I could never possibly know about. He counted on her, loved her, and needed her. When tears flooded from those beautiful eyes that I so loved, he ran to her. When his words trembled and fell from his lips in small, desperate whimpers, he never once looked to me. Never once.

And that… that made my blood boil.

He was greater – not simple commonplace. How could he pretend as if she surpassed him when she didn't? How could he treasure her life as if it was undeniably precious? I was the one he was suppose to need more than anything else. His brother. His twin. His blood.

He left me with no other choice.

So, I stood in the protection of the shadows, watching and waiting for the time to make my move. Watching because I was out of strings to pull. Waiting because I knew my priorities. Every piece of the puzzle that I had mapped together in my head had to fall into place perfectly. Anything missing and I could lose everything.

I can still taste him. Like the sky dusted with cinnamon – forbidden. Sweet. Trembling. His fear was my strength. I remember how he felt… his skin was so achingly smooth beneath my hands. Tears that were heaven upon my lips. His vulnerability. His begging. His pain.

Yet her remained blind to the things he wished not to see. Still he cried for her. Still her needed her. Was I not enough for him to need? So, it turned. It turned from wanting him to need me, to…

I just wanted to taint him.

And somewhere in the dark, someone screamed.

- - -

Vash awoke with a sudden start.

For a long while, he lay awake, trying to place what had awakened him exactly in the first place. It took a moment for his mind to register that it had been a noise. A disturbing one—something that must have been inhuman and loud. Yet almost sad—painful, haunting and dark.

Vash flinched in surprise when he felt something shift beside him. He turned his head to the side, a blank expression in large turquoise eyes. The blond outlaw blinked upon seeing the priest sprawled out next to him, but remained relatively still. Wolfwood was already awake, propped up by a pillow, with a cigarette dangling from pale, cracked lips.

"Wolfwood?" Vash murmured, the word thick with sleep and confusion.

"Tongari," the response was smooth, spoken easily around the roll of tobacco.

Vash lowered dark lashes, before raising his gaze to study the dark-haired man's profile intently. "Why am I—" he struggled with his words. "Why are you—"

"In your bed?" Wolfwood finished with a slight smirk. "You were having a nightmare. Thrashing around and the whole bit. I held you down until you calmed, and then I figured I'd stay here in case you started up again."

Vash could've smiled at that. It took him a second to realize he couldn't even remember dreaming in the first place. The blond flinched, a frown washing over porcelain features. A question formed in Vash's throat, but died upon reaching his lips. Something had stopped him. A whisper… breathy as the most delicate of air.

"Chapel."

Vash's eyes snapped open, and he sat up sharply. He glanced around the room, before back down at Wolfwood who was looking up at him questionably.

"Did you hear that?" Vash whispered.

"Hear what?" he heard Wolfwood mutter.

"Chapel…" the whisper came again; so soft that Vash had to strain to hear it.

"Chapel," the blond repeated the voice, gripping tightly to the bed sheets with closed fists.

Wolfwood tensed noticeably beside him, and began choking and coughing on his own cigarette smoke. Vash clambered over the recovering priest's legs, his feet landing firmly against the cool wooden floor.

"W-Where are you going?" Wolfwood had to force the questions out, gasping for breath.

"I have to go," he murmured, groping around the dark room for his clothing.

After dressing incredibly quickly, Vash picked up his gun from his dresser and slid it into its holster. Nodding to the wide-eyed priest staring at him in obvious disbelief, Vash opened the door to their room and exited the hotel.

It was unnaturally quiet out in the dark, deserted streets of the small town. It unnerved the blonde gunman. Vash set out into the cool night, his senses well aware and sharp. He looked around carefully, running a tongue over his bottom lip nervously. Something was terribly wrong, and Vash could feel it clear down to his gut. It was much too quiet out for this time of night. You almost always had one or two drunken men wandering the streets on their own.

Suddenly, Vash's head snapped upwards; his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Pulling his gun from its halter, he took a careful, slow step foreword. He could've sworn that he had heard something – almost like crying coming from somewhere ahead of him. His stomach gave a horrible twist, and he placed a shaky hand to his mouth to keep from gagging.

Doing his best to force down his sudden and unexplained sickness, Vash took another step; conscious of how the gravel cracked quietly but distinctly beneath his boots and echoed into the silent night air.

"Brother," it had only been a whisper – a dying hiss in the passing wind – but Vash heard it all too clearly.

He paused in mid-step, gripping the weapon in his hands as if it were his only lifeline. Vash swallowed roughly, trying to pass the voice as a figment of his imagination and partly caused by his obviously growing anxiety. But that voice… it had been so familiar, so singled out, that it demanded attention that could not be denied.

"Brother," compared to before, the word was spoken loudly, firmly.

Vash felt his stomach lurch yet again, and—out of surprise or horror, he wasn't sure—the gun he had once firmly held, slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground with a loud clatter. His breathing hitched noticeably, and he looked around again nervously. Oh, please, no…

"No," he whispered, voice shaking violently. "No, no, no."

"Vashu," the voice came from all around him, too breathy and faint to be determined where it would be located at.

Before the gunman even had the time to react, strong hands clamped down onto his hips, and a firm body pressed itself up against his back. Vash recoiled but the grip held strong. The blond was almost sick again. No… not…

"Vashu," the voice repeated, purring the heartbreakingly familiar name into his ear, "it's been awhile."

"Knives," Vash choked on the name, hating the way it fell so helplessly from his lips. "Oh, God…"

"Not God, lovely brother," Knives said softly, nipping at his ear. "You're shaking."

Vash felt his knees give way, but Knives slid an arm around his waist, pulling him back to rest up against him. The blond swallowed dry sobs, desperately wanting to control his shaking but unable to master it. He just wanted to wake up, just wanted this to be some god-awful nightmare.

But the facts remained. This wasn't a nightmare, and he wasn't going to wake up.

Knives slid gloves hands down Vash's waist, pressing them against his thighs and pushed his hips back to meet his own. Vash whimpered self-consciously, all his strength and will to fight draining from his already fatigued body. He was seemingly powerless against his twin, and he really couldn't fathom why.

Never again…

(Innocent. Night. Life. Him.

Knives watched his young twin sleep peacefully, the barest hints of a smile gracing a harmless yet calculating face. Shadowed by stretching darkness, he simply watched.

Planning, thinking, deciding.

Finally, he whispered, "I am the love that dare not speak its name."

Let it begin.)

"Why are you running from me, Vashu?" Knives questioned, burying his face in the base of the blond's neck. "It's not as if you have anything to fear."

The words were spoken with such anger, such mockery, that the man knock as Vash the Stampede winced. He strangled on unfallen tears, desperately wanting to defend himself, but unable to bring himself to do it. Knives—placing his hands back on his brother's waist—slowly turned him around, tilting his chin up and looking down into wide, frightened eyes.

"Evil is unspectacular and always human. It shares our bed and eats at our table." Knives spoke softly, allowing himself a wry smirk. "What's the matter, Brother? You're willing to spill tears at the expense of those who suffer, yet not for your own self?"

Vash didn't reply, but his gaze sharpened visibly. Knives slid his hand to the small of the other's back, delicately kissing his forehead before descending down so his lips hovered only inches from Vash's.

"Is there really anyone who can live through time without being stabbed in the back by pain?" he uttered quietly. "Damned to watch those you love die, is there really any point in this immorality of this planet."

And then, slowly, he claimed his twin's lips in a demanding, expectant kiss. Such a kiss that could touch the mouth, yet breathed in such a way that froze the soul. Vash felt no warmth, but the bitter caress of his brother's cold desire.

("K-Knives?" Vash murmured incoherently, squinting up at his brother through sleep-hazed orbs. "Is something wrong?"

"Ah," Knives gave a small, catlike smile. "I suppose you could say that there is."

Vash struggled to sit up, but the hand pressed against his shoulder prevented him from doing so. Vash frowned up at him, brushing a stray strand of golden hair from his face. "Knives?" Vash repeated, concern creasing delicate features. "Tell me what's wrong."

Knives studied Vash silently for a moment, before his lips quirked upwards. "I think I like you like this," he commented thoughtfully. "So helpless and vulnerable. Very unlike you, Vash."

Vash's brows grew together, and—like his brother's smile—his frown grew downwards. Slowly, the boy reached out and carefully touched him lightly on the arm. "Knives," he tried again, "please tell me what's wrong.")

Vash still tasted the same. Knives savored the taste as if were sacred; eagerly exploring the mouth of his terrified brother. Breaking the violent kiss, Knives ran his hand through Vash's hair, yanking his head back to reveal ashen skin. Running burning lips along the smooth arch of the blond's throat, Knives smiled against the cool skin when the other whimpered once more. Knives backed his brother against the nearest wall, pinning him in place.

"Knives, please," Vash gasped finally, trying to suppress a sharp cry when his lighter haired twin bit down against the skin at the base of his neck. "Why are you doing—"

He cut off with a low moan of pain when Knives curled his fingers into the material of the red jacket, drawing him away from the wall, before roughly slamming him back into it. Knives brought his mouth down upon Vash's again, almost desperate.

Almost pleading.

Almost.

("You wish to know what's wrong?" Intimidating intent rested in those eyes as Knives voiced the question.

Vash hesitated for a fraction of a second, but eventually nodded.

Knives appeared to be laughing, shaking his head from one side to another. In a split, unexpected second, he had seized Vash by the shoulders, looming ominously over him. "Fine," he breathed, smirking. "I'll show you."

Then, without warning, Knives was kissing him. Not gently, not cautiously, but with a torrent of emotions that made Vash struggle for logic. Vash supposed he could barely even call it a kiss as he was in so much pain, and the hand pressed against the side of his face felt as if it was burning his skin. Vash started in violent surprise, struggling in bewildered fear. But, eventually, his resistance ceased.

Knives slid on top of him, holding him in place with the weight of his own body. Vash cried out in soft dismay at the form melding against his own. Knives whispered reassurance into his brother's ear, but it never quite reached Vash. The blond was too busy racing through his thoughts on whether or not to struggle, or break into what loyalty was and how far it should be carried.

"Knives!" Vash managed loudly when his brother finally pulled away.

"You think you're perfect," Knives hissed, cutting him off with sudden change of temperament. "Perfection includes innocence, and innocence is ashamed of nothing."

Before Vash could speak again, Knives stopped him with another brutal kiss.)

Vash restrained a hiss of pain, clenching his teeth tightly to keep from screaming. Knives pushed his twin down to his knees, slowly maneuvering down with him. Grasping Vash's set jaw; he yanked his head up to meet his penetrating gaze.

"All I wanted was you," Knives' voice shook when he spoke. "Damnit, Vash. All I wanted to understand was you. It's always been about you."

Gripping painfully at broad yet slim leather-clad shoulders, Knives yanked him from his knees, and—pressed up against his own body—lowered him to the hard, dirt ground. Straddling the blond outlaw, the twin of Vash the Stampede roughly removed the red coat, tossing it carelessly aside. Making a low protesting noise deep in his throat, Vash struggled beneath the other.

"You never saw me," he went on smoothly, removing Vash's remaining clothing. "You were always too good. Too damn good."

Vash's pleading and chorus of 'not trues' fell onto deaf ears. Knives, releasing a small growl of annoyance, sharply backhanded the squirming blond, sending the gunman into shocked silent and smarting skin. The impact of the surprisingly strong blow sent him reeling to the brim of unconsciousness.

But, in the night where even the lightest of sleepers slept, no one saw.

And no one heard.

(Bitter was the breath of sin that crossed the path of innocence. Like black velvet across white silk, two colors that were never meant to pass. It spun a web that wrapped and embraced, but never closed. And—although innocence may struggle—eventually it gives into the prison that sin has woven. Innocence spills unwanted tears that fall unnoticed on the hand of sin. Because sin will never notice—sin refuses to notice what it does not want to know.

The crying of his brother was music to his ears. The taste of his many tears upon his tongue was the only salvation he desired. Finally, it was his time for the pain in which he had wisely numbed himself from. His turn to be marked. To be forever tainted in the unmistakable turn of sinful release.

"Beauty in things exist in the mind which contemplates them," Knives started gently, running a cool yet scorching finger over a bare, heaving chest. "And beauty cannot be touched. No matter how much you mar it." He stroked a thumb over Vash's trembling lower lip.

"Knives," Vash whimpered, turquoise eyes impossibly wide, "please, no. Don't—please."

Knives leant down, nipping softly at his neck. "Tell me, Vash," Knives began without hesitation, palms pressed against his brother's stomach, "how is it we can grow up together, yet I come out… different? All I ever wanted was for you to look at me differently from the way you looked at Rem. But you had always loved her more -- that disgusting form of impurity. I don't understand it, damnit!"

"N-No," Vash said shakily, "n-no, god – no. That's not true… brother… Knives—please."

"You still don't understand," he muttered, fingering the waistband of his pants. "I'm sorry, Vashu.")

"Your scars, Brother," Knives whispered, tasting the jagged skin of Vash, "do they reflect your pain? I see that you are not as innocent as you once were thought of to be."

He ran a finger along one of the scars, raising an eyebrow steadily. "I wonder if each scar represents a tear fallen for every person you've seen killed."

Without waiting for a response, Knives sat up slightly, removing a small blade from his pocket. He watched, amused, as Vash stirred beneath him at the sight of the silver metal. Knives lowered the blade to the base of his twin's stomach, cutting a diagonal line that threaded with dark crimson.

Despite the pain, Vash went still almost immediately. His chest rose and fell with each deep, panted breath he attempted to take. Still, he watched the blade his brother held warily.

Knives bent back down, placing his mouth on the shell of Vash's ear, and spoke, "So, tell me, Vash. What are your beliefs now?"

Vash didn't reply. Knives chuckled quietly to himself, descending down the blond's chest, his lips resting on the line of blood. A tongue peaked from those lips and ran along the freshly cut crevice, soaking up the blood. Vash fought down another wave of panic, forcing himself to remain calm although his body begged to differ.

(Vash had cried. Oh, how he had cried when Knives took him. His nails had dug into the skin at Knives' back and probably drew blood, but he didn't care. How he savored the crying, the begging, and his helpless pleas.

Vash panted loudly from beneath his brother, a small whimper of excruciating pain escaping barely parted lips. His eyes closed so that lashes met a flushed face, and his head arched back slightly. Knives watched him with subtle interest, before roughly pushing back into the limp, quivering body.

"What's the matter, Vash?" Knives spat harshly. "All the times you crawled into my bed after one of your nightmares and begged me to hold you, to please let you stay. Now you're suddenly afraid of this? Surprises, surprises."

But it wasn't like that. It never would be. Vash as well as Knives knew that. But there was a difference – Knives didn't want to know. It made him bitter… angry to know the painfully obvious truth. And, slowly, he slipped into the steady state of denial. And, as he collapsed onto his trembling, silently sobbing, he knew.

"Oh, Vash," he murmured, kissing the back of the blond's neck. "Vashu. You'll never understand."

And he never would.)

"You want to know what my beliefs are?" Vash's voice came out surprisingly strong and steady.

Knives perked to attention, looking at his twin with curious yet hauntingly empty eyes.

Vash wet his lips, not even once breaking the nerve-wracking gaze. "I still believe that everyone and everything is good at heart," he said softly. "Even you, Knives."

If Knives hadn't been clenching his teeth together, his jaw would've probably hit the ground. Those words had an incredibly huge impact on him, and it took everything in him not to knock the blond unconscious. He slammed his hands down onto the ground, palms resting on either side of Vash's head. Vash flinched, but he kept his eyes locked with his brother's.

"You. Put. Me. To. Shame." Knives had to force the words out, face only inches from the others.

Vash remained quiet.

"How the fuck can you say that?" he growled, losing his cool. "After all you've been though—after I broke you, purposely waiting for you to piece yourself together before I attempted to do it again. How can you sit there, look me in the eyes, and tell me that you believe every fucking thing on this god forsaken planet is good at heart?"

"Because that's what I've always believed," Vash said firmly, confidently.

Knives pushed himself off of his brother and into a stand, glaring down at him in disgust. Vash scrambled to his feet, slipping his coat back on to cover his bare body. Knives' set jaw was trembling, and Vash could tell that he was fighting to calm himself.

"That's what you believe?" Knives repeated, voice quiet but angry.

Vash raised his chin defiantly. "Yes," he said. "That's what she would have wanted."

Knives' eyes widened in unhidden surprise, before they narrowed in an obviously angered look. "Don't, Vash," he spoke with a finger raised in evident warning. "Don't even say it."

Vash's eyes flickered over Knives' tense form, but the strong confidence remained. "That is," he started slowly, loudly, "what Rem would have wanted."

Knives' gloved fingers tore through his hair, remaining there in what looked to be a painful grip. He closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath before spinning around and slamming his fist into the stone wall that rested to his side. Vash winced slightly at the sight, shifting his weight uncomfortable but maintaining his posture with ease.

"You can't tell me that," Knives' said, his voice cracking. "Don't tell me that, Vash. I don't need nor do I want to hear it."

Vash watched with silent interest as his brother raised his head to meet the outlaw's eyes. Vash frowned, sincere concern pulling and pushing at him for the man in front of him. In those eyes laid so much vulnerability, pain, and anger that it broke Vash's heart, and disturbed him to know that it reminded him an awful lot of how he looked when Knives' had first betrayed his trust. The blond gunman sucked in a sharp breath, tearing his gaze from the other's. He could no longer look into those damnable eyes.

"What happened to you, Knives?" Vash whispered, mostly to himself. "It was never supposed to be like this."

"Damnit, Vash!" Knives snapped suddenly, taking a step nearer to his brother. "Yes, it was! What wasn't supposed to be was the day you turned from me. That was not supposed to end up like it did."

Vash felt tears surfacing to the brim of his eyes. "I never turned away from you," he murmured in a dying voice. "I'm right here, Knives. I always have been."

At first, Knives went still and was silent. But after a nerve-breaking moment, his eyes narrowed and closed in dangerously on the broken outlaw. Rage ran through his veins like hot iron, shaking him up all the way from his trembling jaw, and down to clenched hands. Vash took notice of it, but held his ground, and in a short second, Knives was on him. Fingers wove themselves once again into golden hair, and a red-clad body met the wall for the second time that night.

"I hate you," the voice was so distinct, yet threaded with such force-shattering emotion; one could barely understand it at all. And Knives was unsure if the voice was his own or not.

Vash knew whom it belonged to, though. And he cringed upon the impact the words had on him. With his free hand, Knives wound his fingers around Vash's neck tightly, pulling the blond from the wall before slamming him back into it with such force that Vash saw stars.

"I hate you!" the voice came again, and this time Knives was certain the three words fell from his own lips. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

Even though Vash's vision was blurred slightly and his head was still reeling from the impact, he was still able to make out the river that ran down his brother's face and met at his eyes that was responsible for it. With a shaking hand, Vash reached out and touched the forbidden tears. Knives' words died abruptly, and he released Vash quickly, pulling away. Vash bit down on his bottom lip, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry," Vash said, his voice catching just barely. "I'm sorry."

Always apologizing.

Always forgiving.

Knives stared at him in bewilderment, his tears forgotten. "You're sorry?" he echoed, before a frown played his lips. "Why do you always do that? Apologizing for everything? For everyone?"

When Vash didn't reply, Knives raised an inquiring eyebrow. He studied the blond with silent eyes. The hair tweaked to perfection, the downcast eyes that were always the prisoner of misery, the nose that mirrored his own, and the lips that turned slightly pouty when insulted. The body was so different from the one those many years ago. A body that was marred with scars of sacrifice, desire, and an inner fire that never died.

That was when it hit Knives.

He was Vash the Stampede. Maybe not the one people thought of him to be, but the strength was there. Vash was a mask of a human who had been broken many times before. Who's sweat, blood, and tears were not meant for himself, but for the protection of mankind. It was powerful, and that power radiated from him unlike anything else. Vash had never hated. Had never wanted anyone to get hurt.

"I don't understand," Knives whispered between clenched teeth.

But, like Vash had not been able to understand him, he knew he would not be able to understand Vash. Knives turned his head, his breathing staggered and cut short. Vash was the perfect model of imperfection. And it was almost ironic to Knives. A small smile formed on his lips, and he turned from his brother.

"Perfection is only what you make of it, Vash," he said loudly. "Remember what I said to you all those years ago?"

Vash opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Knives advanced further into the night. After a second, his footsteps as well as he himself, disappeared into the dark, bitterly cold night.

Almost as if…

Almost as if he was never there.

(Silence blanketed the dark room like fog. Sweat could've been smelled strongly, along with the tart, bitter scent of fresh blood and cold, wasted tears. The pitch black of the room proved superior; it reached out and illuminated the two figures entangled in sheets on the bed. Knives tightened his grip around Vash's waist, pulling the silently sobbing blond up against his chest.

"Vash," Knives' voice was taunting, mocking. "Vash, I know you're awake."

Vash buried his face further into a pillow as response, fingers gripping the mattress painfully hard. Knives ran a hand gently through Vash's golden locks, a smile of satisfaction falling upon his face. A smile that could almost seem thoughtful, but upon looking closer, it held a dangerous twisted tilt to it that few would recognize. And eyes that could be beautiful if it wasn't for the whirlpool of raw emotion that was displayed in them.

"I still don't think you understand," Knives trailed a finger across the back of Vash's neck. "We have no but ourselves—at the end of the day, it's just us and only us. We live and we watch them die. The funny thing is, Vash, you always seem to hurt when you watch others pass over. Why is that?"

Knives laughed quietly at Vash's silence, before continuing, "We are not meant to love others; most of all… them. We are to finish off their cycle of life sooner than expected, as they do nothing but waste time and space. We are meant for a life of solitude."

Vash winced, his tears lessening but not stopping completely. Knives released a small sigh, shifting his weight on the bed, before pulling Vash even closer to him. He flipped the unsuspecting blond off of his stomach and onto his side, so that he was facing him. Knives slipped a finger beneath Vash's chin, lifting his head up so that their gazes met.

"And, when you think about it, loneliness really has no specific effect on us," Knives said softly, but firmly and directly. "But you deny it so—you don't want to be alone. Loneliness is a cold replacement of love. It embraces with a bitter chill, and caresses your skin with soft kisses. I know it all too well."

Knives pulled himself back on top of his brother, pinning him down onto the mattress. He ran his lips over Vash's sweaty forehead, before tailing down to the side of his face and whispering against the shell of his ear, "Now, it's your turn to be lonely."

Vash went still, closing his eyes as if it would help everything go away. Tears traveled down his face, and although Knives tasted them, he did not notice them. And silently, Vash gave into his brother's rough caresses and tender promises of pain and sorrow.

Loneliness lives.

Loneliness loves.)

Owari.