Work Text:
Noé catalogues a few things:
Their room feels warm compared to the brutal coldness of the outside world they just left behind. Vanitas’ grip is deadly tight on his jacket's lapels, with his fingers clenched on it as Noé is his lifetime. Black, wet hair accentuates the as pale as moonlight skin. Noé’s heartbeat is so intense it echoes in his mind.
That is such a sign of vulnerability from him , Noé thinks as he gently places him on the edge of the bed. Was Vanitas ever vulnerable with someone? he then asks himself, but doesn't dare to say a word. Vanitas is grateful, even if had to hold back the urge to grip on his jacket, pull him back, not let him go for a moment. So irrational as he is afraid of what comes next, what he will have to say next. He watches Noe’s back with lips pressed in a line, when he is turned towards the wardrobe, looking for something dry, something warm. This silly excuse to dry them off pushes back their confrontation, at least for a minute. That is for the better, because with this overload of emotions… could he even say a word? It feels like there’s a cage in his throat and nothing, not a word , will escape it— Since then they, ah, they have been dancing on these unpredictable waves between them; everything they have feels more fragile than the most delicate leaves of gold.
He shakes his head softly. Noé is handing him a pile of clothes with a glint of worry in his eyes, he realizes. And when he turns to leave, Vanitas cannot let him.
“ Stay. ” His voice is harsh, barely a whisper yet the weight of it somehow hits Noé.
“I should draw you a bath,” he says softly, “you will get sick.”
“I don't care. ” He furrows his brows. “Stay,” he demands, and this night… Noé doesn't feel like fighting.
He looks away as Vanitas discards his coat and himself sits on the other side, leaving his boots beneath the bed along with wet clothes. And then he stays , he lies in bed facing him. Vanitas is not looking at him, his eyes closed. Noé hangs on the chance and absorbs him, devours even, fulfilling the never ending hunger; he studies him as if he had never seen him before.
Sometimes he thinks that his vision must be lingered to Vanitas — in a way it never truly leaves him. Even if he cannot catch his figure, he recreates it faultlessly on his shutted lids.
What is this if not dangerous?
Vanitas’ breath is steady, slow, he must be falling asleep. Noé reaches out with a knot in his chest. Now and then he finds himself being consumed, eaten alive even by a yearning so intense it aches. As he brushes a strand of his hair, he thinks: this is the boy who bit my soul . This is the boy who will eat his heart. How can his soul not twitch when he lays there with someone who would dedicate himself to him?
Vanitas locks his gaze with a million questions, silently shimmering in the brightest blue Noé had ever seen. And the ache grows and grows, and he cannot stand it anymore and—
“I think,” he starts, haltingly, “I think I love you,” he says, because he is tired. Tired of carrying this always gaping wound, craved in his chest in the shape of a boy lying next to him.
Vanitas tenses, watches him carefully. He doesn't seem surprised by his boldness.
“Very foolish of you, Noé,” he says, no, he declares.
There is no turning back from this.
“If loving you makes me a fool, then sure, I am nothing but that.”
“You don't know what love is,” Vanitas smiles softly, bitterly, “as well as you don't know me.”
Noé tilts his head to the ceiling, laughing in disbelief.
“You cannot be serious,” he looks at him, his gaze heavy. “I do know you. You know that I do, I used to not, but now I do, and it scares you,” he says confidently, almost harshly, his brows furrowed. He sighs and yet again reaches out, knowing that if he wants, he will stop him. He doesn't.
“You are so terrified, Vanitas,” he says weakly, cupping his cheek. A stone blocking words at the back of his throat. “Does it terrify you that much? The idea of being known?”
The idea of being known by me?
Vanitas remains silent. He waits. He waits to hear that Vanitas is not capable of feeling love, and all the other gibberish that he wholeheartedly hates, but then— Then his heart turns furious by the next words.
“You know better than that, Noé,” he whispers, it comes out fragile. He swallows and he is— he is looking directly at him, yet it feels as Noé is seeing right through his words. His stare tries to appear as cruel as ice, but it truly must glint with idiotic tenderness, he cannot hide. Noé curls just a corner of his lips, and devastetes him.
“No.” The weight of a look that those sweet, sweet, amethyst eyes give Vanitas is crushing him. How can one ever recover from being looked at in such a way? “I don't. You must accept it as it is. I don't need you to love me, I don't dare to expect it, but you cannot deny what I feel.”
I don't need you to love me he dares to say, as if Vanitas is stupid and doesn't see pain in the way he smiles. As he could ever not love him.
He needs to tell him something. That Noé is everywhere: in the air he breathes and in every garden he visits. That he chases every unintentionall caress of his hands against his skin. That he didn't know how it feels to value someone so intimately, how to keep someone in his heart before he met him. That he didn't ask for the way he made him feel — as if he is a pathetic little plant, growing because it's seeks every glint of sunlight, the same way he seeks him. That before all of this he was drowning at the darkest bottom of the ocean, but now he's blinded by the sun. That he hopes so desperately, that he won't ever give up on him, even if he doesn't deserve that. That when he sees him laugh, he thinks that maybe it's all worth it, even for a moment. That he became the center of his existence.
How could one even vocalize that? So he does what he is best at: does something he shouldn't.
“Oh, Noé,” he chuckles breathlessly.
And he roses to meet him, and kisses him , and Noé, the fool he is, lets him. He is nothing under the hands of being so celestial, so he melts under heavenly touch and lips as soft as silk that are better than anything he had ever tasted. And if such tenderness, that Noé pours into the kiss would be the last thing he was left to know in his lifetime, he wouldn't mind.
“It's very foolish of me,” he breathes, “but I love you too.”