The Word 'Hurricane.'

A/N: I do not own Trigun or its characters.

Warnings: Language. Implied and mildly described M/M sex between BROTHERS. SPOILERS.

Chapter 2 of “The Word ‘Hurricane.’”

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***A hurricane occurs when higessuessure and low pressure masses of air come in contact with one another***

Several months ago.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Knives asked as he casually leaned against the doorframe, looking into Vash’s room. They had been staying at inns for the last three weeks. He had come to consciousness in an inn. They had been going from town to town every week.

They never stayed in one place.

Because eventually Knives’ mouth would shoot off in front of a barmaid or a store clerk. He would spout his anti-human nonsense and Vash would drag him back to the inn.

Knives had never taken kindly to being dragged anywhere, but he allowed it. Because once they got back to the inn, Vash would push him into his room and lock the door behind them. He would give him a very good talking too. And he would make Knives promise to stop acting like… himself.

And Knives did.

And then they would crawl into bed, the passion of anger still fresh in their blood. Vash angry that Knives couldn’t get a grip on himself and start acting more civil. Knives angry that Vash had the nerve to tell him what to do, even though lately, more often than not, he went along with it.

Vash would push Knives against the bed with force, and pretend that what they were about to do was simply relieving stress, or possibly some kind of punishment. Though for who it was intended was unclear. Knives knew better. Harsh kisses melted into delicate ones, bruising fingers became lingering touches, brutal grinding slowed to gentle motions. Knives knew better. He knew that this was what they were meant for and that no matter what Vash did, he would always want him. Want this.

“Well, what do you want, Knives?”

“Huh?”

“For dinner.”

“Whatever you want.”

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He scratched out that opening line. He crumpled the paper and set it to the side.

No, that wouldn’t do. He picked it up and placed it in the garbage bin to the right of the desk.

Now that was much better.

“Dear Angel,”

Scratch. Crumple. Placed in the garbage bin.

“Dear Vash the Stampede,”

Scratch. Crumple. Placed in the garbage bin.

“Dear Lover,”

“Fuck!” He cried, slamming his fist onto the desk. “Fuck.” He breathed much quieter, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the bin.

He stared at the newest blank sheet, pressed the pen down once again, and wrote in his small, neat script.

“I love you.”

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***There is often a significant difference in temperature between the two masses.***

Several weeks ago.

“Ok, I’m just going to run inside. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just wait here.”

Knives stared up at the tall, ornahurchurch. Whitewashed wood siding stretched into the sky. A cross topped the tallest peak like the candle on the birthday cake Rem had given them many years ago. They had only been given a cake once. Knives had not cared for the sickly sweet icing, though Vash had enjoyed it enough for both of them. He also suspected that the rapid rate at which they had matured threw the crew off a bit as to when to celebrate. So the cake was a solitary event, which he had completely forgotten about until seeing the church’s steeple sticking fearlessly into the clouds.

Stupid humans.

“Why can’t I go inside with you? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to donate some money. Just look at the paint job. It looks like the last sandstorm to hit this town tore it up pretty bad. I’m sure they could use the help.”

“Why? Who cares? You don’t go to church.”

Vash looked at Knives over the rim of his yellow glasses (the only part of this old ensemble that the gunman still wore.) Turquoise eyes glared at clear blue ones.

“It’s the priest, isn’t it? The dead one. You can’t help him by giving money to that church. A lot of good it will do him while he’s rotting in the ground. Humans are so… weak. They can’t even keep their places of worship, the one place that holds their fragile spiritual existence together, in good shape. See, Vash, that’s why-“

Hand connected with skin. Knives’ face stung where Vash had slapped him.

He stood there in shock, hand held to his cheek, as he watched his brother storm into the church. He was still standing there exactly the same way when he came out ten minutes later.

Vash grabbed him by the arm. He pulled him stumbling back to the inn (though Knives would have willingly walked, if he had been given the time to get his feet properly under him.)

When they got back to the inn Vash pushed him onto the mattress and fucked him. And he never said a word.

Knives never mentioned the priest again. Though he entertained fantasies in which such a mention led them back to their rooms (plural because Vash would always purchase two rooms at the inn; one for himself and one for his brother. As if by the end of the night they weren’t always in the same bed) again because that time had been the roughest, hardest, most passionate sex they had ever had.

In his fantasies, Vash would push them into Knives’ room.

In reality, Vash pushed them into his own room.

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TBC.