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"Well, that didn't go as planned."
It's the understatement of the century perhaps. Vanitas utters it on their way back to Hotel Chouchou that night, long after the astermite powered street lamps flicker on to light their path home. It's a lucky thing, both the light and the dark; Noé's not sure he'd be able to haul them both back in this state without the guiding light, and he's grateful that it's dark enough that the few pedestrians they encounter on the way can't make out all the blood they're splashed with. It's not entirely their own, but enough is that he knows he has to get back to the room quickly.
They bypass the front entryway, settling on a passage through the back that Amelia had tipped them off to the last time they'd wanted to avoid prying eyes. Vanitas complains the whole way up, and for that, Noé's at least certain the man will make it. It had been a close thing though, one that the vampire has vowed not think on too deeply until they're back in the privacy of their room.
Once there, Noé deposits Vanitas on the edge of his bed, scouring the bathroom for any towels or rags to help staunch the bleeding. He leaves the human alone long enough that he's allowed to limp away in search of his medical bag, and by the time Noé returns, Vanitas has a venerable medical supply store practically rolled out across the mattress.
"You're not sticking me with that," Noé mutters, passing by on his way to retrieve a bowl to hold water, eyeing the needle Vanitas is threading.
"I am unless you want to bleed all over the place for the next few days," Vanitas replies, voice muted with concentration in the relative darkness of the room, "Wouldn't want to see the effect it has on those pristine white clothes of yours."
Noé's mouth is a thin, unpleasant line at that, imagining the next time he sees Domi and how much she'd chastise him for ruining his clothes. He returns with the water, setting it on Vanitas' bedside with a clack of china that draws the other man's attention.
"You're mad about something," it's not a question but a statement, from the way Vanitas says it, needle still held aloft.
"Brilliant deduction," Noé glowers down at the other man, tossing the rags on the bed next to him. Noé's sleeve is shredded open from shoulder to wrist, a couple deep gouges splitting his skin. Thinner, less damaging scratches drag across his brow above his left eye, the blood from it soaked into the white of his bangs to turn it muted scarlet. Other bumps and bruises litter him, but he's still on his feet for the most part. It's Vanitas who had regrettably gotten the worst of it.
The human in question studies Noé for a long moment, as if mulling over how abrasive his response should be, "What is it now? I suppose I should have been trying to cure the curse bearer from behind steel bars? Should we make me a cage?"
"Better than you nearly having your guts ripped out," Noé raises his voice, jewel bright purple eyes flashing in darkness, "How many times must you be told, you can't-"
"I know what I'm capable of-"
"Evidently not!"
Noé's words ring out in the otherwise quiet space, putting a stop to further discussion. Annoyance is clearly written on Vanitas' face, from the way he turns away to fiddle with his tools for want of anything else to distract him from Noé's lecture. Noé's eyes catch on the matching scratches littering one side of Vanitas' face, the dried trickles of blood that streak it and gather just under his jaw. There are bruises already forming over the surface of his neck from where the curse bearer had grasped him, the bottom half of his vest and shirt shredded from the beast's claws taking a single powerful swipe at him that Noé had believed had been fatal from his vantage point.
In that moment, believing that he'd just witnessed Vanitas' death, Noé had truly lost himself. It wasn't until the telltale light of the book had cut the darkness around him that he had even registered his hand around the curse bearers neck, teeth bared and hand raised to strike his own killing blow, practically grinding the fiend into the dirt under his knees.. The relief he'd felt watching Vanitas stand on unsteady legs while delivering the vampire from oblivion could only be matched by the rage he felt at the human not listening to his instructions while confronting the beast. No self preservation, no sense of danger. Noé could slap him right now.
"You can stand there dripping blood all over the carpet, or you can sit, I won't beg you to do either," Vanitas mutters, striking a match that sends the smell of sulphur wafting through the space. He uses it to light a candle, holding the needle's end to the flame for long enough to ensure it's sanitized. As much as Noé wants to keep up his tantrum and force Vanitas to admit his fault in nearly dying, he's aware that he's beginning to sound like a petulant child.
Sighing, Noé's fingers fly to the buttons of his shirt, shrugging out of the hopelessly torn garment. The worst of the damage is limited to his upper arm, two long gashes in particular are bad enough that when Noé allows Vanitas to inspect him, he notes they'll need stitches. He wants to argue that it's unnecessary thanks to his advanced healing, but blood still seeps fresh from the wounds when Vanitas presses his fingers to the flesh surrounding it.
"You're going to soak your sheets if you don't let me stitch it up, do you want to give Miss Amelia more work to do?" Vanitas asks, dipping a rag into a clear solution he produces from a bottle. Noé keeps his mouth shut; Vanitas knows well that Noé doesn't want to be an inconvenience for anyone, save maybe him.
When Vanitas touches the cloth to Noé's wound, the vampire hisses softly, keeping still, but the pain is evident from the tense set of his muscles.
"What the devil is that stuff?" Noé asks, turning his head but otherwise remaining motionless while Vanitas works.
"Antiseptic. I'm not sure if it truly has any benefit for a vampire, but let's not tempt fate, yeah?" Vanitas smiles, treating the wound with steady hands and eyes that never glance away. Like this, Noé can study the other man's face up close, how serious and practiced he seems to be at dealing with blood and cuts. It conjures up memories of Doctor Moreau's lab, deep within the Paris catacombs, of how blank Vanitas' wide blue eyes had been until Noé had reached out his hand to him. How many times had Vanitas sewn himself back together, cold and alone? Would he be doing this right now to himself if Noé wasn't there? Or would he still be in that alleyway, blood painting the brickwork, torn apart because he didn't have Noé to-
Noé makes a sound of pain, the moment Vanitas slides the needle through the first layer of his flesh, thoughts flying back to the here and now. Vanitas doesn’t acknowledge him except for the way his thumb rubs soothing circles against his arm on the hand that’s holding him steady while the other positons the needle. He works quickly, conscious of how painful this must be for someone unaccustomed to being doctored.
“This can’t be the worst you’ve been banged up, right?” Vanitas asks softly, attention still mostly on what he’s doing. Noé’s doing an admirable job of toughing it out, but he still jumps a little whenever Vanitas first pokes the needle through him to start a new row of thead.
“I’ve had stitches before, but not this many,” Noé murmurs, trying to concentrate on the line of conversation over what’s going on with his arm, conscious of the fact that Vanitas is talking to keep him distracted,“I tore up my knee pretty badly as a child once.”
“Really? How did you do that?”
“Fell out of a tree,” Noé reveals, the corners of his mouth lifting with a smile at the memory. Louis had teased him for the longest time, prodding at Noé’s unwillingness or inability to climb one of the old, gnarled trees that grew on his teacher’s property. The first time he’d attempted it, a branch had snapped within his fingers and he’d plummeted to the forest floor, ripping open the knee he’d landed on. Domi had been furious with Louis for days after, but the stitches his teacher had given him had only taken a couple seconds, and Louis had brought him a book and a piece of candy as an apology, so in Noé’s mind the matter had been settled.
“Did you have mommy and daddy take care of you?” Vanitas teases, but without a hint of any malice.
“I don’t remember my parents,” Noé admits, but he doesn’t sound sad or angry, his statement matter of fact. Vanitas hesitates with the needle, but quickly regroups. Here he’d always assumed Noé had had a much easier childhood than his own, judging from the sunny optimism and naivete he usually brought to every situation, but that had been his mistake.
“Then we have some things in common,” Vanitas’ voice is low, almost apologetic. Noé glances his way for the first time since he’d begun, mesmerized by the furrowed set of his brow, concentrating on the needle. He knows so little of Vanitas’ history that it borders on maddening, but he also remembers the sickening way he’d told him of the chaussures and Doctor Moreau, blunt and distant as if he were telling a him a story about someone neither of them had any connection to, an unfortunate soul they’d never known. Noé doesn’t pry further; they’ve already had a difficult night, and comparing traumas doesn’t seem like a good way to improve it.
He doesn’t pry, but he is still curious, “You seem to have a lot of experience sewing other people up,” he observes, hoping it’s not too invasive of a conversation starter. If it is, Vanitas doesn’t give any hint of it.
“Mmm, you could say that…” Vanitas smiles softly, pulling the thread along, “I had to sew up Dante’s eyebrow once,” he admits.
“What? Really?” Noé has to keep himself from moving around too much, amused by the idea.
“Really. He had a few too many drinks once, maybe a month before we met you,” Vanitas explains, remembering that there was indeed a time before he knew Noé, before he’d become a constant in the human’s life, “Ran right into a hanging sign outside a shop and bled like a stuck pig for half the night. Riche and Johann had to help hold him down so I could do it.”
“That was nice of you,” Noé’s voice is low, a hair above a whisper. Vanitas’ fingers do pause now, glancing up at the vampire and the warm smile he wears - just for him - and can’t bear to keep looking.
“I did what had to be done,” he mutters, tying off the thread on his work, “I’m not a nice person.”
Noé doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t stop smiling either; Vanitas’ actions say otherwise, and have for some time now, especially tonight.
When Vanitas is done with Noé’s arm, he covers the wounds in a length of gauze, securing it before turning to pick up the rag he’d applied the antiseptic with earlier. Noé startles when Vanitas grasps his chin, turning him in his direction suddenly, forehead flaring in pain when he applies the rag to the cuts there.
“Ow! Vanitas...You could have warned me.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Vanitas’ gaze is full of mischief, “I’m just cleaning you up a bit, that’s all.”
Noé does calm; the pain lessens after the initial swipe of the solution, allowing him to enjoy Vanitas wiping at his brow, cleaning the cuts there and scrubbing away the blood in such a careful way that Noé feels his face begin to warm. It’s such an intimate touch that it feels almost indecent, but as quickly and it begins, it ends again, with Vanitas sticking a bandage under the curl of Noé’s bangs.
“I suppose you’ll live,” Vanitas jokes, setting things aside for clean up. He begins to gather up his tools, which confuses the vampire initially.
“Aren’t you going to tend to your own wounds?” Noé asks, stopping the human’s movements. Vanitas looks surprised, as if he hadn’t even considered what he was doing odd.
“I was going to take care of them in the shower, there’s no need-”
Noé takes hold of his wrist, hindering him from leaving or putting anything else away, “No, you’re not leaving until you’ve been taken care of as well,” he demands, leaving no room for argument. Vanitas’ eyebrows level in indignation, that Noé would be ordering him around like this.
“I can take care of myself,” Vanitas insists, but Noé doesn’t relax his grip.
“That may be so, but you don’t have to do it alone in the shower, not with how injured you are. Something bad could happen and there would be no one to help you.”
“It’s not that bad, I-”
“Show me, then,” Noé challenges him, lifting his chin defiantly. Vanitas bites back on whatever retort he’s planning, at a loss of what to do. He hasn’t even had a moment to inspect how bad he really is, but he’s not dizzy with blood loss or feeling any malaise, so it can’t be that dire. Still, he’d really rather not open up his shirt in Noé’s presence.
As if reading his mind, Noé’s expression shifts, from stoney defiance to one that’s quietly pleading, “If you think that I'll pay any mind to anything else on your body, then you must have a very low opinion of me,” he murmurs softly, cutting into the limited space between them.
Vanitas isn’t completely comforted by that, but he does feel a little silly. Noé’s the last person, human or vampire, who would judge or pity someone for their body, he thinks. It’s hard to be vulnerable like that though, it’s hard because it isNoé for some reason. Still, Vanitas has little options, and so he begins to peel away the ruined layers of silk and cotton protecting him, pulling blood-soaked fabric away from his wounds with a soft hiss.
He’s probably not as bad off as Noé had anticipated; the slash had looked so much worse when it had happened, from the angle he’d seen it. The lower part of Vanitas’ slim torso is crossed with four distinct gashes that don’t appear as deep as the ones on Noé’s arm, but one does ooze and weep with fresh blood that’s hard to staunch, the source of most of the blood on his clothes.
“Alright, lay back,” Noé orders him, taking up one of the fresh clothes he’d fetched earlier. Vanitas fixes the vampire with a blank stare, as if he’d just spoken a foreign language.
“I’m sorry?”
“Lay back so I can help clean and stitch your wounds.”
Vanitas snorts, making no moves, “Like hell you will.”
“How are you going to do it, then?”
“I’ve done it myself dozens of times,” Vanitas argues with the wave of a hand, but the admission stills him suddenly, face growing tense, because it’s a subject they’ve been dancing around this whole time. Noé holds his stare, face never slipping into the sympathetic gaze Vanitas has come to expect from people.
All Noé does is soak the cloth in antiseptic, moving a little closer to the human, “And you don’t have to do it alone now, because I’m here.”
Vanitas simply stares at the vampire, because there’s little else he can do in that moment.
He helps Noé thread the needle from his reclined position against a makeshift mound of pillows the vampire builds him, while Noé begins the task of cleaning blood away from his wounds with long, careful drags of the rag against inflamed skin. If it stings, Vanitas makes no sound of it, but Noé can tell from the stiff set to his jaw that he’s keeping it tightly clenched, unwilling to complain now that he’s made up his mind to allow Noé to assist him.
When he’s ready, Vanitas helps guide Noé’s hands, instructing him on how to insert the needle, the angle needed, and what direction to move in. For all his talk, Vanitas is surprisingly trusting of Noé when he begins to stitch the edges of his torn skin back together, watching carefully so as to correct him, but it’s unnecessary. Noé treats him with a delicacy the human hadn’t thought he could possess, conscious of how much it hurts when he passes the needle through him based on breathing alone. He treats Vanitas as if he’s something precious, instead of an object that needs to be patched back together for next time. His fingers drift over the edge of his ribcage, sliding against his abs and catching on the ridge of his hip bone. Vanitas swallows thickly, focusing on the sharp little flair of pain that comes with each poke of the needle instead.
“Congratulations on being the only other person I'd allow to do this,” Vanitas groans, when Noé hits an especially sensitive region on the gash, grimacing with pain.
“You joke, but I'm very conscious of what an honor it is,” Noé informs him in a hushed tone, fingers and eyes still concentrated on the other man’s body. Vanitas tries to fight it, but he can feel his face flush at the pronouncement, eyes drifting to the ceiling in hopes that he might find something else to focus on there. Leave it to Noé to always knock the wind out of him when he least expects it.
Noé patches him up with a combination of gauze and taped on bandages, insisting on covering every little scratch to fight against possible infection. When Vanitas tries to fight him on it, Noé once again reminds him that he’s human, and that blood poisoning is a very real concern for him. He lays there with his arms crossed, looking every bit the part of a pouting child while the vampire finishes up tending to him.
It amazes Noé how he’s spent the better part of an hour dealing directly with Vanitas’ blood, but he’s not been tempted by it once. Every time he’d even thought about it, the idea had turned his stomach, as all he could see was that same moment over and over again, when he’d really and truly believed that Vanitas was dead. He couldn’t want any blood born of that action, if Vanitas’ blood would ever be his, he’d want it to be offered and freely given without any other motive, unlikely as that was to happen.
Vanitas gets enough momentary peace to slip into a crisp new shirt, but finds Noé looming over him with another cloth the moment he turns back, forced to remain still.
"What the hell are you doing now?" Vanitas gripes, when the saturated rag makes contact with the edge of his face.
"Your face is a mess, let me take care of it," Noé insists, but Vanitas can tell there's a bit of hesitation in his actions, color splotching the high corners of his cheeks at touching his face like this.
"Well I know that's a lie, my face is quite the opposite of a mess, thank you" Vanitas smirks, allowing Noé to continue, only because it presents him with a great opportunity to tease the vampire. Noé's brow furrows in quiet annoyance.
"And to think, it would have been ripped off tonight without my help," Noé gets in his jab, wiping away the dried blood from Vanitas' cheek, dabbing at the cuts there.
"Ahh well, the whole of Paris owes you a debt for saving it then," Vanitas continues, the grin on his face painful for where it pulls at his skin. Noé doesn't seem to be in the mood for jokes however, pausing his ministration to fix the human with a serious stare.
"You're lucky it wasn't worse," his voice is firm, but with a softness that telegraphs that he's ready to stop berating Vanitas for his behavior, "You can't trust that I'll be there to rescue you every time you meet trouble."
"I'm not asking you to rescue me," Vanitas makes a face at that, studying Noé's muted expression. How much had he put Noé through already? The airship, the ball, the catacombs...it's no wonder that the man's frustrated, but Vanitas has never once asked him to be his savior, not like this.
He remembers the frenzied look in Noé's red eyes just hours ago, his clawed fingers glinting in the moonlight, ready to abandon the mission and kill the curse bearer who'd dared to try to kill him. He'd never asked for that, he doesn't want Noé to genuinely value him...but his fingers against his face is an outright violation of that idea. He's already let Noé in so much deeper than most people, and still he continues to test the divide.
Noé's face is soft in the gold glow of the candlelight, so close that Vanitas can pick out the individual strands of his eyelashes, eyes focused with a care that steals his breath, and suddenly everything is far too much and not enough.
When Noé pauses a moment later, Vanitas takes it as his chance to escape, popping up from the bed to finish tiding up.
"Vanitas, you need a bandage," Noé frowns, watching him open his medical bag.
"I'm fine, don't worry about it." Whatever expression the human wears now, Noé can't make out under the fall of his bangs and how he hides behind them.
"Vanitas…"
"...I'll put one on later."
"No, that's...it's fine, I-" Noé swallows and tries to start again, finally forcing Vanitas to pause out of curiosity, sapphire eyes darting back to his companion with a questioning gaze.
"I just...thank you, Vanitas…" Noé smiles softly, his fingers drifting of the edge of woven cotton clinging to his arm. Vanitas turns away a second later, but Noé recognizes the blush cascading down his pale cheeks.
"Forget about it," He mutters, heading off in the direction of the bathroom, "What else was I to do?"
The smile doesn't fall from Noé's face, watching him go. For someone who claims to not be a nice person, Vanitas sure has a funny way of showing it.