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Ven sleeps with his bedroom door open. He didn’t before. He used to feel safe with his privacy, alone in his room along the grand halls of the Land of Departure. But not even the end of the War could put an end to all of Ven’s anxieties. It’s only now, after spending over ten years locked away in here, that he has a problem. The idea of laying in bed in the dark with a barrier—something as simple and flimsy as a door in a castle of Keyblade wielders, of all things—is enough to worry him to sleeplessness.
Sleep itself is not what worries him. Ven has always been great at sleeping, for better or worse. Waking up is the problem.
The sound of Aqua’s soft footfalls as she wanders the halls in the middle of the night is a reminder that he’s not alone. He can be reached here. There’s no spell or barrier holding him captive. The castle is not still.
There’s always a little voice in the back of his mind warning him: this time, when he closes his eyes, it’ll be the last. They’ll never open again. When the door is shut, he’s locked inside. Lost to Aqua and Terra and anyone else who could help him. So he leaves it open like an invitation. It’s kind of silly, but Ven can’t sleep any other way.
It’s not so bad. This is his room, after all. He doesn’t have to worry about the shadows of the unknown curling into horrible shapes in the far corners, or beneath his bed. He knows every edge and space in this room. The door is exactly eight paces from his bed. The closet is ten paces. He knows where the telescope ends and the desk begins. He could easily navigate this space with his eyes closed. He can see every detail in his mind’s eye as he lays in bed: the intricate patterns on the ceiling, the pictures on the far wall, the door heavy and slightly ajar. The darkness of the hallway lurks just outside the doorframe. Everything on the inside is Ven’s domain. There’s nothing to fear.
Until he hears footsteps he doesn’t recognize. Too uneven to be Aqua’s. Too light to be Terra’s. Trudging, and rolling—but soft. Two sounds. Kuh-clunk. Kuh-clunk. Heel-toe…. Heel-toe… Closer. Louder. Eight paces.
Exactly eight paces.
He must be imagining things. The castle is old. It creaks and settles in the cold night. Ven stays still beneath his covers and waits for sleep to steal him away. There’s nothing but silence. It’s all in his head. If he opened his eyes, the space beside his bed would still be empty, and he would feel stupid for even thinking there was something there.
And even if there was, Ven’s mind’s eye can only create a shadowy figure in a vague human shape. Something that peels the blackness from the air and wraps it around itself like armor. Dark armor…
“Look at you.”
Shifting sheets sound like a derisive voice. It’s soft and right next to him. It could almost be real. It’s familiar enough. The dark figure in his mind’s eye crouches down with a creak of leather. Vanitas’s harsh whisper manifests from his memories:
“You left the door open for me and everything Venty-Wenty~”
Goosebumps flare across Ven’s skin. Just the thought of it is enough to make him shiver. He pulls the covers closer and sighs. If only he could fall asleep already.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
Because you’re not real.
“You never look at me.”
Ven wishes this was the first time he’s imagined his Other Half taunting him from the darkness. After that last confrontation, watching Vanitas give up and dissolve back into nothing, Vanitas has wormed his way into his thoughts more often than Ven would care to admit. Among everything else, Vanitas is still an open wound that Ven never got a chance to heal.
“I know you’re not asleep.”
It’s all in his head. Ven keeps his eyes closed.
“Poor Venty-Wenty… what will the others think when they find out what you really are? Shouldn’t they know already? After all, they saw all of your ugliness manifested into me.”
The voice lays thick in his ear, scratchy like a whisper. Ven can almost feel the breath sliding through his hair. Against his skin. He can hear every crackle in the movement of Vanitas’s mouth, the pop of his lips, the scrape of his teeth, as if it were real. As if he was right there. Ven can sense it looming over him. He’s right there. He could just reach out into the darkness beside his bed and find Vanitas lurking there. Dig his fingers into dark leathery armor and cold, clammy flesh, and black hair matted with blood.
Blood. Dried and crumbly but lining the air with the smell of rust. Ven takes another slow breath and begs once again for sleep to find him, but he only fills his nostrils with fabric softener and shampoo and sweat and dirt and blood—
“I still hear their screams sometimes. The others. From the war. Do you remember?”
He’s clawing at something he shouldn’t. Ven feels a headache split through his temples. It’s nothing but a bad dream.
“Hmph. Of course you don’t. You gave me everything you didn’t want. You don’t care. You never cared.”
That’s not true. Ven cares. He would’ve saved Vanitas if he could.
Right? Didn’t he try his hardest? Didn’t he? When Vanitas’s mask finally shattered and Ven could see that complicated expression of his, didn’t he try to convince Vanitas that there was another way?
He can hear his own voice saying, ‘Whatever.’
“This face… isn’t mine. These memories… they aren’t mine, either. Nothing is mine. Take it back. I don’t want it. I don’t want it I don’t want it I don’t want it take it back take it back—”
No. He left it all unfinished.
“I’ll stay hidden in your shadow forever. I won’t let you forget me.”
The rustle of sheets, but Ven doesn’t move. He can’t move. If he moves, or flinches, or acknowledges Vanitas at all, he’ll lose; and sleep will abandon him. He’ll have to start all over again. If he opens his eyes, it’s over. Vanitas will leave. He always leaves. He’s not real—not anymore. Nothing but a figment or fragment of everything Ven wants to forget.
“I won’t let you forget. I won’t let you forget ever again.”
The mattress dips like pressure. Like someone or something is pushing down at Ven’s side. He still doesn’t move. Something cold brushes the hair from his closed eyes. Too scaly to be skin. Surely.
“Open your eyes. Open them and look at me. Tell me what I look like to you.”
Breath lashes at his face. He doesn’t move.
“Open them!”
He won’t. No matter how harsh Vanitas’s voice gets. No matter the hot breath along his eyelashes. No matter the pressure on either side and along his chest, pinning him down so he can’t even squirm.
Ven sees Vanitas’s wicked smile in his mind’s eye. He feels those rough, gloved hands pushing down on his chest.
“Nobody knows you better than your demons, right?”
He can’t move at all. Vanitas huffs from directly above.
“You haven’t changed at all.”
Ven already knows that. His jaw clenches so tight it starts to ache.
“You’re still just laying there with your eyes shut to the world.”
It’s not real. You’re not real. Just go away.
“Poor little Venty-Wenty… Always being taken care of. When will you grow up?”
No!
“You don’t know pain. You don’t remember pain.”
He won’t fall for it. He won’t open his eyes. He won’t move from this spot. Any second now he’ll fall asleep and this waking nightmare will be over.
“Why won’t you just look at me?”
Ven says nothing.
“Why do you keep ignoring me?”
He can’t move.
“Am I even here… if you won’t look at me?”
The pressure on his chest grows as Vanitas leans even closer. His scratchy whisper forms just beside Ven’s ear:
“Look at me.”
A breath.
“… Please…”
The weight shifts.
“Answer me.”
He can’t.
“You won’t look at me, but you won’t shut me out, either. You keep leaving the door open, inviting me in. Why? To ridicule me?”
That’s not it. That’s not why. Ven grinds his teeth. Vanitas sounds so exhausted. He leans back, sitting on Ven’s chest like a demon, hands holding his shoulders in place against the mattress.
“Are my hands cold? I wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t either. You won’t grasp my hand.”
They’re ice cold. Or maybe that’s just the gloves. His armor of darkness that coats every inch of his skin. Does Vanitas even have flesh beneath the leather vessel?
“You won’t help me.”
He wants to. He wants to make it right. He’d give anything to fix this and stop the nightmares from coming—
“Ventus.”
His ear again. It’s getting hard to breathe. His skin is crawling.
“The Unversed… were what I feel. They were a part of me. Pieces of me constantly breaking off…”
Horrible things that Vanitas didn’t want to acknowledge. Things he cast away to forget about.
“I can feel them crawling beneath my skin like bugs, but I can’t break them off anymore. They can’t break off from a body that’s already perished.”
Ven can’t break Vanitas off anymore, either. He can’t fix him. Can’t save him.
“Why don’t you speak? Tell me to leave? Do you not want me to? Or are you too afraid to open your mouth? Afraid I’ll slip inside and worm my way back into your heart the moment you do?”
You’re not real, Ven pleads with tears in his eyes.
“Say something.”
He can’t.
“Look at me.”
He won’t. He shouldn’t.
Vanitas’s forehead presses against his. Hot breath pushes against Ven’s sealed lips. Cold hands curl desperately over his shoulders.
“Please… open your eyes.”
Tears drip down his face. Ven’s eyes snap open wide as he throws his arms through the air with a deep and terrible gasp. But he catches nothing but air. The room is dark and empty. There’s only the sound of his own panicked breathing. Ven curls in over himself, holding the empty space against his chest and sobbing into his knees.
There’s nothing there.
He stays as quiet as he can, so he doesn’t wake the others. The open door offers him no privacy.