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He’s shaking.
Or maybe it’s Vanitas. Or maybe both of them.
It doesn’t matter because Vanitas said yes, Vanitas let him do it just this one time.
Noé’s teeth are bare inches from Vanitas’ throat, closer and closer, they touch the skin. Just a little more pressure and his fangs sink in deep. Vanitas gasps and moans, and Noé’s insides turn at this. There’s hotness on his tongue, in his mouth, and the scent is everywhere and he’s in the center of it all, he can’t breathe, can’t stand, squeezes the smaller body tighter. There’s buzz in his ears and pounding in his head and the scent is so sweet, so raw and so mesmerizing, enveloping him, and the taste so divine that no words can describe it.
Euphoria. The divine state.
But then, images explode in his head. All at once. In no particular order, without any logic to them. The house on fire, smell of burning wood and flesh and blood. Red eyes glowing in the darkness. Blood, blood, blood. Crimson everywhere. Swords and scythes and clang of metal, blood and severed limbs and heads. Fear and disgust, and hate, so much hate. Catacombs, corridors and more darkness. Trainings, fighting, weapons that do not fit in small hands of a child, too heavy, too deadly. Potions and injections that make the world go sharp and clear. The madman with a twist in his eyes and wide smile on his face. Millions of cuts and slices, wounds opening and closing, closing and opening, again and again, over and over. Gashes being torn open, and bruises and scars. Tubes and needles, and medical clothes that used to be white but now are eternally drenched in blood. Faces and names, too many to count, too few to forget, and screams, eternal howling of damned souls, rivers of blood and oceans of tears. Pain, misery and death. Broken bodies and broken everything, with only one wish left – to die. And then destruction, and an angel, but no, it’s the devil, and she takes them away, promises that from now on everything will be alright, but it isn’t and never will be, because she’s one of them, she’s of the kind that destroyed his life and lives of so many more, but the boy loves her, adores her and he, he just watches with spite and hates, hates, hates. Hates the burn in his right wrist where the mark is engraved, hates how his hand looks like broken glass, because his whole body is broken not only his right hand. (His whole body should look like broken glass.) And somewhere along the lines, he swears he’s going to protect the boy and take them as far away as possible, but he fails and it’s all his fault, the boy is dead and he couldn’t save him, so he’s alone with this cursed book in right hand and the death on his left, and he swears he will take revenge on her, make her life a living hell, he will make it right. And he knows he’s a failure, and he knows that he has to be alone because anyone who gets close to him dies. And it’s always his fault, he’s cursed, and they all died because of him – his family, the boy. The world burns around him, in the scorching heat of hate and misery, desperation and spite and self-loathing. He’s numb and hollow, sick and rotten to the bone…
And there are hands on him, yanking his head backwards, tearing him away, and he lets go, fangs sliding out of the soft flesh. He wants to scream but the sound dies on his lips, so he cries instead because the feeling is unbearable. It burns his insides leaving only ashes. He’s vaguely aware of the other’s body in his embrace. Vanitas is still there, right in his arms, unmoving, slack and ice-cold, and Noé’s heart stops because what if Vanitas is dead, what if Noé took too much… But then Vanitas takes a deep breath, desperately as if he has been underwater a bit too long, and starts shaking too. He sobs, or so Noé supposes for his head is still full of buzzing noise and throbbing pain and it’s still hard to get down on earth again. It’s hard to get things right. Noé opens his mouth, trying to squeeze out some words but Vanitas cuts him off.
‘Don’t…’ he rasps, voice uneven and barely audible. 'Don’t ever talk to me of the things you saw… Don’t ask questions and don’t offer any comfort or else I…’ at that his voice breaks and fades into silence, but Noé knows better than to talk. So he waits, unable to get rid of the pain and tears and images in his head. (They are forever ingrained in his brain now.) Vanitas’ body vibrates against him when he gasps for air. And when he speaks again, finishes his sentence, it’s quiet, scared and sounds more like a plea than a threat.
'Or else I'l kill you.’
And Noé knows, he’s heard it all before.
He holds Vanitas just a tiny bit tighter, just a bit closer, lets their tears run. Hopes it’s enough in the absence of words.