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He’s always so hasty. In a rush to fight, in a rush to get the last word in; he’d do almost everything in a minute if he could. Knowing this, Ven makes it a point to slowly dab the nail polish remover to each of Vanitas’ fingertips. Slow individual care is the only way to clean up Vanitas’ colossal failure at painting his nails — made even worse that the color is black, staining his pale skin.
“When are you going to be done with this?” He huffs, nostrils flaring with irritation and delinquent eyes rolling before an answer can be given.
Ven laughs through his nose, glancing to Vanitas and wearing a playful smirk he’s stolen from Vanitas’ closet of expressions. “When I’m done.”
Vanitas clicks his tongue, golden eyes meeting Ven’s gaze. The blond chuckles, smile bright and unwavering even as his attentions turn back to Vanitas’ nearly cleaned hand.
“You’re really keeping me here all day, is what you’re saying.”
“Is there a problem with that?” Ven responds cooly without looking up.
“I’ll leave with half painted nails if you cut too much into my time.”
“Yeah?” Ven laughs out, wiping off the last bit of Vanitas’ crude paint job from his pinky. “I think you’d come right back, though.”
“You’re so full of it, Ventus,” he snarls, snatching away his newly cleaned hand and waving it to dry. His other clean hand is thrust into Ven’s hand, but not before snapping his fingers impatiently.
Some time ago, that statement wouldn’t ring true; Ven wouldn’t have had even half of the confidence he’s carried during their exchange today. Wouldn’t be able to take Vanitas’ hand, wouldn’t be able to talk and retort with the way Vanitas likes to bite at conversation. But Ven has come to enjoy him in a way that perhaps only Ven could. Learning to handle Vanitas only required a deeper look at himself.
Who would know his darkness better than his light?
“Maybe,” Ven says with a shrug, fingers delicately playing with Vanitas’ as he examines them. Calloused fingertips press against the smoothness of his own, gently pinching to look closer at splintered cuticles. Such are the hands of a keyblade wielder — a hand of darkness, especially. Mesmerized by nicks and cuts, he brushes his fingers against Vanitas’, on down to his palm. What most surprises his is that Vanitas hasn’t retracted his hand and berated him; Ven holds on to that solace for a little longer than he’s usually allotted. “But I think that’s just because of you.”
“Oh— really now?” Vanitas asks with what sounds like fake interest, only to keep Ven from gauging his sincere curiosity. “And why is that, Ventus?”
“You’ve said it before.” He releases Vanitas’ hand for the time being, readying the black polish; hopefully there’s enough after the fiasco earlier to even finish his nails, but it’s a hurdle he’ll jump when he gets there. “There was a time I couldn’t stand up to you. You just made me angry and wanted to fight — and we would.”
Whether by word or blade, fate seemed to only string them to battle. What a defiance this is now. From bickers and battles to something as mundane as painting nails.
Vanitas raises a brow, watching Ven lay a generous portion of ebony on his thumbnail in such an effortless way he wonders why he hasn’t painted his own nails. “Your point?”
“I guess I’m just thinking out loud a bit here. But between all of that and spending more time together now, and talking with you — really, really talking to you… I’ve just…gotten to know you better. And I like being with you.”
I needed you.
Vanitas sighs, turning his face to hide that rare, small smile he handsomely wears in secrecy. Ven is lucky to catch just the slightest glimpse. “You haven’t changed a bit, Ventus. You still sound as sappy as you did the day I met you.”
“Don’t be rude to the guy painting your nails, Vanitas,” Ven warns with a laugh, turning up the small brush to wave it as if it were a threat. “I hold the future of your hands in mine.”
“You’re so stupid.” For once an insult comes from darkness without any bite or malice — it’s as close to endearing he can get.
Ven laughs under his breath, continuing down the canvas of nails he holds. Black polish glides on the index, middle, and curiously skipping over the ring finger in favor of painting his pinky nail. Vanitas is quiet as he observes, assuming Ven is making a mistake or in need of fresh polish. His brow quirks when the brush is returned to its bottle and Ven raises Vanitas’ hand to gently blow on his wet nails to dry them.
“You missed one.”
Ven stops, looking straight into Vanitas’ eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“I could throw you pretty far, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Exactly the kind of answer he expects. He flashes another smile before his lips purse and begin drying Vanitas’ nails again.
The process is repeated with Vanitas’ other hand. Dip, paint, dip, paint until each fingernail is coated in black. His ring finger is once again omitted, and noticed, but this time he doesn’t call Ven out on it. Vanitas continues watching, allowing Ven to dry his fingers peacefully while he waits with baited breath as to what he was asked to trust Ven for.
“Care to share what your plan here is?”
“You’ll see…”
“I’m running low on patience, Ventus.”
“Because you had so much to start with. Relax, alright?” Ven dismisses him, pulling out another vile of nail polish — this one a lovely ivory. “You said you trust me.”
“Correction,” Vanitas scowls, narrowing his eyes. “I specifically said I could throw you.”
“You don’t have to act like I don’t know the expression. Can’t outsmart me anymore, Vanitas.” Ven follows up by sticking his tongue out at Vanitas who’s already groaning in response.
Despite his obvious frustrations, Vanitas has made no effort to stop Ven or move his hand from Ven’s touch. Ven opens the bottle, carefully wiping excess at the top of it before painting both Vanitas’ nude ring fingernails. Vanitas turns his nose up at the sight of it.
“Alright, Ventus. I’ll bite.” Ven, taking turns between hands as he blows them dry, only looks to Vanitas as a response. “What cheesy statement are you trying to make by ruining my nails?”
Ven chuckles, allowing Vanitas to pull his hands away while he gently shakes them to dry. “I didn’t make it obvious enough for you?”
“You made it dumb enough.”
“That’s not it!” The blond protests with a laugh.
Vanitas groans and shakes his head. “I give up, Ventus.” His name comes out as a purr against his lips while he shows Ven no attention. Fingers curl towards his palm, raised closer so that he can examine the work Ven has put into it. He has no qualms about taking to the grave with him the admittance that Ven does a much better job of being a nail artist. Trivial, yes, but just another little thing he’ll add to his diary of things he’s yet to voice. “Tell me.”
Ven smiles, taking back the hand Vanitas was looking at. He gestures to the white nail. Vanitas tears his eyes from Ven’s pools of blue to look into the pure white shade he’s allowed Ven to paint onto his nail. It’s like looking at something forbidden at first; instinct tells him to chase it, but he knows to do that would be to chase after the boy holding his hand. Pure and white, just like Ventus— Oh.
That’s what he wants, isn’t it?
“It’s light,” Ven explains two minutes too late, but Vanitas hinges on his words despite figuring it out for himself. “Just a way you can carry me around in case I’m not there.”
Vanitas utters no words, looking reflective; he wears an expression so soft for someone of his typical aggressive demeanor that Ven swears he’s only seen it in dreams. “…But you know I would find my way back to you. We always find a way to one another.”
“Aha… Yeah. Yeah, I know…” Ven’s cheeks warm and he breaks eye contact. Fingertips still play with Vanitas’ idly, matching corresponding fingers to press them together gently. “Can I do something?”
“Why do I get the feeling I already know what it is?” Not an outright complaint, of course.
“Because you know my heart too well.”
“Ugh... Give me a refund.”
Too late; Ven has already taken to gingerly kiss Vanitas’ fingertips. He looks between the cracks of Vanitas’ fingers to see his flushed face look away with embarrassment. Vanitas’ actions and expression constantly disagree. The lack of eye contact, the reddened cheeks, yet no tense limbs or a hand yanking itself away for protection. Ven wants to say he can read Vanitas just as well as it works the other way around. Darkness isn’t quite his speciality — Vanitas is, though.
“Finish up,” Vanitas demands with a tone that says otherwise. Ven obeys anyway, right after his lips press to Vanitas’ palm. “Now, give me your hand.”
Ven tilts his head, but again obeys and places his hand to the palm reaching out to him. “What for?”
But before his question comes in full, Vanitas has already grabbed the bottle of white nail polish to begin undoing the top. “I can’t let you go out without some darkness. You’d be hopeless without a little piece of me.”
“I wouldn’t be without you for long.” There comes a painted thumb, index… “You said it yourself — we always get led back to each other.” Now the middle.
“Don’t use my words against me.” Skipping the ring finger, Ven’s pinky nail is painted ivory instead. Vanitas takes Ven’s clean hand, shoving the finished one close to his lips. “Dry.”
Ven snorts, but blows on his nails while Vanitas repeats the same pattern to Ven’s other hand. A much more clumsy painter, but Ven can’t find it in himself to stop him or teach him any better. Soaking in the moment is much more gratifying. He watches Vanitas, as careful as he’s ever seen him work, paint each of his nails with bad technique and plenty of heart. With another set of tiny canvases filled, Vanitas takes both of Ven’s hands to ready them as he opens the jar of ebony, finishing off both ring fingers with a generous coat.
“Looks good,” Ven remarks as he admires Vanitas’ work. “We should do this more often.”
“Tch…whatever. We can, I guess. But only when we need to redo them.”
“In that case…you’re going to chip your paint too, right?”
“…Shut up, Ventus,” Vanitas laughs — and Ven etches that smile to the canvas of his mind.