Another very short chapter. 'M sorry, it's just the way I am. ^^ It'd be either the numerous short'ns, or one long one and no motivation to do another. X.x Thanks all for all the lurvely reviews. They keep one warm in winter, you know.
Knives is so unbearably, gorgeously eevil. ::happysigh.:: well, on with the yaoi!
---------------------------------------------------------
Knives had turned away, dressing himself, possessed already of that unnerving calm. If Legato had been capable of hating his Master, it would be that he hated most. The minion, however, possessed no such faculty; he was still gasping, the only sound he could manage as he fought for control of his body, for the coherence to beg. As soon as the madness and need left him, left inside his servant, Knives was serene. It was as though Legato, naked and disconnected on the floor, gasping like a fish in the desert, was an intriguing surprise. The look of mild disgust at the human's state was laced with a deeper hatred, and it fueled another burst of venom and pleasure. Legato fought it back, another knot in a throat left dry by his exertions, drier by the metal of his own blood.
"Please," was all he could whisper. He spoke it because it was all he could force between split lips, the only word that would suffice. He didn't even know what it meant. Didn't know what he wanted, nor why he saw fit to beg Knives. The plant was as cold a soul as any of the ones he sought to destroy. But he did- if only to break the silence, to- he didn't dare hope- catch the warmth of another hateful glance. "Please," he choked again, lifting himself the rest of the way, on hands and knees before the glory of his Lord.
Knives sneered, and Legato prayed. He often did, though it shamed him to admit it. To Knives, the only God he'd ever known, he prayed for a soft word or caress, a kiss on his lips, not the absent brother's. He prayed to be Legato Bluesummers in Knives' eyes and arms- not a replacement, a whore, something fucked in effigy and left for not-dead-yet, just broken. He didn't pray for free will, nor for freedom- those were too far gone, willingly surrendered to a traitorous Lord who promised freedom but, in delivering it, only enslaved him further. All he wanted was to own enough of himself to appreciate that Knives owned the rest. He didn't hate it anymore- the perfect victim, he'd grown to love with violence, crave the blows and bites, need the rough, unfettered possession of his body that Knives claimed, as though by taking Legato so thoroughly, he got closer to what he really wanted. Pragmatic and devout, he wanted nothing more physically. He only wished it were him Knives sought, late it night, half-fevered with his dreams. Vash, unsuspecting of it all, got all of Knives' love; Legato got his frustration, his hatred.