Vash watched his brother sleep uneasily. The sleep, it—it wasn't natural, and it wasn't anything like a cold-sleep. His eyes were open, more periwinkle than blue, and his breathing grew irregular at times. Rem had called it a coma. She'd said some people never woke up from them.
Vash wiped a fresh wave of tears from his raw eyes, sniffing. He didn't believe it. Knives would laugh again, and cry, and smirk and be a jerk, and be—be his brother again. He had to.
Knives would wake up, and he'd be fine, and everything would go back to normal again.