Chapter Text
Unfortunately, once they arrived, it seemed the target was already engaged.
Noé soared over the rooftops, Vanitas in his hold, approaching the area they’d been tipped off about a cursebearer being in.
Noé squinted as the night air rushed past his face, cool and biting.
“That might be him.” He pointed with his free arm. “But there’s two others with him. At least two.”
Vanitas hissed through his teeth. “Chasseurs.” He muttered darkly. “Hurry.”
—-
The two of them leapt down, Noé with little more noise than the tapping of his boots on the flagstones, and Vanitas with a chime of silver chainlinks.
The two chasseurs looked up, in the middle of cornering a bloodied looking man up against a wall, brandishing spears at him.
The spears were wet with blood, and held with conviction, but the two young men struck Noé immediately as being very young. They started at the sight of the two’s arrival, and stepped back.
For a moment, there was silence, broken by the ragged breathing and snarling of the cursebearer, still leant against the wall, bleeding upon it.
Noé’s eyes flicked to the man. He looked perhaps in his thirties or forties, clothes worn, dirtied and torn. There was no recognition in his red eyes. Noé’s heart clenched.
“Well then gentlemen.” Vanitas said breezily. “I do believe this is my jurisdiction, if you don’t mind letting me handle this.”
The smaller of the two chasseurs frowns, evidently in confusion, while the taller grits his teeth.
“There’s an arrest warrant out for you, kin of the blue moon.”
The shorter boy startles, looking afraid, hands curling tighter round his spear.
“My my, I’m a moderate holding this delicate balance together, you don’t want to go breaking the peace do you?” Vanitas says, cool and detached.
The chasseur only responds by brandishing a spear at Vanitas.
Noé stands resolute. “If you want Vanitas, you’ll have to get through me first.”
The taller chasseurs responds by repositioning the spear to point at Noé. Good.
“His vampire bodyguard.” He says lowly, clearly stated aloud for the shorter (younger?) boy’s benefit.
Noé isn’t certain whether ‘bodyguard’ or ‘shield’ is more dignifying. While it could be argued that ‘shield’ has a poetic ring to it, it certainly didn’t feel so at the time it was proposed, instead feeling rather degrading, along with the lack of mentioned pay.
He sighs. Bodyguard may be a slight improvement on shield.
Vanitas takes several steps back, allowing Noé to do the short range offence he excels at. The spears may well cause some difficulty, but the two look inexperienced and young, their holds on the weapons poorly placed. Noé half suspects a single well aimed kick would be all it takes to dislodge said weapons from either of their hands.
The more dangerous threat, injured as he was, was the snarling cursebearer who seemed to be regaining his senses.
Noé notices, a split second before he lunges, the tells that such a thing is about to occur. A pause in breath, a tensing of the frame. Despite his wounds the man moves as fast as a bullet, and if not for Noé, the distracted chasseur may well have had teeth tear his neck.
Noé grunts as he tackles the man, restrains him, pulls his arms back into a vice grip with a single arm, holding his body close to Noé’s as the cursebearer struggles and jerks, howling inhumanly.
It must hurt, Noé thinks, having his injuries aggravated as Noé wrestled him into place. He apologies to the man internally, and resolves to do so again, properly, after this incident is over.
Noé hears a yelp from in front of him, the smaller chasseur closer to Noé now but suddenly staggering backwards, clutching at a gash across his face. Noé hears the whistle of wire recoiling.
“If you even consider hurting my companion, you’ll be in for a world of pain.” A serene voice says from behind him.
The two chasseurs step back, disturbed, the taller one shielding the shorter one.
“Why are you on their side?” The elder barks out, voice shaking minutely. Noé suspects he’s buying time.
“What a simple understanding of this situation.” Vanitas tuts condescendingly. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m merely a doctor.”
“A doct-? Look out-” the elder hisses, and Noé hears a swish of chain, and what is undoubtedly the Book of Vanitas being opened and flexed. Very Vanitas-like.
“A doctor, healing patients.” Vanitas continues. “Determining their maladies, and curing them.”
The malnomen- that’s right, Vanitas wants him to help figure it out.
Noé keeps the cursebearer steady as it struggles, and looks for any clues. There’s the torn clothing- which has odd smaller tears in it, rather equidistant from one another or at least appearing so, and-
Noé winces as with one large jolt, he feels several things tearing into him at once, looking down to see rows and rows of barbs suddenly materialised, a good portion of which are now embedded in his skin. Ouch.
“Thorns!” He gasps out.
“There we are. Now watch, and be amazed.” Vanitas announces.
Noé braces as the world lights up blue. Much like Mlle Amelia’s briars, it seems to disintegrate under the influence of the book, and Noé is relieved the hooked thorns didn’t have a chance to pull and tear his skin much. He exhales shakily.
The man in his hold stirs, evidently confused and frightened by the small noise he makes.
“Shh.” Noé whispers, gently and very quietly. “I’m afraid we’re in a difficult situation here, but it should be resolved soon. Please trust us, and stay still and quiet.”
“Tada! Impressive isn’t it. I cured him.” Vanitas declares with a confident flourish.
“He’s… is he human now?” Noé hears the younger boy whisper in disbelief.
Vanitas barks out a laugh. “Heavens no, the chasseurs really don’t let you know anything do they? I cure the madness and uncontrollable bloodlust in vampires. A rather more peaceful way of going about solving this problem than yours I believe.”
“Nonsense.” The older boy spits. “This is a trick, he’s lying.” He goes to shield the other with an arm.
“Mm, I believe you’ll find I’m right, sooner or later.” Vanitas says with a twinkling smile.
“Either way,” he continues “there are no more dangerous vampires here, so I believe your job has been done for you has it not? You can both go on your merry way home and fill out some reports now.”
“You think… we’d just leave, like that?” The older chasseurs spits with apparent disdain. Noé gets the sense that it’s a slightly performed and empty tone. That he’s afraid, and does in fact want to go home.
“That would be the smart decision, yes.” Vanitas says dryly.
What happens next is very quick, and once again Noé intuits it mere fractions of a second before it occurs. Even these young chasseurs have had the tonic injected it seems. It is the slightest tug of fabric before a rapid movement is made.
Thinking it the spear about to brandished against him once more, Noé protects the ex-cursebearer by tucking his head into his chest and comes to face the danger.
Instead, a similar capsule faces him in the night.
Vanitas shouts his name, shouts to close his-
He even doesn’t have enough time to blink.
With a click, the world goes white.
—-
Noé collapses, protectively covering his body over the ex-cursebearer even as the world falls apart around him agonisingly. It may well be in vain. He cannot see, cannot hear, cannot move.
—-
Noises warp and in the black of the night a million vivid colours distort his vision, swimming, screaming, shattering.
—-
“-oé!”
They’re still in danger, he knows that, but the world is splintering into fractions, and those into broken pieces further, and Noé is helpless against it.
“Noé!”
Vanitas- is he hurt?
Noé gasps, afraid. He can’t move, can’t see, can hardly hear, and Vanitas has been-
“Noé.” A hand firmly holds his.
“Vanitas! Are you alright?” He only just manages out, eyes screwed up, but the taunting colours of the world formula dancing beneath his eyelids painfully.
“I’m alright, but-“
“Are they gone?” Noé gasps.
“They’re gone.” Vanitas confirms.
“They’ul- they’ll have reinforcements-“ Noé swallows down his nausea.
“Not so quickly. Their headquarters are a long way from here. Catch your breath.” Vanitas states firmly.
Noé tries to breathe, in and out through his nose as bile and stomach acid threatens his throat horridly. He’s so dizzy, he can hardly tell which way is up, which way is down, and even Vanitas’ voice gives him little indication of where Vanitas is.
But a hand holds his, a thumb pad rubbing over the back of his fingers, gentle-firm.
“You’re alright.” Vanitas murmurs. “Of course they had to play dirty with the aegis again. Cowards.”
“I should be alright soon.” Noé mutters, shaking his head and trying to dispel the feeling, blink some vision into his eyes. The darkness of the night wasn’t helping. It burns. “I recovered- quickly- last time.”
“I know. But we’re not in immediate danger now, so slow down.” Vanitas chides.
“They’ll be back. Need to-“
“Noé.”
“Need-“
His body betrays him.
Wet hot vomit streaks the paving stones. The street screams.
Noé’s head spins as Vanitas takes a firm hold of him.
“It’s okay. You’re alright. Slow down and breathe.” Vanitas instructs, voice garbled as the world warps around Noé.
He chokes, more comes up. It burns. He’s burning alive.
Vanitas’ touch is cool, up against his forehead, holding his bangs back.
“I have you.” Vanitas states simply. An anchor. “Go limp if you can.”
He splutters again, hot wet spit thick with the remainder of stomach acid left.
The muscles of his abdomen ache. He pants, wetness scalding beneath his closed eyes.
He tries to focus on breathing, ignoring the distorted world clawing at him.
Vanitas seems pleased with that, his voice at least, though Noé can’t tell what he’s saying, tone soft and quiet. He thinks he hears ‘you’re okay’ once more.
“The cursebearer-“ Noé gasps, voice tattered, throat burning.
“Is here.”
“Injured-“
“I know. Not life-threateningly though. Those injuries will be dealt with once we get back.”
Noé lurches, trying to stand, but is too weak to even escape Vanitas’ loose grip.
“Stop it.” The human says sharply, tugging him back. “You need to calm down.”
“I am-“
“We can’t go back until your condition improves some more. Stop moving.”
Noé whines, frustrated, overwhelmed and in pain. He should be better by now. He was on his feet by now before at least.
Either way, he does as Vanitas says, sags and pants roughly. His mouth tastes disgusting, burns with the aftertaste of acid. He still can’t open his eyes. A hand strokes over his head and says something softly. For the life of him Noé can’t figure out what it is.
There’s talking behind him, in lowered tones. Vanitas and presumably the ex-cursebearer. Their voices are garbled and warped- Noé doesn’t remember his hearing being this impacted last time, and it’s really quite frustrating. Even limp and in Vanitas’ arms he feels so dizzy and disoriented, the only real point of reference is Vanitas.
His hand resumes brushing over Noé’s hair, and he says something quietly again that Noé can’t hear. Noé thinks he’s supposed to.
“I’m sorry.” Noé rasps, ashamed. “I can’t- can’t hear. When you’re talking quietly.”
“You can’t?” Vanitas responds, alarmed.
The hand curves down to Noé’s jaw, a thumb under his ear, and he feels his head be tilted, one way, and then another. Presumably Vanitas is looking into his ears, heaven knows what for.
“Noé, can you try looking at me?” Vanitas asks, voice dictated clearly.
Noé tries to find the right direction, and then opens his eyes.
It hurt with his eyes closed, but he forgot how much it hurt with his eyes open. The world formula screams white at him, claws and scratches and threatens to devour him whole.
Noé gasps harshly at the pain, and immediately screws his eyes shut once more.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, you don’t have to do that again.” Vanitas hurries to say.
Noé continues gasping, trying to swallow down his resurging nausea and dizziness.
A hand retakes his, a thumb rubbing over his clenched knuckles.
It hurts, really does, considerably more than last time.
That doesn’t bode well.
“Don’t we… need to go?” A nervous voice says somewhere.
Vanitas lets out an irritated noise. “Obviously not right this second.”
“Sorry-“ Noé starts. “I’m trying-“
“I know.” Vanitas says firmly. “Save your breath and energy.”
The hand, paused briefly in irritation, continue stroking through Noé’s hair, claw tips gently scratching at Noé’s scalp. It feels grounding, somehow, not adding to or competing with the screaming world formula but somehow dampening it.
Noé screws his eyes shut and focuses on breathing, focuses on Vanitas.
The man must have said another thing that irritated him, because Vanitas stops abruptly again.
“If not for Noé you’d be ashes right now, so either wait, or get lost.”
Noé just manages to catch a rather mumbled ‘sorry’.
It’s natural to be afraid in a situation like this, Noé thinks, especially after the poor man had already been badly injured by the chasseurs, he’s not surprised the poor thing wants to avoid an encounter with their reinforcements. Noé wishes Vanitas didn’t chastise the man quite so much, but didn’t have the strength to voice that.
His ears are rushing with blood but his hearing is getting better bit by bit Noé thinks. Vanitas continues his gentle ministrations.
Vanitas says something. Something Noé doesn’t catch. Maybe his hearing isn’t better after all. It seems to ebb and flow inconsistently.
“Noé? Did you catch that?”
Noé murmurs a no.
“I was asking how you’re feeling.”
“Better.” He lies.
Noé doesn’t want to hold the others up any longer, doesn’t want the ex cursebearer to leave without them, all covered in injuries, dripping with blood and wanted by chasseurs. He doesn’t want Vanitas to have to face the chasseurs after staying by Noé’s side for too long, and getting captured because apparently he’s a wanted man which shouldn’t be too surprising all things considered but-
“I want to get up, can you help me?” Noé mumbles.
Vanitas hums, uncertain. “Are you sure?”
“Please.” Noé adds quietly.
“Fine.” Vanitas acquiesces. “You, help me with him. It’s the least you could do.”
Noé winced as an unfamiliar hand takes hold of his arm, Vanitas round the other. That hand lets go of him quickly enough though, and Noé finds himself putting a lot of his weight onto Vanitas. In the past he’d managed to be up and fighting again by now, what was wrong with him?
“Take it easy.” Vanitas instructs clearly. “Don’t open your eyes unless you feel you can, I don’t want you throwing up again. I’ll be your sight for now.”
With that, they start to move, and truly there were few times Noé had ever felt this awful before, if ever. The world was spinning and breaking, beyond effecting just the major senses- Noé knew if he opened his eyes he’d end up on the floor again, he could barely hear alongside the crackling static of splintered time-space, couldn’t smell the cursebearer despite him being injured and bloodied. Was so dizzy he couldn’t tell up from down, left from right.
The one saving grace was Vanitas’ body pressed against his as he stumbled, moving alongside him, supporting him, stabilising him. Vanitas was a lighthouse, and without him Noé would surely be shipwrecked.
It does seem to get better, Noé thinks, wishfully, as he keeps walking forwards. Sort of. Slightly. Perhaps just in small increments.
Even so, Noé dares not open his eyes.
He thinks of Orpheus. Perhaps he is a rather dishevelled Orpheus, being dragged out of hell by a tenacious Eurydice.
Vanitas clearly states each new landmark aloud as they approach them. Apparently the Suntower has since come into view, as has the Notre Dame on the skyline, though Vanitas assures him they’re keeping wide berth.
“Not long now Noé.” Vanitas relays at last, voice clear.
“Mmh.” Is all Noé can say in response.
With all the walking alongside his nausea, he suspects that if he even opens his mouth another wave of sick will exit it. Then they’d have to stop once more.
The end is in sight, he reminds himself. Well, not literally, but Noé trusts Vanitas’ judgement. He just has to endure a little more, and Noé is nothing if not enduring.
“We’ve reached the Passage. Some steps coming, Noé.” Vanitas narrates.
Steps. Noé now dreads the staircase in the hotel, and even the thought nearly brings him to his knees. Vanitas wouldn’t be so cruel to make him climb them yet. Hopefully he’ll let him sleep the night in the reception or something. Noé genuinely can’t handle the thought of a staircase right now.
Noé can hardly figure out his position relative to the rest of the world, and if not for already knowing these steps from being well acquainted with them, he wouldn’t be able to tell how tall or wide they were- though he knew them from experience to be low and fairly broad.
And the amount of footsteps from there to the hotel, he remembers, even as disorientation makes judgement of distance impossible.
He counts- step by step, until Vanitas stops him.
“Hold open the door.” The human gruffly instructs the cured cursebearer.
Noé hears a familiar ring. Even the garbled sound makes his soul melt with familiarity and relief.
Noé is hoisted through and guided to a familiar armchair in reception. It’s green, Noé knows, without opening his eyes, and plush and comfortable. Vanitas takes great care in lowering him.
“Are you going to be alright there?” Vanitas asks, sounding uncertain of himself.
Noé focuses on breathing, new relief swilling with the nausea in his stomach. He doesn’t want to move from here for a million years. He nods, minutely, so he doesn’t make his dizziness worse.
“Is everything okay?” A voice asks. A man. Another receptionist. Not Amelia.
“We encountered a little trouble tonight unfortunately.” Vanitas relays. “May I use the reception’s first aid kit?”
Noé is glad it’s not Amelia. Doesn’t want her to see him like this, to ask questions he physically can’t answer.
There is a warped rustle, and Noé tries not to listen, not to hear.
“Thank you.” Vanitas says at last, voice intoned politely. Unusual.
Metal clasps open, and Vanitas says something to the ex-cursebearer, a question maybe, and he something back, but Noé can’t tell at all what it was.
A hiss of pain from the ex-cursebearer.
Noé hopes Vanitas isn’t being rough with him. He seems to have gained somewhat of a grudge against the poor man.
That continues for a while.
At last, it seems to be over, and Noé captures snippets of the conversation.
“Don’t walk- -with those injuries- -the office is in Galerie Valentine- -take this-“
Noé is rewarded with a headache when trying to listen, so he stops.
The bell chimes once more.
“Noé?” Vanitas asks, gently but not quietly.
“Mmh?”
“You’re not feeling any better, are you?” There’s a hint of worry in Vanitas’ voice.
Noé does not answer.
“His malnomen is the kind that covers himself in thorns. There’s some blood on your coatsleeve, can I check for wounds?”
Noé manages a minuscule nod.
His coat is undone, and then Vanitas undoes the buttons on his shirt sleeves, and pulls them up his arm. The fabric rubs on his skin, hurting. The thorn wounds must still be open then. He whines.
“That’s… not normal for you.” Vanitas remarks. “You usually heal these kinds of shallow wounds within well under an hour. I don’t… Noé, do you think you’ve been poisoned?”
Noé knew, from a fair deal of experience now, the generic vampire venom symptoms. Muscle weakness, nausea, fever, sweating, mouth swelling, vomiting, disorientation, confusion, so on. A fair few of these had overlap with how he was feeling now, and while Noé hadn’t felt these things before with the aegis, he wasn’t sure it was due to the thorns.
“Don’t know. Don’t think so.”
Vanitas hums thoughtfully, and a hand comes to touch Noé’s forehead. “You’re not feverish. That’s good at least. There isn’t any records of Spinula being venomous I believe, though other similar malnomina can be.”
“So just the aegis…” Vanitas continues to muse aloud. “They’ve clearly improved on their previous design by quite a bit.”
Noé jolts when he hears Vanitas’ voice from a different place. At first he thinks it’s his disorientation, before realising Vanitas seems to have crouched down to talk to him.
“I’m sorry it’s causing you quite so much grief. Last time you recovered far quicker than this. Can you still not speak well?”
“Can’t.” Noé manages.
“Because of the nausea?”
“Yes.”
Vanitas hums once more. “Let me clean these wounds first. If you’re up to it we can attempt the stairs later, but right now is clearly not a sensible time.”
Noé nods, and feels something damp rub over him. His arm feels sensitive and raw, so he pulls back slightly, wincing.
“I know.” Vanitas placates. “I know. I’m just going to put some salve on these alright? It should stop them getting infected while they can’t heal quickly. It should help with the pain too.”
After what was presumably a general disinfectant, Noé feels the salve being daubed carefully onto his skin by rounded fingertips- so his gloves had come off then, it seems. The salve is lovely and cool to the touch, and immediately Noé feels relief, sagging in his seat.
“You like that huh?” Vanitas says with a bemused huff. “Your smaller injuries tend to heal so quickly that I don’t need to use this on you, but it does wonders for smaller cuts.”
He carefully wraps the arm in gauze, then repeats the whole process on Noé’s second forearm.
“Can I check your chest?” Vanitas asks. “I think that was the other area that had contact when you were restraining him.”
Noé nods.
“You did a good job with that.” Vanitas remarks, absentmindedly, while undoing his waistcoat. He sounds sad.
His hands go to the fabric of Noé’s shirt, undoing those buttons too.
“Ah, no wounds here, that’s good.”
The buttons are done up again.
“I think the thickness of your waistcoat stopped the thorns through there.” Vanitas explains. The first aid kit snaps shut once more. “Though your arms were less lucky. Still, there were no visual indicators of venom there either, the skin wasn’t raised or discoloured unusually.”
As much as he likes being kept informed, the more Vanitas speaks, the worse Noé’s head feels. It’s spinning and hurting quite badly. Still, Noé can’t be rude and tell Vanitas to be quiet for no reason. So he says nothing at all.
Vanitas hums. Assessing him, Noé suspects.
“Do you think you can go upstairs?” Vanitas ventures. “We can take it slowly.”
Perhaps against his best interest, Noé nods. He wants this to be over with, to curl up on a soft mattress under his bedsheets, and wake up fine the next morning.
And so they take on the stairs.
Vanitas is patient, pauses and supports and guides.
Noé cannot figure out left from right, up from down, front from back. The dizziness surges, the nausea blooms. Halfway up the stairs, his mission abruptly changes from getting to the bedroom to getting to the bathroom.
Reaching the landing, Vanitas hastily unlocked the door, and with an audible lurch of his stomach, and a hand clutched over his mouth, Noé is rushed to the bathroom.
He makes it, somehow, impossibly.
Retches and a fresh wave of bile and sick escapes him, burns his mouth, his throat, his nose.
He keeps his eyes screwed shut.
Again, his stomach clenches again. It’s a watery acid. There’s little else left to come up.
There are hands on him, all the while.
“Doing so well.” Vanitas calmly states. Reassures. “You made it. It’s going to be okay now.”
Noé chokes, gasping for breath. The last gasp turns into a sob, and there is a feeling of warmth tracking down his face from under closed eyelids.
“Oh Noé…” Vanitas says softly. “I’m sorry chou, I’m sorry.”
He goes limp, forehead pressed against the toilet seat, raggedly breathing, tears forcing their way out of his closed eyes, burning. He’s so tired, and really very over this.
A hand gingerly lifts his face up, soft fabric wiping away under his eyes, and then around his mouth.
“You’re doing so well.” Vanitas repeats again, lowering the handkerchief, and Noé is frustrated because he clearly isn’t, clearly is doing much worse than last time. He can’t open his eyes, can’t even speak.
He sobs again.
“Noé, Noé…” Vanitas whispers gently, coaxing the vampire into his hold. He’s limp and boneless, it isn’t difficult. “It’s going to be alright, I promise, I’m sorry you’re feeling so rough at the moment.”
Childishly, Noé wants to be alright right now, not at some nebulous point in the future.
He sniffles, and Vanitas holds him tighter.
There is little relief besides physical touch. His eyes, if he dared open them, would send him back to vomiting on the floor. Even closed as they were the lights beneath his eyelids danced, taunted, mocked.
Even Vanitas’ voice, which was normally a comfort and an indulgence for Noé, now tortured Noé too, hurting his head whenever he spoke. It wasn’t fair.
A hand stroked over his palm, slow, deliberate and present.
Touch was the one reprieve, untainted by this awful pain.
Now that his momentum had been abruptly put to an end, Noé feels utterly exhausted- depleted entirely of any energy. He has no idea how he made it back to the hotel in this state, adrenaline most likely. And his years of building endurance. But now, he can barely move, limp in Vanitas’ embrace.
“I’m not-“ he croaks.
Vanitas shifts, listening.
It hurts to speak, more so now with his mouth scalded by stomach acid.
“I’m not crushing you- am I?” Noé succeeds in saying, throat raw, stomach aching.
“Not at all.” Vanitas responds with a soft hum. “I’m not uncomfortable, don’t worry.”
With that reassurance, Noé allows himself to slump some more, relaxing the muscles he’d tensed to try and keep some of his weight off Vanitas.
He tries to be mindful of it all of the time- Vanitas is a human, a remarkably resilient and strong one, but a human nonetheless. A small one, one who is rather scrawny and underweight. He doesn’t want to hurt him, not ever.
A hand scratches over his scalp, palm cupping his head. Noé leans into the sensation, a sacred relief.
“You had better not be overthinking again.” Vanitas chides gently.
“Can… barely think at all.” Noé mumbles. “It’s so much.”
Vanitas pauses, before returning to his ministrations.
“I’m sorry it’s so bad this time.” He whispers at last, voice that unusual earnest kind.
Noé opens his mouth to speak and is promptly shushed. “You said earlier that speaking makes you more nauseous. I’d suggest against it then.” Vanitas says simply. “Unless you need something, please refrain from doing so.”
A beat passes.
Noé hears a small huff of bemusement, an idea. “Do you know Morse, Noé?”
Morse code?
He nods lightly in place of speaking, to avoid being chastised.
“Very well. Use that instead if you must, I know how talkative you are.”
Noé taps immediately, a finger against Vanitas’ hand. Long long, short, short long short, long short long short, short short.
Vanitas sighs. “You sap. Don’t waste your energy on thanking me.”
J/E/D/O/I/S Noé taps, indignantly.
“No, you don’t.” Vanitas sighs despairingly. “You can save all that for later when you’re not half dead.”
N/E/P/A/S/M/O/R/T Noé taps in defence.
“Yes, I know that.” Vanitas huffs. “Have you never heard of hyperbole? Anyway, it’s hardly much of an exaggeration.”
I/M/P/O/L/I he responds.
“You aristos are an easily offended bunch aren’t you.” Vanitas mutters. “I’m sorry. But you really don’t look too great right now. You need to focus on resting.”
M/É/C/H/A/N/T Noé taps.
“Terribly so I’m afraid.” Vanitas says, the sound of a smile on his lips.
Noé sighs an indignant sigh out of his nose, slumping. He’s too tired from the mental load of today’s events to think of what else to say, and how to spell it out.
A hand cradles his head. Another rubs up and down his back. The quiet is nice.
“Those were lowest rank chasseurs.” Vanitas explains quietly at last. Absentmindedly, as if to fill the silence. “You can tell by their uniforms. Even I progressed beyond that rank, and I wasn’t yet thirteen.”
N/E/U/F/? Noé taps.
“I suspect they must have just joined the chasseurs recently, if that’s what you mean, yes. You must have noticed their sloppy stances too. It’s like putting a knife into the hands of a baby.” Vanitas mutters bitterly. “I don’t know why they’re putting such young and inexperienced new recruits on the night-watches at the moment, though it seems they must be short on numbers for whatever reason, which is concerning.”
They weren’t that young, Noé thinks. If he had to guess, somewhere between fifteen and seventeen. Older than Astolfo at least. But they still looked young enough that Noé felt sorry for them, wondered why they were there instead of at home with their family.
O/R/P/H/E/L/I/N/S/? Noé taps, after a moment of hesitation.
Vanitas hummed. “It’s possible.” He admits. “Though not all of the chasseurs are orphans, they’re still a minority within the ranks. That’s not to say that the chasseurs don’t prey on orphaned children though, as I’m sure you know by now.”
Misha, Vanitas, even Astolfo. Noé wonders how many other orphaned and bereaved victims of cursebearers there were. Maybe even Roland with his sunny smile, or Olivier, who seems to have a troubled look to him at times.
“Don’t go thinking Roland has some tragic backstory or something.” Vanitas mutters, as if reading his mind. “For a lot of people joining a military force is seen as a great honour, and they revel in it.” His voice is leaden with unveiled disgust. “The majority of the chasseurs are like that.”
Noé isn’t sure what to think. To him, the concept of killing others for glory, vampire or not, is unfathomable. But even someone as smart and kind as Vanitas had been indoctrinated by the chasseurs, and by what he’d seen in Misha’s memories, it seems it took a long time to be undone.
“Don’t ever think of them as pitiable or unfortunate to have ended up chasseurs, even if they’re teenagers. You must protect yourself first and foremost.” Vanitas states.
Noé mentally sighs. Vanitas is clearly still upset about Noé’s hesitancy with Astolfo, even when everything turned out alright in the end. Even though Noé lost an arm. But it reattached and healed fairly quickly so it was hardly any fuss.
He hopes his healing can kick in soon. This is quite frustrating.
“Sorry.” Vanitas says, breaking out of his stupor. “Enough of chasseurs. They’ve caused you enough trouble as is. How are you feeling?”
F/A/T/I/G/U/É Noé taps.
“I’m sure.” Vanitas murmurs sympathetically. “Do you want me to help you to bed?”
Noé pauses, thinking.
S/A/L/E he taps.
“Do you want to get changed? Or wash?” Vanitas asks patiently.
B/O/U/C/H/E Noé tries to explain.
“Oh of course, you threw up twice now.” Vanitas mutters, sympathetically. “Do you want to wash your mouth out in the sink?”
Noé nods. He’d like nothing more than that. Perhaps it’s dirty of him, but he just wants to flop into bed directly afterwards, mildly bloodied day clothes and all. The consequences can be dealt by the Noé of tomorrow. The Noé of tonight was well and truly out of energy.
“Alright. Tell me if you need to stop.” Vanitas instructs.
Noé had forgotten, from the comfortable and steady confines of Vanitas’ embrace, that moving at all was very difficult. The second he was up, he was hit with an intense wave of vertigo, and the sense that his legs were about to give out from under himself once more. He wobbles dangerously, breath sharply exiting his nose as he panics briefly and subsequently clings onto Vanitas for dear life.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Vanitas reassures, a hand slowly trailing across Noé’s back. “Take your time, catch your breath.”
Inhaling hurts, with a throat raw from vomit, and Noé doesn’t even want to think about how his breath might smell right next to poor Vanitas.
“Where’s the sink?” Noé mutters aloud finally, voice sounding more tattered than he’d expected. His head spun.
“Here.” Vanitas demonstrates carefully. Noé feels both his hands guided to the porcelain rim, cold even beneath his gloves.
“Just lean there.” Vanitas instructs. “I’ll pour you some water into a glass, and you can use that.”
Noé hears the sound of water running, which like everything else sounds weird, thrumming with the crackling splintered world formula. Noé has to remind himself it’s not the world that is broken currently, but his eyes. Or his brain, so it seems. It’s frustrating.
A hand slides under his, lifting it off the sink before coaxing the glass into his hold.
He mutters a short thanks under his breath before swilling the water in his mouth and spitting, and then sipping a little, rinse and repeat for the whole glass. There’s water dripping down his chin, off his mouth. He feels like a child. Teacher always despised messes.
Still, the handkerchief returns once he finishes, silky soft, and wipes away the wetness, touch gentle. Noé sighs in relief.
“Straight to bed?” Vanitas asks.
“Yes please.” Noé mumbles.
It isn’t a long distance, Noé knows that intellectually, but it certainly feels it, an arduous journey, one that ends with boots being tugged off his feet. Even when laid down in bed at last, dizziness and nausea surge, and after about half a second he sits up abruptly with a gasp.
“Easy, easy.” Vanitas soothes, holding him. “Nauseous again?”
Noé nods frantically. He’s very very over this.
“Let me grab some more pillows. I’ll help prop you up a bit.” Vanitas explains.
Noé nods, currently clinging to the reliable and cool surface of the wall by his bed.
Vanitas does come back at last, and arranges various pillows and cushions nestled around and under Noé, supporting his torso and head as he’s laid back. The spinning abates greatly, and his stomach decides to stop threatening a third rush of stomach acid. Noé didn’t know he had any left to spare.
He sighs in relief at last, but Vanitas’ ministrations don’t appear to end here.
“I know.. you want to sleep in those clothes.” Vanitas starts. “But it might be a bit more comfortable with some things off. Would you like me to take your gloves off?”
Noé nods. They’re outside gloves, he really should have taken them off the moment he walked into the bedroom. Stumbled might have been a better description of what happened tonight.
“Here.” Vanitas says softly, and a thumb pokes into the small hole in his glove, touching the exposed skin with Vanitas’ own.
It’s strangely intimate- as it is, Vanitas’ bare hands are a rare sight, and the touch of them even more so. With a pop, the button is undone, and the thumb slides the fabric up and off Noé’s hand. The same is done with his other.
“Your belt?” Vanitas muses. “It might not be very comfortable to sleep with.”
“Very well.” Noé murmurs, too tired to do otherwise.
Vanitas is quick, though not unreasonably, efficient and clinical. The purple belt comes off with a slithering sound.
“Your waistcoat?”
Noé’s pocket watch is still in there, Noé remembers. Taking it off would avoid crushing the poor thing. He nods once again.
Vanitas is quick with that too, recognising Noé’s exhaustion it seems.
At last it comes off, and Noé remembers his wallet (among other things) is currently in his overcoat, luckily, and not the pockets of the trousers he’s wearing in bed. He thinks Vanitas took that off earlier, while checking his arm wounds.
“Where’s my coat?” Noé mumbles.
“On the coatrack, don’t worry, I brought it up.” Vanitas says gently
“Thank you.” Noé says, barely audible, and he means it, means it tenfold, a hundredfold, but he’s fading fast.
“You’re welcome.” Vanitas says gently, laying him back once more. “Sleep well.”
Noé cannot even respond, cannot fight anymore. He succumbs to sleep.