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How long has he been here? He can hardly remember. It can’t have been so long that he’s completely forgotten, but days blur together without sunlight and they don’t bother to offer him something to keep time. It could’ve been a week. It could’ve been a year. His best guess is a handful of months that feel like both infinite and like no time has passed at all. No one confirms nor denies and he doesn’t ask.
No. 69 knows experiments don’t get answers, after all.
The cell they keep him in is cold. There used to be someone else in here, a girl with bright ginger hair and a ridiculous amount of freckles and a smile that could blind someone for all of the few seconds she showed it, but now it’s just his. Her bed still remains, if it can be called that; the slabs provided hardly feel like beds and the only reason he can sleep on it is because he’s too exhausted to do otherwise. The thin sheets hardly make a difference, the pillow more like a spare brick wrapped in cloth, and they are the most comfortable things in this damned lab.
The quiet is something he’s used to. When he’s not brought in front of them and used for a few more tests that always seem to get longer, there’s just dozens of murmurs, a poor replacement for nightly crickets. Eventually, the researchers rest too and all that’s left is the hum of machinery and the whistle of steam through pipes that run over every corridor of the catacombs. He’s had a hard time figuring out just when they rest, but they eventually do. It’s late enough (he thinks) that they should be turning in about now.
They are not.
It’d be smarter to trudge over to the bars and overhear them. It’d be smarter to take one of their scalpels and use it to pick the lock. It’d be smarter to do anything but sit on his cold bed with his limbs feeling like they’ve been injected with lead, but his legs don’t move and he can’t force them to. He just listens to the clamor.
He could be sleeping. It’s not like his nightmares don’t resemble his days; No. 69 is no stranger to tests both in reality and when he’s dreaming. It’s another knife in his side when it comes to keeping time-- it’s impossible to tell what exactly has or hasn’t happened, especially when he sees scars from when he thought was his imagination and is missing others that he’s sure happened in real life.
If that’s the case, it’s a rather morbid dream, even with everything else. His unconscious mind making him wait is insult to injury and he can do nothing but listen to it, even though it drives hate into his heart.
The clamor grows closer. Voices become clearer, but they’re still clumsily laid over each other. He can understand them, almost, but not well enough; it sounds almost as if they’re deep underwater or speaking a language that’s so close but not correct, a facsimile of French cluttered heavily with jargon that wouldn’t make sense anyways.
The researchers come into view. One of the cloaked workers (superhumans of Moreau’s own design, as powerful as they are dead) is dragging along a child who has to be years younger than No. 69. He looks like he should still be in elementary school. He acts like it too, giant tears ballooning from his eyes, whining as the grip on his wrist reaches bruising. No. 69 watches blankly as they open the door and send the kid stumbling inside, locking it behind them. They’re still speaking in cluttered words afterwards, simply hanging outside the cell like it’s a regular meeting spot, and none of it makes sense to No. 69.
(He should know what they’re saying. He’s been listening to them for months, even tired he should be able to decipher it, but there’s nothing discernible. It makes his skin crawl.)
He collects the basic ideas: this is subject No. 71, and now he’s supposed to sleep where No. 68 used to. No. 69 is supposed to take care of him.
“Quiet down,” No. 69 snaps when No. 71 won’t stop sobbing, even as the researchers move away to review whatever tests they’ve done or congratulate themselves on another full day of experimentation. It’s a struggle to get to his feet, but he forces himself up anyways, looming over the child. “They’re going to hear you. Quiet down. Stop crying, there’s nothing to get you out of this!”
The child rubs at his eyes. His hair is short, messy with curls that struggle to lay flat. Dirt clings to him even now, already dressed in the scrubs he’s going to be living in until they’ve both gone past their expiration date.
“But, but--” No. 71 blubbers, sniffles, solidifies just a little. “Brother, they can’t do this! It was supposed to be over! The pain was supposed to be over!”
No. 69 wishes he still thought something like that. Cruel reality has hardened over any of his hopes though, so he kneels (collapses) down next to the kid, one hand pushing through his hair to make him look up. His mouth tastes like copper. “The only way you’re leaving this place is if you’re dead.”
Misha doesn’t know what to say. His eyes are so wide it’s ridiculous, pale green in the lowlight. He doesn’t plead, but he stares hopelessly at No. 69 like there’s some way he can magically break them out of this place and all that matters is watching him until he does so. There’s no way that’s happening. It’s been (days weeks months a year) since he’s been here and he’s only lasted so long because he had to. There’s no other option. There’s no getting out.
(Misha? Where did that come from...?
...This isn’t right. Where's the long curly hair? Why does his head hurt so much?)
No. 69 opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember ever closing them.
He must’ve, though, or at least zoned out for quite a while, because he’s in the main lab now. Pipes strangle this place like a thousand serpents, tangled with themselves on the floor and rising high towards the ceiling and disappearing into walls. The catacombs are laced with them, and yet no one notices where they lead, all too willing to let Moreau continue his experiments when they help them out.
(No, no. They know, but they don’t know enough. They don’t know the truth. Chasseurs are useless.)
He presses his hand against his skull. His brain feels like it’s going to start leaking out of his ears, but before he can hope for that, he hears it, loud and clear and piercing. His shoulders hike up instinctively, because he doesn’t have to look behind him to know what’s happening.
To call them experiments seems too kind. Moreau doesn’t experiment in any regular sense of the word. He tears apart reality as best he can, dissects it into the equations he wants to see, however successful or unsuccessful he is in that endeavor. He doesn’t care about it because it doesn’t happen to him; the only time he must be concerned about who’s under the knife is when he completes his noble transformation into a vampire and proves that the Babel was not the end of humans altering the world formula. It’s more akin to torture, testing just how far someone can be pushed until they inevitably break.
Moreau’s stopped mentioning No. 70. No. 69 has to wonder if they’re still breathing. If they’re lucky, they’re already dead.
Misha isn’t as lucky. Misha is still breathing and the newest head on the chopping block, which means they’re going to get as much mileage as possible out of him before his results start to flag. After that, they’ll still keep at it and see how long until he falls apart under the stress too, and then they’ll take in something new.
His chest burns. Misha screams, but it’s a scream for him this time.
“Brother! Please!”
No. 69 hates him for it. He hates him as his shoulders hike up and it grows so quickly impossible to ignore until he’s putting himself on the table again without thinking about it more than milliseconds. He can provide better results than a child like that could, he should be the one to progress their knowledge of humans and vampires, he’s offering.
Moreau is so, so happy with him. He’s never had a willing participant before. No. 69 skyrockets to his favorite of everyone in the lab and the prize is undergoing as much pain as possible. What a stupid promise. Use me.
No. 69 doesn’t hate Misha. He hates himself, and doing anything less than offering to be torn open would make him unable to live with himself.
The restraints unfasten. They finally put Misha back on his feet, an incomprehensible device still locked around his cranium. The look No. 69 gets is nothing less than total awe from both Misha and Moreau, and it’s enough to make their images blur in his mind.
Someone grabs his wrist. It’s lighter than he expects, but there’s no need to wrestle him onto the table when he’s already volunteered. It feels almost formal, the way he’s helped to sit up on it and get into position. His body doesn’t feel like his own. He doesn’t feel anything, panic so dead in his throat that it’s turned to a hollow dread that he knows can’t change. Leather is pulled tight around his wrists, his ankles. They work the device off of Misha’s head and adjust it. He lifts his head when they fit it around his skull instead. It feels like the proceedings should be somber, almost as if it’s a funeral. They’re not. A buzzing excitement hangs in the air instead, and it drowns out every other noise in the world.
(What did he expect to happen next? He’s not stupid.)
No. 69’s eyes open again. He keeps forgetting when he closes them, but now he’s in bed and Misha is curling up against his spine. He’s saying something, but he’s forgetting the words as soon as he says them.
“Somebody was just--”
“It was probably a researcher.” His throat feels like it’s scraped raw. How much did he yell earlier? Each swallow is a reminder of the pain. It makes his head spin.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Oh, then it must’ve been No. 70.” A shame they haven’t escaped this. “Right now, aside from us, 70’s the only one who’s still alive.”
“No, he’s not.”
(That’s not right.)
No. 69’s elbow slips to the side when he first attempts to prop himself up. It’s an active struggle, but he twists until he can face Misha. The child is still smiling, but there’s nothing behind his eyes. No. 69 can’t remember when he stopped being cuddled up against his back; he didn't feel Misha move. Seconds ago, he was curled as close as possible; the remnants of warmth still stay, but Misha’s not even under the blanket.
His mind feels sluggish. The drugs are still circulating and it makes deciphering the world so much harder than it should be.
After several long seconds pass with Misha not faltering, No. 69 tests the water. “...What do you mean?”
Misha gives him such a bright smile. He sounds so excited, like nothing bad has ever happened. “He’s dead already, of course! It’s just you and me now, brother. Isn’t that great?”
Alarm grips his heart. No. 69 attempts to pull back, but he can’t.
(Their beds never had these restraints. Why is his wrist locked down? Why is this place so bright-- where did the bars go, why is Misha smiling next to Moreau as they look at the machinery, at the impossibly large contraption that’s supposed to make them nothing more but inanimate switches?)
“Hey,” he chokes out. He tugs at the restraints again. The metal in them clacks loudly against the table and it echoes through an already loud room. Words drown out any other noise, drown out his voice, and there’s so many people-- white labcoats upon white labcoats and too many hooded cloaks looming with no humanity left beneath them.
He can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s not in the same language. It’s not even comprehensible, but he should know, he’s been here so long.
“Since you volunteered, I felt I should respect your wishes. Not to worry! The pain shouldn’t last long!” Moreau grins at him, patting Misha’s head so carelessly like he’s comforting a dog. His coat drags against the ground and his sleeves flop as he gestures wildly, a hard switch from the harsh reality of the situation. “The shock is most likely going to completely destroy your minds, so I wanted to express my thanks beforehand!”
(Vanitas.)
“No,” but his mouth is full of cotton, clogging his throat. He can’t breathe and yet Moreau is happy as always, continuing on like nothing’s happened at all.
“You’ve been an insurmountable help, No. 69! I couldn’t have asked for a better test subject! The first and last to willingly participate in my experiments... you’re truly one of a kind! Thank you for your hard work!”
His hand lingers on a switch. It’s almost comically large, the kind that he’s only seen in the (one? two? has he seen any or just heard about them?) stageplays to demonstrate just what exactly the evil machinery does. The handle itself is a dull red, stripped with blue at the end, and Misha stares at him from just beyond it. His eyes are piercing; the light blue cuts through all other muted colors cloying the place.
(Vanitas.)
“Brother,” Misha singsongs. He cocks his head to the side, eyelids lowering. The bandages wrapped around his head come loose and unspool around him, falling to the ground in heavy ribbons. His hair is matted down with some dark liquid. Maybe it’s blood. No. 69 can’t tell, but there’s little else it could possibly be. “It’s okay. After this, it’ll just be the two of us! We don’t need anyone else.”
Something heavy lies in his lap. A thick tome weighs down No. 69’s legs, vibrantly blue and distracting. His eyes flick up and Misha has one that almost matches, hiding that same smile behind the binding.
Moreau doesn’t notice. He cackles, and finally genuinely grips onto the handle, though the sleeve still hangs loose over it. Misha wiggles his fingers in a cheery wave behind him. No. 69 sees red.
“I’ll kill you,” he swears, then screams, tearing any noise he can out of his ruined throat, “I’ll kill all of you! I’ll slaughter you! I’ll--”
Moreau throws the switch. Electricity consumes the entire world.
(“Wake up!”)
No. 69 opens his eyes once more. He doesn’t register what he’s seeing so much as he reacts to it, the scratch of metal against wood as his hand shoots to grab his weapon and threaten the creature leaning over him.
The vampire doesn’t start. He seems surprised, eyes wide, but aside from the smallest hitch in his breath, he doesn’t move, doesn’t scare. A couple rivlets of bright red blood trace their way down the blade of the dagger, falling onto the otherwise white bedding once they reach the hilt. The world is dark, but not quiet; the city is alive and conscious around them, sounds filtering through the open window of the room and filling every corner. Despite that, his breathing sounds louder than anything else; No. 69 can’t get enough air in to compensate for what he’s heaving out.
His hand is shaking. Every tremor makes light glint across the room.
“Vanitas,” the vampire says. His hand is resting on No. 69’s shoulder, a consistent, comforting pressure. He pays no mind to the labored breaths, to the wide eyes, to the intent to kill at the slightest misstep. “You were having a nightmare. I woke you up. Are you alright?”
It’s an extremely simple series of sentences. Bitterly, he thinks it’s being dumbed down for him, pride demanding to point out that he’s smarter than the other, but even still, this makes it easier to parse. Vanitas. Nightmare. Are you alright?
...Right, that’s his name now. He’s discarded several and he’s somehow forgotten his newest one. Vanitas licks behind his teeth, eyes dropping just for a moment to the blade instead of the vampire’s face.
(Vampire isn’t quite right. What’s his name? He knows this.)
“Noé.” The word is painful out of his throat. Every swallow reminds him of how rough it feels; while he was sleeping, he must have been screaming. What a cruel, ridiculous thing, waking up hoarse without even realizing. “...This is my bed.”
Noé hums an affirmative. “Yes, it is.”
“Why are you at my bed?”
“I told you already. You were having a nightmare and trying to wake half of Paris up.” Noé’s free hand comes up to push the dagger away. Vanitas’ arm slowly drops, hand still fisted around the grip, and the same hand Noé used comes up to press the small slice closed. Despite the fact that no doubt stings, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“I didn’t ask for you to do that.”
“The other half of Paris did.” Noé takes advantage of him-- his lowered guard, rather, if it can even be called that. Everything feels like a hair trigger, yet Noé moves him anyway; he reaches for the dagger in his hand and takes it with less resistance than Vanitas ever wants to convey, letting it drop onto the side table again with its partner. He eases one leg onto the bed and sits down, then pulls Vanitas closer. “I’m here.”
Noé’s nightclothes are bunched up in Vanitas’ fists. He wants to push the damn vampire away. He doesn’t need to be comforted, much less like a child. This is a mocking insult to who he is at heart and it’s only further driven by the idea of Noé’s presence meaning anything to him, especially to the point where it makes him feel any better.
Feel any safer.
(In its own unique way, this is cruel, but Vanitas ducks his head down anyway and tries to drown out the rest of the night. Noé isn’t wrong, and he hates that just as much as it soothes him.)
Like this, he can hear Noé’s heartbeat, much slower and calmer than Vanitas’ own erratic wild one that’s still trying to come down from too much adrenaline. It’s enviable that he’s so casual about this, though there’s never been anything else; his partner is one of consistency and that usually comes with all the manners and politeness of someone from high society, and if missing those, then it’s meeting Vanitas on the same level with just as sharp retorts, though in less of a mocking shade than Vanitas’ own. Either way, though he’s not unflappable, he is steadfast.
Fingers card carefully through his hair. It’s hesitant at first, unsure if boundaries are being overstepped, but when there’s no refute, it matches his heartbeat as well; careful combing like they have all the time in the world. Vanitas supposes they do.
He doesn't want to be treated like this. This care, this comfort-- it doesn’t feel like a trap, even though it should be one, but moreso it’s so unbelievably temporary that he can’t convince himself to fully believe it’s happening. It’s only been a matter of months since they met and there’s no force in the world that could make Vanitas change his mind on it; eventually Noé will leave or he will first and they’ll go their separate ways and only remember each other in shades of gray. That’s how things are. That’s how things will be.
(I will never set you free.)
It’s how they should be. Maybe they won’t. It’s hard to tell if he wants to be wrong or right on this and it’s exhausting to even consider thinking about.
“I hope you realize you aren’t getting compensated for this,” Vanitas mumbles. He refuses to cry, even though his eyes sting. This is bad enough-- he’s Vanitas, the vampire doctor, the one who will save the vampires no matter what they want-- he refuses to let anyone see him start tearing up, especially not over a nightmare. He has pride, damn it all, no matter how shameless he acts. It won’t be compromised so easily. (Desperately, he pretends he didn’t sniffle, and if Noé points it out then the damned vampire is lying.)
“When have you ever compensated me?” Noé’s tone is light, amused. Vanitas pushes against his chest defiantly.
“Never, so... don’t start expecting any pay now. I’ll cut you loose quicker than you can blink.”
The words hang awkwardly between them for a few long moments. The wounds from the amusement park are still healing, but for now they’re jagged things, sharp in all the wrong ways. The joke doesn’t land, but Noé doesn’t pull away, and Vanitas grips his nightshirt tighter to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas either.
The fingers hit a strange angle; the choppiness of his bangs makes it hard to keep them completely straight, but Noé adapts, even though Vanitas knows he has a question burning on his tongue, like always. He can hear the quiet intake of breath before Noé speaks and cuts him off before he can get anywhere. His tone is demanding, but quieter than he likes, softened at the edges. “Out with your question or we’ll be here all night.”
There’s a brief pause. “...Why is your hair still cut like this?”
Still. What a sour reminder that Noé has already witnessed everything secondhand. The thought makes his stomach roll, but the question itself isn’t as painful as it could be.
“I don’t care to do it any better, nor do I plan to start handing over money to a barber and have them do a worse job.” His hair is gathered from where it’s splayed out; Vanitas for once left it down when he was sleeping and he somewhat regrets it, though Noé's ministrations are gentle. "If it's too long, cut it so it's not. It's too much of a bother to waste time on it."
Noé hums lightly. "Do you want me to cut it?"
Vanitas doesn't know what's worse: Noé offering to hold scissors to his neck or the fact the thought of accepting passes his mind.
(Dangerous. You can't get close to people, that's a liability, and yet he considers it. Carefully.)
"No," he lands on, but it takes much too long to get there and he has no doubt Noé has heard the hesitation and come to his own conclusions; if he knows him well enough, it's along the lines of either assuming he's not ready for that or thinking he just likes his hair this way. Probably the former, if the combing-turned-petting is any indication.
Murr meows from Noé's bed. Vanitas has the same instinct to make such an indignant noise. “The hell are you doing? I’m not your damned cat.”
Noé pauses, surprised, as if he didn't notice the change at all, but even when he does, he doesn't stop. "You are a bit like a cat."
"Noé--"
"Temperamental, extremely picky, prone to causing trouble just because it's 'fun'..." Noé starts to list, and continues like Vanitas isn’t bristling beneath his fingertips, "likes to look pretty, has claws, has favorite--"
"What was that?" There's no tears threatening to spill anymore, so he looks up to properly glare at Noé.
"Has favorite people, if you had let me finish."
"Not that one. You know well what I'm talking about."
Noé tilts his head and smiles, verging on smug. The longer bits of Vanitas' bangs are tucked behind his ear. Vanitas thinks Noé is a menace when he's acting like this. "You get uncomfortable if you're not wearing a bow."
The skin-crawling feeling of being known makes itself evident. Does-- does he really do that? Sure, he usually has two bows on him, but-- "That's hardly relevant."
"Ah, I almost forgot prideful."
Vanitas shoves Noé away by the face so he doesn't have to see that pseudo-thoughtful expression. For all his frustration, his heart is calming down, and this pointless conversation has slowed the flow from the collapsing dam in his brain that let all his memories leak through.
He can breathe. None of this makes him less annoyed at Noé for somehow figuring out how to do this to him. He's a puzzle, an enigma, not a book to open and read and be seen right through. Noé knows too much, has watched too many of his idiosyncrasies-- even still, he shouldn't be able to dig his nails in on what little he's seen.
(I refuse to be what you want me to be.)
"You're a dog," Vanitas bitterly gripes. "Mangy, clingy, overgrown--"
Of all things, Noé laughs. Vanitas resumes pushing him away, irritation growing. "Dumb, single-minded, clingy--"
"You said that already!"
"That's because that's what you are!"
Noé catches Vanitas' hands when he goes for a more aggressive shove to his chest, grinning down at him with an insufferable happiness. It's dark outside, there's just the muted thrum of people beyond their window, and he's decided to brighten up the room as a midnight sun. Maybe that's why they're so impossibly interested by the other; a moon trying to understand the sun and a dog trying to understand a cat are fundamentally opposed on every imaginable scale, and yet, he's started to get why people like the daytime so much, even when it's impossibly hot and cluttered with a hundred milling bodies.
Still, he prefers the night, the privacy it brings. He tries not to think of this moment being that same level of personal and intimate and fails, as if Noé hasn’t grabbed his hands for much simpler reasons. This is not new, and yet it feels like it is, somehow, contextualized entirely differently than before this moment.
What is this? Why did that nightmare make such a mess of him? Why is Noé making a mess of him? Surely, this is taking advantage of a tired, less abrasive version of himself, something to harp him on another day when he’s not so entirely off his game. As for right now, he’s struggling to make his mind come up with a true reason to tear himself away, so his gaze simply drops down to their hands in a forced glare before he scoffs and looks away. “Exhausting. You’re an energetic golden retriever who has absolutely no problem wandering away without thinking twice. I pray for that De Sade girl; your owner must be utterly weary of all your antics.”
(For as tired as he is and as much he’s leaning on that as an excuse not to completely remove himself, he’s still quite verbose. Noé better not say anything about that if he knows what’s good for him.)
Risking a glance upwards again, Noé looks... more contemplative, this time. He’s no doubt thinking about the state Dominique is in yet again-- one piece, but locked away in her room as she struggles to recover-- but the tension is let out with a long sigh. His shoulders drop, his grip on Vanitas’ hands loosen. Vanitas still does not take them back.
When the silence persists for too long, Vanitas looks away again, out of the window. It’s hard to see anything from here aside from golden squares of light through windows or the top of buildings with smoke pouring out to keep them warm as the night cools everything down. Apologizing isn’t in Vanitas’ repertoire. He didn’t say anything wrong, either, just insensitive, and that should be no surprise for anyone around him. This night has a strange hold on him, though, as he finds himself continuing, “She’ll be incredibly tired when she tries taking you for a walk again, I’m sure, but at least I’ll have some peace and quiet to myself.”
Noé’s still silent for a few more long seconds. Vanitas very much does not want to see his expression, especially when his voice already affects him an abnormal amount; he’s not familiar with the twisting his heart does.
(It’s still a new feeling and one he will not have, thank you very much. His feelings for Jeanne already complicate things enough; he does not need to deal with that on two counts. He won’t. It’s probably just because his emotions are already rubbed raw from his own memories and Noé is so damn peculiar that he can’t help but be intrigued. That’s surely it.)
“I think, once everyone recovers, it would be nice to have a night with all of us.” Another beat, and Noé is lifting one of Vanitas’ hands up. It’s muted through the material of his glove, but the brush of Noé’s lips against the back of his hand still sends a jolt up his spine. It’s not sweet, not really, instead sad in a resounding way that echoes throughout the room, yet it makes his hair stand on end somewhere between alarmed and another emotion he refuses to identify. “There’s a lot to talk about, but a night for us to simply enjoy each other’s company would be... nice.”
“I... suppose...”
Noé smiles at him when he looks over again, hidden only just a bit behind Vanitas’ knuckles. The lack of argument must make him think he’s won something, as if he hasn’t spent the past half hour with a thoroughly discombobulated vampire doctor. “I’ll take that as a yes--”
“It isn’t--”
“--mon chaton.”
For someone who acts so chivalrously any other day, Noé really is a complete bastard.
He looks so innocent and at the same time smug, thoroughly enjoying Vanitas’ stunned silence. “Teacher calls me that, but I haven’t gotten to use it on someone else. I see the appeal.”
“You are...” Noé looks more content with himself the more Vanitas struggles for words. He snatches his hands back, heart fluttering again, half wishing he had just stayed asleep-- at least the emotions represented there were less confusing than these. There’s another laugh as he crosses his arms. “For someone who prides themself on their conduct, you’re deceptively annoying, though I suppose that isn’t anything new to me. Most would call that unbelievably incorrigible, mon chien.”
“Is that so?” There’s no remorse in his tone, to no surprise. Vanitas stubbornly regains his composure; there’s no way on earth he’s ever going to be the one stuttering between the two of them, thank you very much, even if Noé continues to take a shovel to the ground he’s standing on. “Are you going to be able to get to sleep again?”
With everything going on, the answer is undoubtedly no. His sigh is indicative of that enough. “Unless you’re capable of pulling me under without causing brain trauma, I’ll wait until the sun rises.”
“May I try?”
“Hah?”
Despite his partner being stubborn and determined enough to rival himself, he doesn’t expect the question. Then again, Noé likes asking before he does something, so that should come as no surprise. He’s entirely sure his methods will be unsuccessful, but they’re already at this point, so Vanitas has to think about it.
(Maybe he’s a little masochistic. Whatever he chooses, his head or heart is going to hurt and his mind will be filled by too many racing thoughts to get anywhere. Tomorrow is sure to be difficult until he can find something to fill his time with. The better choice would be crawling up to the roof as he usually does, away from the trouble that a certain vampire likes to inflict on him with no regard whatsoever.
I’ll never set you free.)
Vanitas closes his eyes, sighs again. “Do what you will.”
In an absolutely predictable turn of events, Vanitas finds himself being moved around until Noé is pulling him down and holding him close as if none of this is anything new. Technically, it isn’t-- Vanitas has misstepped enough times to be all too aware of Noé’s tendency to grab and hold things while he’s asleep, but this is twice he’s been awake and had no hesitation in doing the same thing. Clingy.
Vanitas’ grumbles don’t go anywhere. He complains and pushes against Noé again for his own sanity, but the strength of a human does nothing against a vampire, and the fight goes out of him quickly. It’s because he’s tired, he reasons, and nothing more-- this is his bed anyways, so he has no reason to escape it. It’s a poor defense to his own ears, so he keeps it locked behind his teeth, lest someone else pick it apart.
“I don’t see how this is supposed to help.” Noé’s arms are warm around his middle. There’s little room to wiggle pressed so close to his chest. His own arm goes beneath his head and the other tucks into the narrow space between them. There’s wrinkles in the soft fabric of Noé’s nightshirt, damning evidence Vanitas refuses to think about. “It seems like you’re doing this more for you than you are for me.”
“Maybe if you relaxed, it would help you as well.” One hand comes up to comb through Vanitas’ hair again. “Take a deep breath and close your eyes.”
No amount of deep breathing and closing his eyes has ever gotten him over a bout of insomnia, but his eyeroll and sigh still lead to that anyways, letting darkness wash over him once again. Noé's voice tapers off, and slowly but surely, his hand comes to a stop in Vanitas' hair, falling asleep with the same enviable ease as he always does, nevermind that Vanitas himself is still laying awake and now trapped in a sleep-cuddler's arms.
...It's warm. Vampires' temperatures vary greatly, he's found, in his time being a doctor for them; typically, on a regular day with no outside influences, they're the same as a human. After feeding, their temperature spikes up for a short while-- and while Vanitas knows that's not the case, it feels like that being held like this. It borders on intolerable, and yet he does nothing to change it, denying himself the ability to, even; he bundles the fabric of Noé's shirt in the hand that's laying on it yet again, glaring at it as if it's possessed by some spirit instead of himself.
He doesn't believe it. He can't believe it. Even here, even like this, it is impossible to grapple with the idea of what Noé has promised him. Their ideas of freedom are different. Maybe Noé is off entirely and only said that to save his own life, one last gamble to avoid the consequences of attempting to know the great vampire doctor, the kin of the blue moon, the absolute pain in the ass that Vanitas is. Wouldn't that be something-- lying just to save his own skin.
(Noé wouldn't do that. Noé is honest even when Vanitas really doesn't want him to be. He wasn't lying. It could be misunderstanding, but.
But.
Vanitas is not half as honest as Noé is. In plain truth, it is impossible to come to terms with someone promising to stay with him no matter what. In plain truth, he doesn't know how to admit that he wants that just as much as the concept terrifies him, so he doesn't.)
It feels like hours that he lays there, just barely still, mind absent and eyes closed. At some point, his breathing slows to match the pace of Noé’s, languid in the moonlight, something that registers with the dullest surprise. His mind can’t keep up with it; darkness closes in ever more securely until sleep pulls him under again.
"Monsieur Noé and Monsieur Vanitas, there's a matter--"
Amelia stops in her tracks from where she's bustled into the room. The rising sun bathes everything in golds and oranges, inconvenient to anyone who still wants to stay asleep-- she assumes that's the case with the two on the floor, Noé's back to the window and Vanitas hiding his head in Noé's chest.
While she's well aware of Noé's habit to fall out of bed as well as grab things when he's asleep-- despite warning, she has fallen into that trap-- but seeing his partner with him is a new development. It’s even more surprising when she notices the bed they're next to is Vanitas', not Noé’s, which is considerably less messy than she normally finds it.
As much as she hates to disturb them, she has been given a job to do, and not at least attempting it would be an insult to the generosity she's received at Hotel Chou Chou. Flattening her hands against the skirt of her dress, she steps inside lightly, leaning over the pair.
"Monsieur Noé, Monsieur Vanitas, Count Orlok has a matter he would like to discuss with you. Please wake up and get ready for the day."
Silence persists for several long moments, enough that she's considering doing something like shaking them awake, but just before she can, Vanitas raises one hand to vaguely flap towards her, mumbles nearly incomprehensible past Amelia and note and go.
A smile draws onto her face and she nods, even though it isn't seen, as Vanitas drops his arm back down. Leaving a note is something she's perfectly capable of; one's drafted up quickly with spare pen and paper lying around, and she calls towards Vanitas. "It is on your side table for when you rise."
There's a soft pause before a mumbled affirmative. She steps around the two again, somewhat glad Noé is facing towards the bed and unable to yank her into what's going on, and pauses in the door.
...She'll just have to tell Count Orlok that they'll be a while. Very few times has she caught the vampire doctor actually in his room; it seems a shame to spur him the one time he actually decides to rest.
This, Amelia thinks, even though she’s not sure what exactly for, is a very good sign.