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“Why did I let him talk me into this?”
Vanitas’s reflection, as always, doesn’t answer. It only returns the scowl on his face, because he already knows why—he said yes because it’s Ventus who asked.
Since Xehanort’s fall, Vanitas has allowed Ventus to talk him into far too many things: into staying, into opening up, into becoming part of the family. That hasn’t changed over the years Vanitas has spent in the Land of Departure, and at this point he thinks it never will.
Still—it’s different this time. The shirt he has in his hands, which Ventus convinced him to try on, feels like a prison more than his dark suit ever has. Ventus has spent years attempting to get him to wear normal clothes, but he just can’t understand what Vanitas is going through. His suit isn’t restrictive—it’s freeing for reasons he’s been too afraid to speak aloud.
Vanitas clicks his tongue and turns around so that he won’t have to see himself in the mirror anymore. Though he accepted that he and Ventus are now separate people years ago, seeing his own face has never stopped stinging—and, beyond that, there’s the other reason why he can hardly bear to see his appearance even on his best days.
Sighing, he holds the shirt out in front of him to inspect it. It’s just one of Ventus’s black T-shirts, plain and simple and the most basic option possible. Or, as Ventus put it, the safest option for someone who doesn’t have much experience with clothes.
The safest. Vanitas scoffs and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need ‘safe’—he’s suffered through so much more trauma than most other people out there and survived it all. Why should he let some stupid piece of clothing be his defeat?
Before he can overthink it any longer, he closes his eyes, wills away the top half of his dark suit, and clumsily pulls the shirt over his head. Then, he whips back around, opens his eyes, and…
It feels like a punch in the gut.
It’s obvious that this piece of clothing was made for a type of body that isn’t his. Since Ventus is more slender than him, it hugs Vanitas’s frame in all the wrong ways, as if its sole purpose is to emphasize the parts that he hates most. He looks and feels like a dumb kid playing dress-up, pretending to be something he’s not—something he hasn’t been in a very long time.
Holding back an angry shout, he yanks the shirt off so forcefully that he hears a few threads tear. As he furls his dark suit back over his shameful body, he throws the awful thing on the floor and then flees, the bathroom door banging open so forcefully that it bounces off the wall.
Vanitas doesn’t pause even when Ventus runs out of their bedroom and calls his name. The thought of anyone—especially Ventus—seeing him and his body makes him want to scream.
He doesn’t stop running until he’s reached the furthest point away from the castle. Unfortunately, in a tiny world like this one, it’s a terrible hiding place and Ventus will find him soon enough, but Vanitas doesn’t have the mental energy to try to find somewhere else to sulk. Everything is too much all at once.
Willing himself to stop shaking before the inevitable confrontation, he sits down on a stone bench and drops his head in his hands. And, just as expected, Ventus shows up within a few minutes. At first he’s silent, doing nothing except sitting down next to Vanitas, and then he finally speaks.
“What’s wrong? Why’d you storm out of there like that?”
Vanitas refuses to look at Ventus. “I hate that stupid shirt. It’s ugly. It’s ugly on me.”
For the first time in a while, Ventus’s laugh grates on Vanitas instead of filling him with warmth. “I’m kind of surprised you care about that,” Ventus says, so blissfully, infuriatingly ignorant of the real issue. “I’m sure it looked great on you, though.” He places his hand on Vanitas’s knee, but it makes Vanitas’s skin crawl rather than feeling reassuring. “But if you really hate that one so much, you can try on some of my other shirts. We’re bound to find something that fits you—”
“None of them are going to fit me,” Vanitas spits out before he can stop himself. “They’re made for bodies like yours. Chests like yours. Not like mine.”
The moment the words are out of his mouth, Vanitas is filled with such intense regret that he feels like vomiting. This particular admission cuts deep in a way his other trauma has never done—as if he’s been stripped naked and presented in front of every world out there, showing his shame to all of existence.
The silence that follows, though less than ten seconds, feels like it lasts for a century. It says everything to Vanitas—that Ventus must be repulsed by him now, just as Vanitas is repulsed by himself. It’s only fitting that their emotions would finally match up in this way.
“Screw this,” Vanitas says, abruptly standing up. “Screw you, Ventus. You’re always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong when you can never deal with the ugly truth.” The choked noise that comes from his throat is part fury and part despair. “Leave me alone.”
But before he can storm away, Ventus lunges for Vanitas’s wrist, nearly yanking him down in the process. “No, that’s not it! Please listen, Vanitas,” he pleads. “I just… I don’t know what to say. I had no idea that…”
Vanitas barks out a laugh that makes Ventus flinch. “Of course you didn’t know,” he snarls. “You got the right body. You’re the normal one.”
Again, Vanitas wants to punch Ventus when he laughs, more dry than humorous, but he doesn’t only because he’s busy trying to break free from his tight grip.
“Me, normal? I’m anything but and so are you—but that’s not because of your body,” Ventus says. “We’re the only two people out there who were torn from the same heart, but you’re not the only one who was born with a body like that.”
“That’s—” Different. Vanitas’s circumstances are different. “You don’t get it, Ventus,” Vanitas says, gritting his teeth. “I’m only like this because you refuse to take me back. It’s all your fault!”
If he weren’t hurting so much, the mean part of Vanitas that still exists would feel smug at the look of devastation on Ventus’s face, but it only infuriates him now.
“I—I’m sorry. But you know why I can’t do that,” Ventus says, his voice hushed. “I don’t want you to suffer, but… I still can’t take you back. I thought we moved past that already.”
Vanitas thought so, too. He stopped trying to convince Ventus to become one with him years ago, but now that Ventus knows his secret, those unwanted feelings are rearing their heads once more. A familiar desperation is clawing up Vanitas’s throat again, bringing with it panic and fear.
“This is who you are,” Ventus adds, soft like he’s handling a bird with a broken wing—and Vanitas can’t take it anymore.
Next thing he knows, he’s staring at his hands as they’re pressed against the ground, his tears mixing with the dirt. This is who you are, a voice in his head repeats. This is how it’s going to be until you die. There’s nothing you can do.
“Oh, Vanitas,” Ventus says, dropping down into a crouch next to him. “I’m so sorry. I wish you’d told me sooner… Maybe I could’ve helped you with it.”
“You don’t understand,” Vanitas says, his voice cracking. “You can’t.”
“I know—but that doesn’t mean you have to go through it alone.”
All Vanitas can do is shake his head. There’s nothing Ventus or anybody can do to fix this—it’s Vanitas’s cross to bear and no one else’s. Despite having his other half right by his side, hand on his back and concern on his face, he feels more lonely than he has in nearly two decades.
Ventus sighs, full of pain and what Vanitas assumes must be frustration. Anyone would be frustrated by the situation: to learn that someone so close to them isn’t actually the person they thought they knew. It’s only a matter of time before Ventus fully processes what this means and leaves Vanitas behind once and for all.
That’s why Vanitas has to rip off the bandage first. It’ll hurt less this way.
Wiping away his tears with the back of his hand, he wordlessly stands up and turns away. There are a cruel few moments in which he sees Ventus’s hand falling limp at his side, a devastated look on his face, but it’s not enough for Vanitas to stay.
“Vanitas,” Ventus pleads at Vanitas’s back as he leaves.
Vanitas remains silent and alone, the way things were always meant to be.
That night, Vanitas sleeps in his own room for the first time in over a year.
Some time ago, he and Ventus discovered that they sleep better when they’re in close proximity, so with Terra’s help, they’d moved a second bed into Ventus’s bedroom, making the room both of theirs rather than just Ventus’s. Vanitas’s old room was left alone to gather dust, empty and abandoned, just as Vanitas feels now.
However, despite their sleeping arrangement, Vanitas has never allowed Ventus to hold him like he knows he wants. The risk of him feeling his body and realizing is too great. Instead, they always wake up with their hands clasped together, Ventus’s eyes fixed on Vanitas as he drinks in the sight of him.
Right now, Vanitas wants that more than anything. He wants to feel the warmth of Ventus’s palm pressed against his own, but the idea of Ventus looking at him with the knowledge of who he really is feels excruciating. There’s no way Ventus could look at him the same way now. Everything changed in a matter of seconds, and that can’t be reversed—just like the split that left Vanitas imprisoned in this incorrect body.
Apart from Ventus, his mind racing, it takes hours for Vanitas to fall asleep. Ventus’s absence aches beside him, but he won’t allow himself to seek him out. Not anymore, and perhaps not ever again.
The next day, Vanitas stays away from Ventus, still too afraid to encounter him. It’s easy to hide in the huge castle, and though he can feel Ventus’s distress deep in his heart as he searches for Vanitas, he doesn’t give in. Things will surely be better this way.
He sleeps in his own room again that night and continues to avoid Ventus the next day—and the next, and the next, and the next. Whenever they accidentally cross paths, Vanitas acts aloof and distant, pretending that his chest doesn’t hurt when he sees the crestfallen look on Ventus’s face.
This is the best thing for both of them in the end. It’ll save more senseless suffering, and that’s all Vanitas can give Ventus after all the things he’s inflicted on him over the years. Isn’t it high time for mercy, even if it feels all wrong?
Over two weeks pass like that. More than once Ventus attempts to corner Vanitas and talk, but Vanitas always lies and tells him that he just wants his own space now. Ventus doesn’t push it, but Vanitas can see the pain in his eyes when he turns away. That almost makes him break every time, but he can’t. He won’t.
And he doesn’t—it’s Ventus who breaks first.
One night, sixteen days after the accidental confession, Ventus barges into Vanitas’s room without knocking, catching Vanitas off guard. “Hey… Can we—” Ventus pauses and seems to rethink his words. “No. We need to talk, Vanitas. I’m not leaving until we do.”
“What’s there to talk about? I told you I want space,” Vanitas says, though of course he’s aware of how stupid he sounds. They both know very well what there is, but still… he’s terrified of the outcome.
What if this is it? What if Ventus is here to tell him that while they weren’t talking, he thought everything over and decided that this is too much for him—that he wants to go back to the way things used to be, before they slept next to each other and held hands and kept their faces only inches apart. Vanitas won’t be surprised if that’s what happens because he’s been the one enforcing this separation, but that doesn’t stop the idea of actually hearing it said out loud from killing him inside.
“I know, and I’ve been giving you space! But it’s just… please, Vanitas,” Ventus says, almost begging. “Please.”
The expression Ventus is wearing is what does Vanitas in. Such a heartbroken, mournful look doesn’t belong on Ventus’s face. Vanitas can’t bear to see it any longer, even if it brings about the end of everything between them.
“I…” Vanitas swallows, clenching his hands into fists. “Fine.”
Ventus takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then slowly lets it out. “Thank you,” he murmurs, approaching the edge of the bed almost timidly and sitting on the edge. There’s silence for a few more seconds, and then: “Did I do something wrong?” Ventus asks. “You got so distant with no warning and I’ve been trying to respect that and everything, but—why? Did I say something that offensive? Or do you just… not want to be us anymore?”
Us. Is there even still an ‘us’ anymore? Vanitas laughs, bitter. “Isn’t that my line?”
“What?” Ventus cocks his head to the side. “Why would it be?”
“Quit playing dumb, Ventus,” Vanitas snaps. “This”—he motions to his body—“changes everything. Don’t pretend it doesn’t.”
“Vanitas… No. It doesn’t change anything for me,” Ventus says. Vanitas can feel the sting of his own accusation, reflected from Ventus, in his chest. “You’re still you. You’re always going to be the other half of my heart. Nothing could ever change that.”
Vanitas finds himself choked-up, but where there should be relief, there’s only grief. Spending the last two weeks alone has trapped him in a hole so deep that even Ventus’s words can’t reach him—they feel as hollow as Vanitas himself is.
He scoffs and turns away, unable to bear seeing Ventus anymore. “Enough with the platitudes, Ventus. That’s never worked on me.”
“Hey,” Ventus whispers. “I’m serious.”
Scooting closer, he slides one of his hands over Vanitas’s, his touch as light as a butterfly landing on him—and Vanitas knows that what Ventus says next is going to rip his heart from his chest.
“You know I love you no matter what, right?”
Vanitas barely manages to hold back a sob, struggling to keep it buried somewhere in his throat. Oh, does he know. It’s impossible to not know, for Ventus gives it away with every single one of his actions—the fond manner with which he talks about Vanitas with his friends; the reluctance with which he lets go of Vanitas’s hand in the mornings; the way he stares at him when he thinks Vanitas is distracted; and so very much more.
Vanitas has known for many months now that Ventus is unfortunately, painfully in love with him, and Vanitas himself…
Well, he’s unsure whether he’s ready for that exact sentiment, but he feels more for Ventus than any words could ever express. So much so that it physically hurts to conceal it—but he’s had to for as long as he’s lived in the Land of Departure. He’s had to shield Ventus from everything that’s wrong with him.
“I know,” Vanitas replies, his voice strained. “But I just… I don’t want you to look at me like this. It hurts.”
“Vanitas,” Ventus says, sounding as shattered as Vanitas feels. “Please let me hug you. If not for you, then… for me.”
Instead of holding out a hand like he’s done countless times, Ventus opens his arms, wide and welcoming and pleading, and Vanitas finally breaks.
It’s been too long since he last accepted Ventus’s touch, weeks seeming more like centuries—two weeks and two centuries of sleepless nights and lonely mornings and purposeless days. Vanitas isn’t made to withstand this type of isolation anymore. Now he’s being offered what he’s wanted for so long, and Ventus accepts him fully despite all of his fears; there’s no more reason for Vanitas to continue to deny one of his deepest desires.
By the time Ventus closes his arms around him, Vanitas is already crying. “Hey. I’ve got you,” Ventus murmurs to him, petting his hair. “I’m here. I’m never letting go.”
Vanitas claws at the back of Ventus’s shirt, looking for a handhold to keep himself from being swept away from the relentless deluge of emotions. Everything is just too much—so many awful feelings have been festering inside of him since Ventus found out about his secret, but Vanitas hadn’t realized just how great of a toll they’ve been taking on him until this very instant.
“Ven,” he sobs, not even sure what he’s trying to say. “I…”
“I know. I know,” Ventus says. “Here. Let’s lay down.”
Ventus doesn’t really know or understand and never will, but in the moment, his acknowledgment is enough for Vanitas. It’s a lifeline that he needs more than anything, and so he doesn’t argue or resist when Ventus pulls him down on the too-small mattress, holding him close to ensure that he won’t fall off and away from his arms. Being held like this feels like deliverance and heartbreak all at once, but Vanitas doesn’t want it to ever change.
“Stay with me,” he whispers. It’s a selfish request because he knows Ventus will always say yes even if it ends up hurting him, but Vanitas is selfish to his core, and so he asks. “Please.”
“Of course,” Ventus says. “Always, Vanitas.”
By the time Vanitas’s eyes are dry what feels like hours later, Ventus has fallen asleep. Vanitas doesn’t mind, though, because a pit inside his chest has finally dissolved, allowing him to breathe for the first time in too long. Though part of him wants to follow Ventus into dreams, he finds himself unable to stop watching him now that he’s so close again.
Vanitas has spent the time he’s lived in the Land of Departure pushing Ventus away, terrified of the feelings they’ve both been holding back. The idea of allowing himself more—a soft confession, a full embrace, even anything deeper than a stolen glance or a fleeting touch—has been too risky to consider, and so Vanitas has never allowed himself to.
But now… Ventus is here and Vanitas is right here beside him. They, as one beating heart, are right here, and it’s almost too large for Vanitas to comprehend.
His heart throbs with every rise and fall of Ventus’s chest as he breathes evenly, more constant than the ocean’s tides or the world’s rotation. Ventus is and has been Vanitas’s constant despite how much he’s tried to ignore it, and Vanitas’s secret didn’t change that.
Somehow, Ventus is still by his side, his grip no less tight than when he was awake, protecting Vanitas even in sleep.
That knowledge lets Vanitas finally fall asleep just as the sky is beginning to lighten, casting the first rays of sunrise over their intertwined bodies, fundamentally different yet entirely the same.