Disclaimers: What’s that, Yatsuhiro-sama? You’re giving me the rights to Trigun? You’re too kind. ::pinches self:: In my dreams, I’m sure.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Somewhere in time, there is a circle.
Somewhere in time, the circle will be complete.
Somewhere in time, love is forever.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After successfully fleeing from my room, and Knives’ comatose body, I realize I have nowhere to run to, and that there’s really no point in running. I know I’ll have to face him when we get to Maya, which is, by the look of things, not too far off. From my spot at the front of the sand steamer, perched atop the railing, I can see the city buildings on the horizon, wavering like a mirage due to the heat. My heart lulls itself to a slow, steadying pace, taking with it my thoughts. I find myself unable to truly think clearly anymore. Fleeting, eccentric thoughts drift into my perception, but are quickly cast aside due to their childishness. Thoughts such as disappearing for a while, hiding out and not having to deal with my brother when he awakes, possibly remaining on the sand steamer until it leaves Maya and heads on to Augusta, or even running and finding Nicholai for no reason at all. That one right there forces me to raise one blonde eyebrow at my questionable sanity.

Despite the fact that I believe Nicholai understands my predicament more than he’s letting on, he would probably think me even more strange, were I to go and seek him out for help after knowing him only a few hours. He seems to be a kind and accepting person. Even the mention, by Knives, of my more than friendly attachment to the former Nicholas D. Wolfwood didn’t seem as too much of a shock to him. However, that still does not grant me the right to go begging at his feet for assistance after beating the proverbial crap out of my mouthy brother. Quite the contrary, really. Were I to tell him that I had experienced a bit of a problem controlling my anger, he would more than likely see me as being just the thing that people used to assume I was: a heartless, cold-blooded murder. I still don’t know where many of the people got that idea. Everywhere I went, I was as kind as I could be, and I did whatever good I could do, whatever was possible to help others. All of my actions were futile, back then. They still believed me to be evil; as evil as my brother was, back then.

Once again in my life, I’m faced with a force as powerful as the laws of inertia. Problems still seem to fall into my lap, wherever I go. Despite how mature I’ve become, the knowledge I’ve acquired, and everything else that seems to revolve around becoming older, I still am nothing more than an immature, idiotic child who can do nothing more than stand helpless and dumbfounded as I’m thrust forward into unknown territory with no way of getting things back to the way they used to be. Meeting Nicholai, then releasing my pent up aggression upon my brother’s face threw a proverbial wrench into the gears of my brain. I really am barren in ideas of what to do next.

The suns are high in the sky now, each of them baring down upon my back and heating up my black shirt to the point that it feels as if I’m wearing a fabric inferno. Perhaps I should take the heat scorching my back and the slowly growing landscape of the upcoming town as initiative to propel myself back down into the ship and to my room.

I turn from the railing, stepping back down onto the deck and listening to my feet knock a hollow sound in the wood that resonates even over the sound of the ship itself trudging forward through the sand and the engines running at the stern. My feet attain a life of their own as I meander my body towards the door that leads back down into the ship. My mind seems to have ceased its thinking, once again, as my hand reaches out and pulls open the heavy metal door, earning me a sharp scratching noise of hinges in dire need of oiling. I continue forward and, before I know it, I’m back at my room, standing in front of the door apprehensively. I don’t want to open it. I really don’t.

I stare at the closed door a moment, my hand inching upwards for the handle, and then replacing itself at my side in a regular rhythm all its own. Awkwardly, I raise my hand to my face, clenching it into a fist, and stare at the knuckles that now have a bit of desiccated blood encrusted upon the pastel flesh. How could I have done that to Knives? It was one thing to shoot him in the thigh that first time, so many years ago. To watch his face contort into en expression of confusion and betrayal, it was almost more than I could bear. I ran from him then, as I did today. A wave of self-loathing washes over my body, and I shiver at the realization that I truly am a cold-hearted man. To take up arms against my own brother, to beat him to the point of unconsciousness; I hate myself.

I swipe at my face a moment with the hand, wiping at one of my eyes before it begins to tear up in repentance for my actions. If I leave now, simply walk away from this door and never face him again, I won’t have to deal with the look of hatred, betrayal, and injury that is most likely to face me when he awakes. That, and I will not have to suffer the pain of him performing the exact same hurtful acts upon my person. I am such a coward.

In finality, I turn from the door, deciding that facing Knives is not something I’m prepared to do at the moment. Feeling a strong gust of wind, though, I whirl around and come face to face with a very angry set of blue eyes. Knives’ face is marred with cuts and scrapes and seems to have swollen even more than it was before. I can already anticipate what I’m going to get from him for doing that, and my previously decided upon cowardly instincts kick into action, forcing me to take a few steps back, pressing myself against the corridor wall behind me.

He thrusts himself forward, reaching out to capture my ponytail as I commence a hurried retreat, narrowly escaping his hand, and sharply turn the nearest corner in an endeavor to liberate myself from him in the darkness of the corridor. I can hear his footsteps following closely behind as my own attempt a faster velocity fails, earning me nothing more than a temporary loss of breath and a grueling pace for my heart to attempt to maintain.

Knives screams something unintelligible to me as I continue my breakneck pace, turning every corner I come to and not giving a damn that I have no idea where I’m going. I try to discern if I’m really frightened of my brother, or if I’m running from him for the pure reason of running. More than likely the former, because he finally catches me, grabbing hold of my rough blonde ponytail and merely stopping, causing my still in motion feet to fly out from underneath my body, and my back to fall harshly upon the ground. Knives immediately jumps on top of me, straddling my hips and pinning my body down with all of his weight as my feet begin to attempt kicking him off. It’s a juvenile, frightened action, and it earns me the privilege of having him grab the sides of my face with both of his hands. For one horrified moment, I fear he’s going to do something lewd, like kiss me, but that thought is quickly dispelled as he lifts my head from the floor, and then slams the back of it down onto the wood beneath me. Darkness clouds my vision for the moment, tiny flashes of light sparkling momentarily in the shroud, and then he does it again, with more force. I cry out in pain, sounding like a small child even to my own ears. He begins to howl at me, berating me for my previous abnormal actions. “Vash, you pathetic crybaby wimp!”

The darkness that had once been such a comfortable black suddenly tinges red around the edges, and I’m reminded of blood, the way it leaks into my perception. Flashes of memory spark at me, reminding me of what I had done to Knives, and I begin to recall my exact actions, how my fists had joined with his face and caused repellent cracking noises. I give in to the beatings then, knowing throughout that I deserve whatever I get for my hasty, callous actions.

Knives pulls me to my feet, using the collar of my shirt and my long hair that seems to have partially removed itself from the rubber band as leverage, and holds me up in front of him. My head falls down limply and I stare at his feet, suddenly realizing that I’ve become exactly what I tried to stop Knives from being, so many years ago. I hated him without good reason, and I let my hate cloud my judgment, and, in turn, I lashed out at him. I’ve become a hypocritical, malicious, worthless person and I deserve the fist that is now connecting with my mouth, sending me spinning into the nearby wall where I dejectedly sink to the floor and begin crying, as I always do when faced with situations such as these. Nicholas would hate me right now…

“The sand steamer is now arriving at Maya. Those passengers planning to disembark, please gather your luggage and proceed to the exit on 2C.”

The announcement brings a conclusion to Knives’ wrath, and I feebly tilt my head upwards to stare at his face with pained eyes that are currently shedding tears. He glares at me a moment, his mouth twisting into a sneer of pure venomous rage. “Don’t ever hit me again, Vash,” he warns bitterly, his voice causing me more emotional pain than the physical aches I am experiencing at present. My head falls back to my chest, where I stare blankly at the battered, pale wooden floor and the dirt that glazes it. My hand, placed palm up on the floor between my legs, twitches momentarily as a single drop of blood escapes from somewhere on my face and falls down upon it. My mind suddenly recognizes that my lip hurts and feels as if it may be swelling.

The sound of Knives’ black boots clapping hollowly against the floor informs me that he is leaving me alone to gather the broken shards of my pride and piece myself back together. I wait until the sound fades off around the corner before finally standing, slowly and deliberately. My head spins slightly, for unknown reasons, and I grab at the back of it, noticing a few large lumps from my introductions to the floor.

My hair is nearly free from the tie around it, and I decide that replacing it, drawing each strand of hair together and pulling on my scalp, would not be a good idea. I gingerly remove the rubber band, ensuing caution to prevent further aches upon my cranium, and let my hair fall carelessly around my shoulders. It’s a bit matted, and needs to be brushed, I decide as I run my fingers through the length of the tresses that extend down to an area in the region of my shoulder blades

I hadn’t noticed before now, but the engines of the ship have sojourned, bringing it to a halt. A heavy silence permeates the walls around me, and I can hear my own breath as it escapes past my lips and fills my lungs. Suddenly, I’m feeling very alone. Being alone physically does not bother me in the slightest. Not anymore. It’s the emotional feeling of being alone in the world where no one really comprehends your situation or cares about you. It makes me feel small and insignificant, and it hurts just to think about all of the people on this planet who have lived their lives to the fullest, who have aged to maturity and raised families and then died happily. I begin questioning myself, and just why I was not that lucky, then bring my thoughts to an abrupt standstill. There really is no point in doing that. There’s no point in going on about the fact that I’ll probably live for nearly an eternity, and be alone the majority of that time, because I’m not really alone. Regardless of everything else, I have my brother. And, regardless of the fact that we seem to fight on far too many occasions, he’ll always be with me.

That in mind, I set about returning to my room, fully prepared to offer up a sincere apology to my one and only companion in this world.

After what seems like hours of dragging myself around corners and sliding through hallways, and nearly getting myself lost on more than one occasion, I finally reach my destination, and then stand impotent in front of the door to our room. Sighing to myself, I resign to the fact that things will never get better unless I take the first step, because Knives never had in the past, and I open the door, readying myself to face another retribution at the hands of my brother. An empty room, devoid of Knives and his luggage, greets me. I can’t decide, at this moment, whether to rejoice or lament. I had arrived prepared to express my regret over the previous occurrences, but I had also, at least somewhat, feared an argument. I suppose that him not remaining in the room for longer than necessary gives me time to think out my act of contrition a bit more thoroughly. Perhaps more than a simple, “I’m sorry,” would earn me his forgiveness. As I go about retrieving my suitcase from the floor at the foot of my bed and leaving the room, I silently hope to myself that he will offer me words regret, as well, though I seriously doubt it. The idea of Knives ever seeking forgiveness is almost laughable.

I proceed to the predetermined location on 2C silently, following the yellow line that has been painted on the floor that leads to the exit. Sunlight greets me up ahead, shining in through the open doors of the sand steamer where people have gathered in a huddle to exit the craft. Knives is standing in the midst of the group, looking rather incensed due to the slow progression of the line. I would smile to myself, were I not in fear of walking deliberately walking towards my demise. I part the crowd a bit, shoving my way through and uttering apologies. Knives glares at me as I step up beside him.

“Knives, I apologize for the way I reacted back there. I shouldn’t have hit you, no matter how angry I was.”

The words fall upon deaf ears as the line begins to move forward and we slowly exit the ship, marching down the causeway. Once on the ground, I follow Knives, who is dutifully ignoring me as I nip at his heels like a small, chastised puppy. “Knives, don’t be mad at me. Please. I said I was sorry. What more can I do?” The crowd around us slowly begins to thin itself out as we make our way further into town and away from the sand steamer. “You hit me too, didn’t you? We’re even.” It sounds petty and ridiculous even to my own ears, but it earns me a harsh glance from my brother, who suddenly turns on me and shoves me away from him.

“You don’t get it, do you, Vash? You’re an ignominy of our kind, and I’m ashamed to be around you. Imagine, you falling for some idiotic human priest who would just as soon kill you as look at you. You’re pathetic, Vash. Do you understand now?”

The words flow into my ears nonstop, echoing hollowly against my perception. I hear the words he says, I hear them clearly, but I fail to understand what he means, the confusion apparently showing on my face. Knives seems to scrutinize me for a moment, then, realizing that I have not comprehended what he has said, continues. “Whatever it was you felt for that pathetic man is over, Vash. It died the moment he died. You’re constantly hanging on to the corpses of the people around you who have died. You’re never willing to let things go. It’s embarrassing and annoying. So, either stop being such an infant about your little boyfriend’s death, or leave me the fuck alone. I have better things to do than baby-sit your heart.”

He turns from me to leave, and my heart stops beating. My vision becomes red once more, and I clench my fist tightly at my side. I try to figure out if I’m angry with him, for saying that, or myself, because it’s true. Unfortunately, I do one of the worst possible things I can do at a moment like that, and quickly come up with a tactless rejoinder to his words.

“You’re an asshole, Knives.”

Minuscule, banal, and dull, but for the way I’m feeling right now, it’s very effective. Knives, on the other hand, does not find it to his liking, and turns back around. He stares at me for a moment, and then proceeds to shoot me in the leg.

A/N: I must apologize for the shortness of this chapter, and the fairly vague descriptions. I try to get each chapter to somewhere around 3500 words, without all the notes, but I’m suffering from one of those oh-so-annoying “writer’s block,” moments, so you’re gonna have to be satisfied with 500 less than normal. For some reason, this chapter was the most difficult for me to write so far. I’m really no good at confrontational scenes. The words that I write, meaning them to sound hurtful and angered, usually come out flat and dull. =P Such is life, I suppose.