#kvash

they found your shoes in the meadow 

Vash, thinks Knives, has eyes the same blue as the endless perfect sky clean of smoke and shot through with sunbeams. Cornflower blue eyes. Ocean at high tide eyes. Water, clear and cold, pooling in the divots of his face. He cups his little brother’s cheek and brushes a gentle thumb over it. Those eyes are so lovely when they’re filled with tears. So much despair. So much loss. So much pain. 

“It hurts,” Vash whispers. 

“I’ll kiss it better,” Knives promises, even as he pushes a blade into his brother’s shoulder. “Just as soon as you give in.” 

Blood trickles down Vash’s skin, dark red on honey gold. Sometimes Knives looks at his little brother and wonders what he’d look like, bleeding and dying. A corpse instead of the beautiful lively thing he is. He always crushes the thought —Vash is the only good thing left on this planet—but now, he lets himself indulge a little.