The Word 'Hurricane.'

A/N: I do not own Trigun or its characters. Sorry. Please enjoy this story, and please, PLEASE, take a moment to review it. Flames will be laughed at. If I get ANY reviews stating that “Duuude! Knives and Vash aren’t LIKE THAT!!!” I will laugh at you, and then I will show my friends, and they will laugh at you. Because this is a fanfic, and besides, you have been warned. Having said that, please, if you’re OK with what I’ve warned you about, continue. It’s possible that Knives may seem a bit OoC. This is how I envisioned he would be after the end of the series. I’m sorry if it isn’t the way that you envisioned it. Call it artistic liberty, I guess. Lyrics are from the song “The Word ‘Hurricane’” by AIR. *** denotes song lyrics.


Warnings: This story contains m/m between BROTHERS! If you have a problem with that, I suggest you do not read this. As of now, there are no lemons. Whether or not there will ever BE a lemon depends on where this story takes me. It’s very likely. SPOILERS! Watch out.


“The Word ‘Hurricane.’”
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***The word 'Hurricane' is the name given to nature's strongest storm.***

Knives sat at the small wooden desk that was pushed into the corner of the dimly lit room. A small stack of paper was neatly placed in front of him and a pen was poised ready in his hand.

What could he possibly say? What could possibly make everything right again? Nothing. That was why he was leaving, after all. There was nothing left to say.

The pen dropped with a heavy thud against the crisp paper. He squared the length of the expensive fountain pen against the edge of the stationary. Giving the desk one more glance to make sure everything was aligned properly (god knows he would never be able to relax if it wasn’t) he hunched over and rubbed his temples, willing the approaching headache away. He closed his eyes against the sight of the blank paper, and not for the first time in recent history, he was frustrated and confused.

He racked his brain for something to write. Some way to form the thoughts circling in his mind. The despair crawling in his heart. Some way to tell his brother just how fucked up he knew their relationship was, and that it was over.

“And after all that work.” He breathed, causing the edge of the paper he was laying his head against to flutter and tickle against his lips.

Knives was no longer a person.

Knives was a shadow of Vash the Stampede.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up straight and opened his eyes, cracking his neck to the left, rolling his shoulders, then cracking his neck to the right. Then methodically popping each joint in his fingers. One, crack. Two, crack. And so on.

He picked up the comforting weight of the pen in his right hand, rolling it against the pads of his index and thumb. He placed the tip against the paper, and with the familiar scratching sound of writing, he began his letter. Blue ink bled into words.

“Dear Brother,”

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After the battle, after the shooting, after the bloodshed, Knives awoke in a small but comfortable bed. He inhaled deeply and caught the scent of shaving cream and soap. Two similar scents that he, being a man (though certainly not human, but a man just the same) could differentiate. Obviously someone had showered and shaved recently.

He blinked several times and reached up to his eyes to rub away the sleep. Pain shot through his left arm as it made its way to his face.

He bellowed a loud, but hoarse “Fuck!” before attempting to sit up. Which brought on more stabs of excruciating pain and soreness.

Heavy footsteps sounded through the wall. The door across the room from where he was cringing on his bed flew open and slammed loudly. The resounding smack of wood against plaster sent shocking pains through his head which was slowly becoming one giant, throbbing headache.

Silhouetted against the bright light of the hallway, a tall form made its way towards him, though he could hardly see or care. His eyes were squinting against the light and it took almost everything he had to keep them open against the pain.

“Knives. You’re awake.”

Holy Fuck.

“Knives! Knives… Are you ok? How do you feel?”

Holy. Fuck. It’s…

“Knives.” A warm hand gently grasped his shoulder to shake him into replying, but even that light touch shot bolts of pain through his skin, flesh, and bones. He ground his teeth together and hissed his breath in.

“Oh! Sorry! I’m sorry!” The hand was immediately moved and lowered to the edge of the bed.

Knives opened his eyes all the way and stared down at the hands timidly folded on the blanket next to him. There were no gloves. Just pale skin. One was covered in pinkish-tan scars. The other was not.

Because the other a faa fake. Because every REAL part of the man beside him was scarred. Because the man beside him was…

Holy. Fuck. It’s… Vash.

“Finally.”

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And so they spent their days together. It was what Knives had wanted. It was not what Knives had wanted. Not like this.

But it would have to do.

Afternoons faded peacefully to evenings, and eventually Knives’ wounds healed. Small, shiny, pink, puckered scars marked each of the spots where he had been shot. Reminding him that Vash, his stupid, dear brother, with his stupid, dear ways, and his stupid, dear ideals overcame him. HIM. Millions Knives.

But the fact remained that regardless of who had won, Knives was side by side with his brother once again.

It was what he had wanted. It was not what he had wanted. But it would have to do.

And for a while, it did.
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TBC.