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It was something barely perceptible. Only if you let your gaze linger for a moment too long would one notice. A subtle anomaly, invisible to all but the ones who cared to watch.
Noé cared to watch. Noé surrendered to the allure because it was Vanitas. He could not tear his eyes away even if he wanted to - and he didn’t. It was a yearning - perhaps, born from attraction, but more likely because Noé feared that if he looked away for even a second, Vanitas would cease to exist. Like a hawk, Noé kept his gaze on Vanitas’ every move, every fibre of his being fine-tuned to even the smallest of gestures.
It was this study that forced Noé to notice. He couldn’t help but see how Vanitas, when Noé called his name, would take a second too long to answer.
Once, Noé could pass off as mere chance. Perhaps Vanitas didn’t hear him, or maybe Noé just spoke too softly. But no, it proved a pattern. Whether it was himself, or Dante, or Dominique, it didn’t matter. Always, there lingered a pause, a blink, a moment too long to be natural, before Vanitas would answer.
It was disconcerting, nestling in the recesses of Noé’s mind ever since he’d first picked up on it, but Noé didn’t know what to do with the information now that he had it. He wanted to bring it up, he wanted to pick through Noé’s memories to get to the root of the problem, but he knew he couldn’t. Vanitas’ fortress was impenetrable. He counted himself lucky to have the scant information he did; he would be a fool if he believed he could ask for more.
Noé could handle the moments where Vanitas took too long to answer, where Noé had to raise his voice, or even shake Vanitas out of his reverie to get his attention. The days where Vanitas would look at him as though he was a stranger - those were an entirely different beast. Some days, Noé would say his name and Vanitas would look at Noé like he was regarding a ghost, an apparition, or nightmare. Those days, Vanitas would withdraw. He would walk like a marionette with missing strings, moving only to the dictates of orders, his usual lust for life sucked from his bones until he was nothing more than a wraith, a shadow of the man Noé knew.
–
He would never call Vanitas weak, but he would call him fragile. He would equate him to glass, in that way. Noé had been to the old glassmaker’s forge as a child. “Prince Rupert’s Drop”, the old glassmith had called it, when he’d noticed Noé’s curious stares. “You can’t break it with a heavy blow from something as strong as an axe,”. And yet, that same night, Noé had dropped his teacher’s wine glass, and it had shattered across the dining room floor.
–
“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”
Vanitas groaned as he wrapped the duvet tighter around his shoulders. The hotel room was not cold, and yet Vanitas cocooned himself beneath the bed sheets like it was the depths of winter. “What an ungodly hour for philosophy, Noé.”
“I meant in France, idiot.”
“Oh,” Vanitas breathed. “Probably the south. Somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere quiet.”
—
Chablis was a small town, nestled deep in the heart of Bourgogne, ensconced by rolling hills and cobblestone streets. It wore its history with a quiet elegance, ancient stone paths worn down by passing carts - always passing, never staying. The houses were all the same classic French grey, the way they all were in this part of the country. Exposed brick and white wooden shuttered windows, a silent nod to tradition.
The heart of the town, however, lay in its vineyards. Rows upon rows of lush, green vines, now gone some faded shade of yellow with the turning autumn. The harvest was in full bloom, mechanical harvesters straddling grapevine trellises, while sun-shot farmers traipsed behind like loyal soldiers to scoop up what remained. Life revolved around the promise of future vintages, the air ripe with vitis vinifera and fine bouquet. History flowed through Chablis’ old brick pathways as smoothly as the wine that bore its name.
“Pray tell why we’re here, Noé,” Vanitas grumbled as he shuffled a half-step behind Noé. It was one of Vanitas’ bad days, not the bleakest, but the kind where melancholy hung heavy on his shoulders. They were here to work, but he had secretly hoped the journey would serve to lighten Vanitas’ spirits.
“Dante informed us that there were reports of a curse-bearer here, do you not remember?”
The noncommittal hum Vanitas gave proved that he didn’t, but refused to admit it.
“Besides,” Noé continued, “You did say you wanted to visit the south.”
“I more pictured the Dordogne.”
“Well, here is just as pretty, is it not?”
Vanitas gave a long suffering sigh, “I suppose.”
There were wineries on all sides of the sun-dappled street, the fragrant scent of noble rot wafting as they walked by each cellar. Vanitas’ eyes lingered on each display as they passed.
“Can vampires even get drunk?”
Noé hummed. “With enough effort, I suppose. Our bodies metabolise much faster than humans, so we have to drink a lot more to feel anything from it.”
“A shame. You’re missing out.”
“I didn’t know you liked to drink.”
Vanitas kept his gaze forward, determined not to look at Noé as he talked. “Occasionally.”
“I never found much appeal in it,” Noé mused. “I’m not sure I’d enjoy the lack of control.”
“That’s not what it"s about. It’s how it gives you a chance to stop thinking.”
“Until the hangover the next morning,” He countered.
“Until the next morning,” Vanitas agreed solemnly.
—
The first time Noé kissed Vanitas, it was far from poetic.
They had been arguing, as was often their want, over something Noé struggled to remember - likely something inconsequential. Vanitas liked to needle, and in turn, Noé liked raising to the bait. Noé hid insults behind feigned ignorance and Vanitas would see right through him. It was a winding coil with each passing slight, so it came as no surprise when it snapped.
Noé dreamt of hot coffee and soft embraces, yet he met Vanitas with clashing teeth and acerbic tongues. It was hot, fast, and harsh - there were no whispered nothings into the shell of his ear, only scathing words and roaming hands.
Vanitas’ body was so small under his, so fragile, so breakable, and yet he did not treat him with kindness. Here, under all this heat, this pressure, Noé thought of the old glassmith’s words. Vanitas lay as molten bits, aflame and radiant, with Noés thigh between his knees the unyielding axe. Still, Vanitas did not break.
–
“To cut the glass, I merely have to run this tiny tungsten wheel over its surface with enough pressure to disrupt the tension,” The glassmith said, holding the delicately engraved vase out for Noé’s curious eyes to see. “But the glass breaks easily, like cracking sugar cane, if I press along the lines I’ve inscribed.”
–
They go no further than the press of their lips and the occasional stray caress. The second Noé lets his hands wander beneath Vanitas’ shirt, he’s pushed away. Vanitas recoils like Noé’s fingers are burning coals, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. His lips are spit-slick and stained red, but the veneer of seduction crumbles at the fear and burning anger in his gaze.
Vanitas says nothing as he pushes Noé back to his own bed. Noé watches as Vanitas curls himself beneath the covers. The layers of blankets making a futile attempt to disguise his shaking shoulders.
Morning bought a heavy cloak of silent tension. Noé’s head pounded like a hangover, but it wasn’t from a night of revelry. There was no excuse of alcohol to brush away his actions.
He calls Vanitas’ name, and again, it takes Vanitas too long to answer.
–
The season for tourism had long since passed for Chablis, the height of summer was fading, leaving only stray travellers and dedicated wine connoisseurs behind. L’Hostellerie Des Clos was the last hotel left open. It was a haven not of opulence, like the hotels of Paris, but of authenticity. Humble in all the ways Noé wasn’t accustomed to. Ivy climbed across it’s old brick façade, tumbling over the resolute and well-worn oak doors.
Noé felt like they stuck out as city-born eyesores as they entered the muted richness of the lobby.
The woman behind the counter, with her sharp-edged bowl cut and pencil-thin glasses perched on the end of her crooked nose, peered at them with curiosity. Noé gave her a sheepish smile.
“Could you spare us a room for two?”
For a moment she remained silent, her pointed fingernails drumming a staccato rhythm against the counter as she peered over the bookings. “We only have double beds remaining, sirs.”
Vanitas shifted his weight behind him. Noé knew he had to take what he could get. “We can make do.”
The woman arched her eyebrow but, thankfully, said nothing. “Two keys? Or would one be suffice?”
Noé rubbed the back of his neck. “Two, if possible.”
Once again, she was blessedly silent as she handed two keys over the counter, which Noé accepted with a polite bow and a muted smile.
“Second floor, room 15.”
An unspoken tension hung between them as Noé led Vanitas to their room. The silence was heavy, and Noé lamented all the times he’d told Vanitas to shut up.
Their room was a testament to classic design. Rich, warm tapestries draped the walls. A solitary armchair, plush and velvet green, nestled discreetly in the corner next to a sidetable adorned with the poetry of Flaubert. Finally, in the centre, stood their stopgap bed. It was piled high with blankets, all looking handcrafted and rustic. It looked far from uninviting, but the size of it had Noé growing nervous.
Vanitas didn’t comment as he dropped his bags by the foot of the armchair. The sun was setting over the horizon, their western-facing window affording a full view to the blazing red of the sky.
“I think we need the rest before we set out for the curse-bearer,” Noé offered. “Unless there was something you wanted in particular to do.”
“Does this hotel have a bar?”
“I don’t think so,” Noé hesitated. “But there are plenty of places further in town.”
Vanitas brushed past him, their shoulders knocking. “We’re in wine country. I believe after our journey, we deserve a drink.”
–
The nearest winery was Le Domaine Dampt. The bar bore similar stylings to L’Hostellerie, homely and warm. Aged oak beams, painted black, crisscrossed overhead, casting their dappled shadows across worn leather armchairs and sturdy wooden tables. Old oil lamps bathed the room in a dim, honeyed glow.
Noé swirled his half-finished glass of Montée de Tonnerre, the colour a bright, pale lemon-gold. The sun had long since set and he’d lost count of what number glass he was on. There was a slight numbness in his hands, but he couldn’t tell whether it was the alcohol or some kind of placebo effect.
They’d talked briefly to the winemaker, a subdued gentleman by the name of Sébastien. He had been kind enough, but he’d quickly cottoned on to Vanitas’ sour mood and had since made himself scarce.
Vanitas was leaning, head in the crook of his elbows, against the bar. “Are you not drunk yet?” He slurred. There was a flush creeping across his pale cheeks and a glassiness to his bright eyes.
“Not yet.”
Vanitas clearly was. There was a watery smile on his lips and Noé noted distantly that it was the first that he’d seen Vanitas wear in days.
Vanitas waved a lazy hand to beckon Sébastien over. “Another bottle. Grand Cru.”
Sébastien raised an eyebrow but did as instructed.
“I think you might have had enough,” Noé ventured warily, a gnawing pit settling in his stomach as he watched Vanitas’ glass be filled once again to the brim .
“Nonsense. There’s no such thing as too much.”
Entranced, Noé watched as Vanitas tipped his head back and downed half his glass in a single audacious swoop. A droplet of Vaudesir escaped from the corner of Vanitas’ lip, and Noé watched the golden trail trace across the elegant cut of Vanitas’ jaw and down the pale expanse of his neck with a burgeoning sense of jealousy.
“Besides,” Vanitas slurred, a tipsy hand pushing the full bottle to Noé’s place, “The rest is for you.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“And what if I am?”
Noé took a measured sip from his glass. “Why?”
Vanitas hummed. “Perhaps I’m a sadist, and just want to get you wasted.”
Noe snorted. “That much isn’t up for debate.”
“You wound me, Noé,” Vanitas sighed dramatically, slumping back against his barstool.
“You said it first, don’t put the blame on my shoulders.”
“Oh, but you’re supposed to defend me. ‘No, Vanitas,’ you’re supposed to say, ‘you’re not a sadist. You’re generougly plying me with alcohol out of the goodness of your heart!’”
“And when have I ever said anything like that about you?”
“Never, and that’s the problem.”
“So, you’re getting me drunk to loosen my tongue?”
“Among other things, yes.”
Noé snorted gracelessly into his wine glass. “Is this your attempt at smooth talking me, Vanitas?”
“Maybe,” Vanitas smiled coyly, “is it working?”
Noé, against his better judgement, downed the rest of his glass. The fresh bottle of priceless Vaudesir already emptied. “Yes.”
–
He and Vanitas had kissed with sweetness once before.
Noé had heard Vanitas thrashing in his bed from the other side of the room, clearly in the throes of a nightmare, but he hadn’t known if it was beyond his limits to go comfort him. Vanitas’ pained whimpers cut through the silence of the night until, abruptly, they’d stopped.
Noé lay stock still, his back turned away, hoping, praying, that Vanitas would not sniff out that he was awake. He had not meant to eavesdrop but the situation had left him no choice. Vanitas would not see it that way, however, that much Noé knew.
He had to stop himself from flinching when he felt Vanitas’ cool hands gently touch his jaw. He’d rarely seen Vanitas without his gloves, even when sleeping. No matter how much Noé told him that they looked uncomfortable, he refused to remove them. But an undeniably human hand was slipping across Noé’s neck and down below the cut of his shirt.
Noé shifted to look at Vanitas. Here, in the muted expanse of the filtered moonlight, Vanitas took on a ghostly figure. He was pale, red rimming his eyes and an undeniable wetness to his cheeks, but Noé still thought he looked strangely ethereal. There was something ineffable about him, an elusive quality that drew Noé in like a moth to a flame. The moon conspired with Vanitas’ tears to fashion a portrait of something that should not have been as beautiful as it was. Beauty was not pain, but Vanitas made his suffering bewitching.
Noé shivered slightly as Vanitas slipped under the covers next to him, huddling his cold body up to Noé’s heat. He ducked his head into the crook of Noé’s neck, taking in a long, steadying breath.
“Vanitas,” Noé whispered.
“Don’t say anything. Don’t you dare say anything.”
Vanitas looked up at him from beneath his spiderleg lashes, eyes still wet from tears. It felt like the universe had connived to lead to this moment - a moment that demanded he lean in to capture Vanitas’ lips.
Vanitas’ lips were soft and timid against his, and Noé surrendered himself to it, imbuing all the comfort that was stuck in the back of his throat.
He landed a gentle hand onto Vanitas’ bare hip, and for the briefest moment, felt Vanitas freeze in response. Noé began soothing merciful circles into the supple flesh of Vanitas’ thigh in what he hoped was reassurance.
Beneath the tips of his fingers, Noé could feel the jagged remnants of scars, etched upon the soft expanse of Vanitas’ exposed skin. The urge to mention them welled within him but he held his tongue. The wounds, no matter how healed, were too delicate to press. Instead, Noé contented with letting his hand brush feather-light patterns across each inscribed line, hoping to convey a silent promise - the whisper he wished he could utter out loud that said “I am here, and I will not shatter this fragile glass.”
He could taste the tears on Vanitas’ lips as they glided over his own, those same tears infusing each heated breath Vanitas panted against his cheek as Noé’s hand ventured lower.
Vanitas was perched higher on the bed than Noé, and when he sought Noé’s lips again his head would bow in a movement that was almost woeful, his hair grazing Noé’s cheek in a dance that bordered on mournful. Vanitas trembled as Noé pressed kisses to the corner of his parted lips, along the soft shell of his ear, and down across his jaw.
He settled in the hollows the arch of Vanitas’ neck created, and pressed a kiss there too. Again, he felt Vanitas tense in anticipation of some impending dread.
“Why are you so afraid of me biting you?”
Vanitas’ hands in Noé’s hair was gentle as he guided him back to his lips.
“Because you would see my memories, and that cannot happen.”
Noé melted back into the molten embrace of Vanitas’ kiss.
“Why?”
Vanitas pulled back, his frozen palms cupping Noé’s flushed cheeks.
“Because, if you saw the inside of me for more than a minute you would not want to hold me.”
–
They stumbled out of Le Domaine Dampt with unsteady feet, Vanitas leaning heavily on Noé’s shoulder.
Noé missed the last step down, his ankle losing faith under his weight as he nearly crumpled to the floor. The world ran a brief lap around his dizzy vision, his hands moving half a step behind his brain as he steadied himself against the ornate railing. A disbelieving giggle bubbled up the back of his throat, he’d never felt drunk like this.
The laughter finally broke free proper when he turned to Vanitas who was bent double in hysterics. Nothing truly funny had actually happened, he hadn’t even fallen properly, but in this wine-addled haze it was apparently the funniest thing either had ever seen.
“You’re drunk!” Vanitas whooped, clapping his hands in glee before stumbling over to Noé’s side and draping himself like spilled wine across his shoulders.
“And whose fault is that?” Noé slurred, his tongue heavy and uncooperative in his mouth.
“Oh shush, don’t complain. This is the fun part.”
Noé watched as Vanitas bounded ahead, his unguided feet teetering across uneven cobblestone streets. Vanitas turned to smile back at him and Noé felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. He could only laugh in response as he picked up the pace to keep step.
The air was cold but alive with the gentle murmur of voices, the chatter of the rare fellow reveler, and their own laughter. The night was blue but the Chablis streets were bathed gold by the flickering streetlamps. Flowers and bunting adorned the façades of all the houses they passed, some celebration of the harvest season been and gone. The warmth of colour blurred together behind drunken eyes and Noé thought it was beautiful. But not as beautiful as Vanitas, who danced ahead of him with a childish reverie. He hadn’t seen such life in Vanitas in days and Noé drunk it in like it was another glass of Grand Cru.
“Come on,” Vanitas called, “You’re far too slow!”
Vanitas grabbed ahold of Noè’s hand and before he could react, suddenly, they were dancing. There was no music to accompany their steps, and their rhythm was graceless from the wine, but they were dancing in their own way.
Noè’s hand came to steady himself on Vanitas’ waist as they twirled. His vision twisted and lost focus, but Vanitas’ smile stayed in perfect clarity.
“Did a blind man teach you how to dance?” Noé chided as Vanitas tripped over his own feet.
“That’s under the assumption that I’ve had lessons at all.”
“Well, let me guide you then, seeing as you seem to have the rhythm of a broken accordion.”
Even with the wine weighing him down, kicking Vanitas’ feet into a proper waltz was muscle memory. He guided Vanitas to intertwined their fingers and to lay his other hand on his shoulder, while his own wrapped around Vanitas’ back to bring their chests flush.
“Big words. Let’s see if you’re as fine a teacher as you say you are.” Vanitas cooed, his face mere inches from Noé’s. Noé could see the glint of vainglory in Vanitas’ hazy eyes, and countered it with a beaming smile.
To the beat of their own laughter, they danced down the moonlit street. To the passing eye, Noé knew they must look crazy, but he found he didn’t care. They nearly fell several times, no amount of careful teaching could abate the dangerous tilt of inebriation, but Noé always caught them just in time.
Their silhouettes, illuminated by the soft, golden glow of the lamplight, moved with both the grace of poetry and the inelegance of what they really were - two drunken men savouring the world for a fleeting moment in time.
By the time they reached L’Hostellerie, the stillness of the night had settled. The candlelight from streetview windows had been snuffed out, and the shutters had been closed, leaving them in solitude and in darkness. They were breathless, their cheeks cold and flushed, their smiles aching.
Vanitas pulled away first, but collapsed against Noé’s chest right after. “That was incredibly dumb,” He puffed against the white lapels of Noé’s coat.
Noé wrapped his arms around Vanitas’ shoulders. “But very fun.”
Vanitas gave a breathy laugh. “Yes, very fun.”
They were half-sober and bone weary by the time they collapsed into their shared bed. They had the mind to kick off their shoes but not to rid themselves of the rest of their clothes. The proposition of earlier in the evening died away to give space instead for a quiet intimacy. The alcohol stripped Vanitas of his shyness as he cuddled up to Noé’s side. There was the gentle flutter of dark eyelashes against his pale cheeks before he gave himself in to sleep.
Noé lay awake for a long while after, letting the alcohol run its course out his system, and the revelry of the past hour to settle in his mind. His heart still ran like a racehorse in his chest, and the sight of Vanitas curling himself against Noé’s chest did nothing to sooth its pace.
–
Noé knew Vanitas had scars - physical and mental.
He’d borne witness to them long before he’d been allowed the grace to touch them, even if Vanitas obstinately refused to acknowledge this fact.
It was a strange half-step they danced around each other - a dance where the skeletons were not hidden in the closet but strewn as corpses at Vanitas’ feet. Vanitas would look Noé dead in the eyes, as if goading him into breaching the unspoken.
The first time Noé had caught glimpse of them was when Vanitas had been gravely injured by a curse-bearer, and Noé had been thrust into the role of caregiver. Vanitas had resolved to wrap his own wounds, but had been forced to fight down his own ego when it came time to bathe.
Vanitas had come to Noé with his tail between his legs, a frustrated blush spreading violently across his cheeks as he’d asked. Noé had known it was an inevitability, but even he was apprehensive about taking this step forward.
The bathroom was silent as it filled with the heavy heat of the running bath water.
“Can you please turn around?”
“I’m about to help you bathe, Vanitas, there’s no point in getting bashful now.”
“Just-” Vanitas’ voice cracked, “please.”
Noé sighed but relented, his hands toying with the hem of his jacket at the rustle of Vanitas’ clothes falling to the floor.
In their shared hotel room, ashamed and alone, he’d thought of Vanitas naked before. He’d thought of how the shape of Vanitas’ waist would fit perfectly into the palm of his hand, and of how smooth his skin would feel as he traced a path down to his hipbones. But now that he had the opportunity before him, he suddenly felt a knot of nerves constricting his chest.
“You can look now.”
Slowly, Noé turned. The harsh, overhead light of the bathroom was far from flattering, more clinical than it was fair, but Vanitas still looked ethereal, as if carved from alabaster.
His arms were wrapped around his chest in some want of modesty, but his wispish hands did nothing to disguise the map of scars that traced him head to toe. His trembling fingers bore the weight of vulnerability, afraid of the exposure, not solely of his body, but of his soul as well.
This marked the first of many moments when Vanitas’ would lock his gaze onto his, as if silently daring him to mention the scars. Noé chose the solace of silence, opting to carefully wrap his arms around Vanitas’ bare back instead.
“The water shouldn’t be hot, but let me know if its too much.”
Vanitas was far too frail, too thin, teetering too close to the precipice from which Noé desperately wanted to pull him back. As he lifted Vanitas, his arms met around his frame with unsettling ease, Vanitas’ rib bones visible and tangible beneath pallid skin.
Vanitas hissed as he was lowered into the bath.
“Is it too hot?”
Vanitas swatted his worried hands away. “No. Please stop mothering me.”
Noé bit back an apology, knowing it was the last thing Vanitas would want to hear. He grabbed a cloth and wetted it before gently lathering it across Vanitas’ arms. He kept his eyes resolutely on his task, he couldn’t trust himself to not let his eyes wander without ironclad self control.
An uneasy silence settled as Noé continued his work. The wound had long ceased to bleed, leaving only dry blood behind. Noé noticed how Vanitas winced as he washed around the bandages. He took care not to let the wounds become wet, though the stubborn blood that refused to budge without a heavy hand offered a touch of irony. Of course, even Vanitas’ blood was as unyielding as he was.
“You should take better care of yourself,” Noé whispered, desperate to break the silence.
Vanitas scoffed. “Why should I? It’s not like God will let me die this soon.”
Noé grabbed the soap and began lathering a small amount across Vanitas’ back. “I never knew you believed in God.”
“Of course God exists; he’s the bastard that did this to me.”
Noé’s hand slowed as he grabbed the washcloth again. Teacher had spoken of God, but only in the abstract. “I don’t know much about God,” Noé admitted. “I don’t know what I’d do if I were to meet Him after death and discover He truly exists.”
“I do,” Vanitas snorted, “I will walk up to those pearly gate and face God with my anger until he is begging for forgiveness at my feet.”
“That’s rather cruel.”
“So is God.”
Noé rinsed the soap from Vanitas’ back and then took the cloth to run it down Vanitas’ front. The bandages were expertly wrapped; Vanitas calling himself a doctor wasn’t just for show. However, Noé knew they would need changing. The blood had seeped through, staining the white a blooming red. Even dry, Noé could smell it, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from salivating.
“Promise me, Noè,” Vanitas said, his gaze fixed on Noé’s hand as it glided over a particularly raised, coiling scar, “That you won’t fall for the lies the church will tell you.”
Noé hummed as he caressed his fingers down the side of Vanitas’ waist, silently reveling in watching Vanitas shiver at the gentle touch. “That God knows all of our ugliness and loves us despite it?” It was a line Teacher had fed him once when he was younger.
“Exactly that. I am still ugly and He is still God. What comfort is that supposed to bring?”
Noé felt something twist inside his chest. Vanitas had always been quick with biting words, but he had never heard him sound so angry and defeated. He had wanted to break the silence, he hadn’t anticipated the path this conversation would take.
“You’re not ugly,” Noé replied, his compliment not the most eloquent, but it was the best he could offer.
Vanitas raised his arms, gesturing vaguely at his body. “I am here in all my naked glory for you, Noé. Don’t try to lie to me.”
“You’re not ugly,” Noé emphasised. His hands slipped lower, running fingertips over the hollows of Vanitas’ hipbones before dipping down the length of this thighs. “You’re beautiful, like a rose, thorns and all.”
“If you must compare me to a flower, then I am a dandelion.”
“Still just as pretty.”
“To those who don’t understand. A weed to those who do.”
–
Understanding and experiencing were two entirely different things. Noé understood hangovers. On a scientific, biological level; he
knew what they were. He had observed their unpleasantness in others. Experiencing one himself, however, was a whole different beast.
The morning sun pierced through the heavy drapes, casting a relentless spotlight over the remnants of last night’s indulgence. With every glimmer of light, the pounding in his head echoed the night’s revelry. A symphony of wardrums hammered behind his eyelids, a cruel encore to the bacchanalian performance of uncorked bottles and swirling glasses.
Noé’s tongue felt like it had been coated in varnish, his throat lacquered and thick, leaving each swallow a painful descent. The scent of wine clung to their unwashed clothes, what was once a fragrant allure, now ligering like a bitter aftertaste. His stomach churned with a mix of regret and the remnants of a delicious, but ill-advised, feast.
Vanitas lay still sleeping beside him, his bird-boned arms clinging around his waist in his unconsciousness. It would be endearing, how he clung to Noé like a child clutching their favourite toy in the night, if Noé didn’t fear the wrath he’d face if Vanitas woke to their position. Despite this, Noé didn’t have the heart to move. Vanitas looked peaceful, his black hair splayed out on the pillow like spilled ink, his lips still stained cherry red from the wine.
If he could ignore the roiling nausea building in his stomach, Noé would find himself in the position he’d dreamed of too many times before. From time to time, he’d thought of Vanitas softly, picturing them in some faraway cottage in a haze of quotidien bliss. Far removed from the horrors and ghosts, somewhere where they didn’t have to worry about curses snapping at their ankles. They would not be of Archeviste or the Blue Moon, they would be Noé and Vanitas, domestic and simple. He dreamed of waking up with Vanitas in his arms, both whole and healthy.
As much as he wished he could stay, enveloped by the warmth of Vanitas’ arms, nature and their mission beckoned. He gingerly pushed aside the tangled sheets and, as he rose from the disheveled bed, the room danced a discordant waltz around him. The world, once steady, had taken on a jarring rhythm that matched beat with the arrhythmic throb of his temples.
As he stumbled towards the bathroom, careful not to wake Vanitas with his unsteady steps, he caught sight of himself in the reflection of the mirror - hair tousled, purple eyes bleary, and skin as pale as chardonnay grape. He looked every bit as haggard as he felt.
A hot shower offered some respite, the steam melting away the hangover’s lingering tendrils. He thanked the grace of his vampirism for his quick metabolism, his headache fading as quickly as his intoxication had come on.
As he stepped out of the shower in a cloud of rising steam, he saw that Vanitas had not been so lucky. He was sat upright in bed, his hands scrubbing roughly at pallid cheeks.
“Please, Noé, never let me drink again.”
Noé snorted. “Did I not warn you of hangovers yesterday afternoon.”
Vanitas kept his hands buried in his hands. “You did. You can get all your ‘I told you sos’ out of the way now.”
“I’ll save them for another time. You’re looking too unwell to pick on right now.”
“How kind of you,” Vanitas drawled sardonically. He peeked out through a crack in his fingertips with a scowl. “How dare you look so spritely. Are you mocking me?”
“Vampire metabolism. I promise you, I didn’t feel so upbeat a moment ago. I can tell you a shower works wonders, though.”
Vanitas rolled slowly to the side of the bed. “I doubt it’ll fix me as magically as it did you, but I’ll still take it.”
“We need to search for the curse-bearer today, I’ll remind you. But we can wait until you feel well enough to stand on your own two feet.”
Vanitas took the inopportune moment to stumble right on queue and Noé couldn’t fight back a giggle. Vanitas scowled at him and Noé just laughed as he handed him a fresh towel.
–
The lead Dante had given them took them back to Le Domaine Dampt. They walked the same route they’d danced the night before, the cobblestone streets now bathed in sunlight. As they walked, Noé couldn’t help but think that perhaps it’d all been worth it, even as Vanitas shied away from the blinding light of the sun.
The Domaine was a different picture in the morning, the wine bar transformed into a quiet café. The same stools where they had drowned themselves in spirits, now housed weathered locals nursing café au lait over the morning paper.
Sébastien was nowhere in sight, but a man bearing a startling resemblance was wiping down glasses behind the counter.
Noé couldn’t react in time to stop Vanitas from striding over to the bar and leaning into the man’s space.
“Vampire?” Vanitas asked.
The man’s eyes widened, quickly darting his head around to check for anyone within earshot.
“Well?” Vanitas asked again.
“Vanitas!” Noé hissed under his breath. Vanitas didn’t respond.
“I think we should talk somewhere more private,” The man whispered, his eyes locking onto Noé’s with some kind of recognition.
The man walked them to an alcove in the back of the bar, where plush armchairs encircled a low coffee table.
The man introduced himself as Daniel, Sébastien’s older brother, he added quietly when Noé remarked on the resemblance.
They settled themselves into the armchairs. Daniel perched uncomfortably at the edge of his seat, appearing poised to run despite Noé’s attempts at an approachable demeanor.
“Are you also…” Daniel’s voice trailed off.
Noé flashed his eyes red for a brief second as a silent answer. Daniel visibly relaxed, sinking back into the armchair.
“We’re just here to ask some questions.”
Daniel wrung his hands together in a nervous pattern of eight. “Is it about my brother?”
Vanitas leant forward in his chair. He said nothing, but he raised his eyebrows as a signal to continue.
Daniel sighed. “He’s been acting rather strangely. It’s making me concerned.”
“When did you notice this change?”
“He went to Paris. There was a wine tasting event in Saint-Ouen, an annual thing. He goes to sell last year’s vintage. I thought nothing of it but, when he came back he…”
Noé locked eyes with Vanitas and nodded. There was no real need to ask more. Even this scant information was enough.
Daniel’s eyes darted between them. “Do you know what’s wrong with him? Will he be okay? Is he sick?”
Noé gave Daniel a reassuring smile. “Your brother should be just fine. We would like to visit him, though. Do you know where we may find him?”
Daniel worried his lower lip. “I’m not entirely sure. I haven’t been able to contact him and he-” Daniel stuttered for a moment, his head falling so his blonde hair covered his expression. “He didn’t come home last night. I was so worried but I have to open the shop, it’s our livelihood and I can’t risk missing a shift. I wanted to go out and find him but-”
Vanitas raised a hand to interrupt Daniel before he worked himself up too much. “I’m sure we can find him for you.”
Daniel peered at them, his eyes glassy and a wobbling tilt twisting his lips. “You can?”
Noé placed a placating hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “We’ll return with word this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Thank you,” Daniel whispered, his voice breaking.
–
“What’s it like having a True Name?”
Noé turned in his bed to face Vanitas, who was staring blankly up at the ceiling of their room. The sun had recently set and, in the early night, the room was left bathed in the soft, ambient glow of a single, flickering candlelight.
“What do you mean?”
Vanitas sighed and turned so his back faced Noé, the dim light of the candle casting delicate shadow-play across his nightshirt. Vanitas had reverted to covering himself completely, even though Noé knew he had to be uncomfortable. “Nothing. Ignore me. That was a stupid question.”
Noé shifted to sit up against the headboards. “No, no, of course, it’s not a stupid question. I just- I wanted to know what you were asking specifically.”
Vanitas tightened his knuckles into the silk of his bed sheets. “Just-” He sighed. “Are you born knowing your True Name? Or is it given to you?”
Noé hummed. “I was given the name Noé. My True Name, however, I think I was born with. It’s just an intrinsic part of myself, even if I’m not aware of what it is.”
“Which do you relate more to?”
“They’re two different things, at least to me. Noé is how others know me. My True Name is how I know myself.”
“Is there an element of-” Vanitas’ voice trailed off into a whisper, as if contemplating his next words with careful consideration. “Choosing your True Name?”
Noé took a moment to reply. “Perhaps. I think they’re slightly selfish, in that way. People can call you whatever they wish, but that won’t change how you call yourself.”
“Do you think True Names can be changed?”
“I’m not sure. Normal names change all the time, for a whole multitude of reason. Marriage, an obvious example. But I’m not sure if True Names act in the same way. I don’t believe it"s an exact science.”
“How would you feel if you never knew your True Name?”
Noé frowned slightly at the question. “Lonely, maybe,” He answered slowly.
Vanitas shifted again, tucking his head into the blankets. Noé waited for the next question but none came.
“Why’d you ask?” Silence. “Vanitas?” He whispered. Vanitas didn’t reply. “Vanitas?” He repeated, louder. Still, he got nothing.
–
Finding Sébastien turned out to be an easier task than either expected.
They were entering the town square when the screaming started. The morning had given way to the afternoon, the sun high and bright in a cloudless sky. The townspeople had been out in full force, but now they fled like scattering crows, their uncaring shoulders knocking into Noé’s in their rush to escape the carnage.
In the very centre of the square, in the middle of an ill-planned junction, stood a statue memorialising the war. The silhouette of a man, rendered in bronze, reaching upward with solemn grace. At his feet sat a cenotaph in marble, with the names of fallen soldiers enscribed in its façade. There, with bloodied fingers, scrabbling desperately at the names, stood Sébastien.
His eyes, once crystal blue, now shone a sickly, fiery red. His hands, bloodstained, tapered into razor-edged talons, black and cutting like a raven’s beak. Beneath his tailored suit, bones distorted skin, flesh pulling too tight, contorting over writhing muscle. The genteel figure of the vignoron was gone, a half-formed, half-rotten infernal, a naked man with dragon claws and feet, stood in his stead.
He was spitting incomprehensible words, voice tainted with malice. Through the noise Noé heard one motif repeat: my name, my name, my name.
They’d handled countless curse-bearers before this. Noé knew the rhythm as well as Vanitas at this point, the formation they fell into more muscle memory than conscious thought.
Noé rushed forward first, his feet moving faster than his brain. Sébastien, in his resentment-adled fugue, rose to Noé’s attack,
Foreward. Foreward. The man snarled and attacked, his edge-weaponed hands arcing in a foreswing, then a backswing. Noé ducked beneath the first strike, and met the second with the flesh of his forearm. He could heal, the skin gauged from his arm of less importance than stopping Sébastien.
The screams of a panicked woman drew Sébastien’s attention, enough for Noé to aim for his legs. He needed Sébastien down and imobile, long enough for Vanitas to reverse the operation.
Sébastien howled, piercing, a sound inhuman and feral. He swung his fists and made contact with Noé’s stomach.
Noé bowed in pain, the air punched from his chest with agonising force. His grip loosened, and Sébastien, like an unbroken dog from his cage, slipped free.
Noé tasted blood in the back of his throat, thick and brimming with iron. His ribs screamed in torment as he struggled to stand, broken, most definitely.
Amidst the chaos, there was a woman holding the bloodied form of a limp child - Sébastien’s first victim. She was crying, a sound echoeing the primal intensity of Sébastien’s own. She crowded her body over her child, willingly laying her life in the line of fire to protect the little girl - an act of maternal sacrifice, defying reason and sealing her fate.
Noé, with his aching ribs and shuddering lungs, had no chance of reaching her before Sébastien.
Then, like some kind of angel, Vanitas appeared. With the reckless abandon of a man possessed, Vanitas charged.
To the untrained eye it was an act of unstinting heroism. The life of one to save the many.
Vanitas, in that moment, was not just a name; he was a symbol of selflessness.
But Noé saw it for what is truly was.
A suicide.
–
In the dead of night, when Noé would lay awake, unable to find sleep, enveloped by the silence broken only by the call of nocturnal owls and Vanitas’ gentle breaths, he would pray. Not to any specific God, for his words were not for any discerning ear but his own. His prayers were for himself, a reminder. Looking at Vanitas, his face tranquil in sleep, and he would say all that he could not in the day - a mantra repeated over and over: je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.
–
The book of Vanitas was glowing blue, both sickly and ethereal. The chains wrapped like coiling ivy across Sébastien’s limbs, but it was already too late.
Jagged claws embedded in soft, human - too human, too fragile - flesh.
The malnomen was unmade, but the blood remained as blackened claws rescinded to skin and bone.
Locals still screamed around him, but the noise flatlined to static in Noé’s ears as he watched Vanitas slump forward.
A cry for Vanitas lodged in the back of Noé’s throat, but he knew it was pointless - Vanitas never responded to his own name anyway.
Sébastien’s eyes flickered from red to blue and then closed as the last of the curse relinquished it’s hold. There was a moment were the man muttered under his breath, an utterance of realisation at his True Name, before he slipped unconscious.
Vanitas rolled away from him, falling back onto the cobblestone streets. His blood, bright red and fragrant, trailed into the hollows the old stone created.
Noé ran forward, collapsing onto his knees at Vanitas’ side.
“You idiot!” He yelled, “You idiot, you complete and utter idiot.”
Vanitas chuckled, but it was wet with blood.
Noé didn’t care that he was staining his white gloves an irreparable red as he pressed against the wound on Vanitas’ stomach. It was futile, there was no chance of saving him unless he got medical assistance.
Vanitas raised a shaking hand to cup Noé’s cheek. His thumb brushed away tears that Noé hadn’t realised he’d shed.
“My, Noé, you’re crying. I could almost believe you care for me.”
Noé bit back a sob. “Of course, I care for you.”
There was a small, sad smile on Vanitas’ bloodstained lips. Lips that Noé had kissed with such deep longing - and how he ached to kiss them now, if only it didn’t mean he would see Vanitas’ memories.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Noé shook his head. “I care, Vanitas. I care for you so much.”
“Dont do this, Noé. Don’t tell me that you love me.”
Noé could feel fresh, warm blood spill betwen his fingers. “But I do.”
“Then, you’re a fool.”
“I know. I know and I love you anyway.”
I love you didn’t feel like enough. Three words could not encompass the war and anger, the tendernss and worship, the profound and endless way he thought of Vanitas.
–
Vanitas believed in God. Noé did not.
“If you see me down on my knees,” Vanitas whispered, his voice tender and whole against Noé’s lips. “Please do not think that I pray.”
–
Teacher told Noé endlessly, he should kneel for no man. But Vanitas was not a man, he was his everything. When the world found Noé on his knees, he would be praying. He would be prostrating himself at Vanitas’ feet.
Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.
–
Help had been called, but Noé feared they would not arrive in time. Vanitas’ blood seeped through to his skin and he would never be cleaned of it.
“You can’t die. You can’t do this to me.”
Vanitas’ hand was losing strength, but Noé caught it to hold it against his cheek for him.
“You know I can’t promise that, Noé.”
“Why not? Promise me. Promise me, Vanitas, that you won’t leave me here alone.”
In lieu of an answer, Vanitas used the last of his strength to pull Noé’s lips to his own. Noé put up no fight.
–
Vanitas was not the name he was born with.
Neither was No.69.
He answered to both, and related to neither.
Through all the pain, the experiments, and sorrow, he wondered who he truly was. He wondered if he was raised without love, or born to be unlovable.
He grieved, as the straps of the electric chair constricted his chest, for who he once was - for what he could have been.
There was no salvation for rotten children, hollow boys like him don’t go to heaven.
“No.69,” Doctor Moreau cooed, “You have been released, your cage is open. Why are you still lying there?”
He, No.69- no, Vanitas, did not respond.
–
Noé wanted to scream at the world and at God.
Glass could last for centuries if not hit with any force, but Vanitas, for all that Noé would compare them, was not made of glass. Vanitas was painfully human.
“Vanitas,” Noé sobbed against Vanitas’ lips.
“You’ve seen it. You know that’s not my name.”
“I don’t care. I don’t love your name, I love you.”
“A fool.”
“I know.”
–
Vanitas did not die that day. Help came, a hoard of gendarmes and nurses descended on the town square and Vanitas was saved.
Sébastien was returned to Daniel, and they vowed to go into hiding. Chablis was no longer safe now that their identities had been revealed.
They returned to Paris once Vanitas’ wounds were healed enough to travel.
Their first night back in L’Hôtel Chouchou, Vanitas climbed into Noé’s bed instead of his own. Noé welcomed him into his arms.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Noé whispered into Vanitas’ hair.
“No.”
Noé desperately wanted to talk about it, but he respected Vanitas’ wishes enough to keep quiet.
“That’s okay,” He said instead. “I know that I can be hard to talk to but know that I am here. I will listen.”
“I don’t have the words for it.”
“Then, I will help you find the words. Let me help you.”
Vanitas didn’t respond, and it was something Noé had grown far too accustomed to.