Chapter Text
Noé opens his eyes from a dream he cannot remember to the sound of horses and their carriages click-clacking over the cobble of Paris.
He sits up and yawns heavily, pushing himself up from the floor, pillow in hand. Rubbing his eyes and looking around the room, he sees Vanitas is absent, but he isn’t alarmed. Sluggish, he fixes up his bed a little, then moves to the window, lifting himself up and out. At this time in the early day, when the sun has wholly come up from over the horizon, the bright blue of the sky and Vanitas’ eyes are shockingly similar in shade.
His compatriot smiles a smile that is more of a borderline smirk and passes him part of a still warm loaf of bread and some jam. Apple jam, his favorite. He feels warmer without even eating the bread yet.
He’s halfway done when Vanitas stands up abruptly, so fast it was like he’d done it in the second it took Noé to blink. He looks down at the vampire with a spark in his eye that makes the white-haired vampire raise an eyebrow and tilt his head.
"Hurry it up, mon ami, Count Orlock expects us within the hour!"
Noé almost chokes on his breakfast, Vanitas playfully patting him on the back until he recovers. When he does catch his breath again, the vampire glares at him, which makes Vanitas smirk for real.
"You seemed so tired last night, I thought you might appreciate the chance to sleep in! I would have made sure we weren’t late. "
Only after pouting once more for good measure does Noé return to the window, heading to the wardrobe to grab his usual attire, then to the washroom. As the lock clicks, he finds his hands going still on the knob as his brain mulls over his partner’s words once more.
Mon ami. My friend.
He feels his face flush as he realizes that Vanitas has never called him that before. Not in earnest, not without jest. His ears feel warm when he realizes that he was waiting for his partner to call him that. There’s something there that wasn’t there before. He’s not sure if it’s finally the all trust he’s wanted, after that disastrous night at the park, but it’s something and it makes his stomach fill with butterflies. It’s like a dream come true.
He must be more tired than he thought, because between one moment and the next, he and Vanitas are walking down the street in the early morning rush.
The taste of sweet apple lingers in his mouth, stuck to his fangs. He walks as he always does, absent-minded and distracted. His eyes dart to every little movement of color or light, relying on his hand brushing Vanitas’s ridiculous coat to alert him to whether he’d strayed too far or not. He hasn’t told Vanitas of this trick yet, too afraid that he would start walking farther away if he knew.
He hears a cry then, of a woman, he thinks. Though he has learned not to assume such things after an embarrassing incident with an older client of Vanitas’, and after apologies were given, a lecture from the doctor himself. Either way, though, someone cries out. It’s in pain, Noé knows from the blood that permeates the air and his mouth, tingeing the lingering fruit coppery.
There are other sounds then, of glass breaking and metal straining and astermite bursting. More cries and shouts and yells of panic. Noé tries to see what the danger is, but his brain won’t work and his eyes won’t perceive. It can’t be the lingering exhaustion, the vampire thinks, but there seems to be no other explanation of why the world seems reflected through stained glass.
When one particular noise gets too close, almost right where Vanitas is standing, Noé turns, ready to pick up Vanitas and jump to safety on the nearest rooftop. Yet, when he turns, he is faced with the most particular conundrum.
Vanitas is both there and he is not.
He can still feel his companion’s coat brushing his bare hand, his white gloves foregone due to the temperature of the day; yet Vanitas’ is still wearing his coat because of course he is. And yet, when he looks down to where his eyes are supposed to be, there is empty space.
His face feels warm and wet and sticky, but that doesn’t matter because while he smells Vanitas’ cologne, his face isn’t where it's supposed to be when they stand side by side.
The screaming has turned to screeching around him, but that doesn’t matter because Vanitas’s body is starting to sway, yet Noé can’t say why because his cheeks aren’t there to see if they are flushed.
Noé can not move, but that doesn’t matter because while Vanitas’ body hits the ground to his right, he hears his head make contact with concrete with a dull, solid thunk, to his left.
Across the street.
Noé screams.
He howls as memories old and new swim in his vision, blind to the world around him except for what remains of his friend. He won’t turn and see the rest of him, he can’t. He can feel the sky blue and marigold yellow eyes staring at him. Glaring at him. Blaming him.
A choking noise escapes from his throat, and he doesn’t care enough to cover his mouth like he did when he was young. He regrets it, though, as his breakfast escapes him violently and, when he licks his lips on accident, the sweetness of apple and blood becomes ingrained on his tongue. Rancid in its sweetness. Repulsive in its enticingness.
He very carefully doesn’t sallow, just gags and sputters as he tries to rid his teeth of crimson. He had always wanted to try, but not like this—never, ever like this. He’d imagined finally tasting Vanitas’ blood, because he couldn’t help himself from imagining it, but he’d always imagined it would be in a moment of confidence, so late it was early, and the atmosphere clear of any tensions that might have lingered. Noé would ask, and Vanitas would say yes, and there would be trust between them.
The blood in his daydreams tasted like bitter coffee and subtle kindness and popping astermite.
The blood in his mouth tastes like rotten, perished tarte tatin.
His faculties start shutting down. His mind feels like liquid and his eyes feel like something else is closing them, and he begins to drift into unconsciousness to the sound of static-like shouts of figures he can’t make out. His head and throat and heart hurt too much to try to resist the black overtaking his vision.
Noé opens his eyes from a dream he can very much remember to the sound of horses and their carriages click-clacking over the cobble of Paris.