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Silence was unbearable. They sat in the back of one of the chasseurs’ vehicles, hidden in the dark of a wagon from people’s eyes. Vanitas might have been the one to actually defeat the Beast, but people of Geuvadan, having seen none other than Jasper and all the other followers of the Church with him, gave all their gratitude to them, leaving an odd group of Vanitas and his ‘shield’, along with a couple of social outcasts, with little to no spot light. Maybe it was for the better— that was what Johann thought, anyway, and Dante agreed that there would be no use out of getting people’s attention to themselves, and it was already something that Roland Fortis offered them a ride, along with food and medicine.
As much as Vanitas hated the chasseurs, he couldn’t refuse any of it then.
Even so, he was so angry, at Roland, at Naenia, at the world… But Roland was the closest available target, so Vanitas settled to directing all of his rage on him, and everything involving him.
Astolfo was still unconscious — or so he was when they had got going, which had probably been a couple of hours prior already — in the other vehicle, accompanied by Marco, and Roland, who was supposedly the only one who could deal with him when the boy would finally wake up. The thought of that brat safe and sound mere metres away made Vanitas’ blood boil, but oh, the brat was a chasseur, ‘no less responsible for the defeat of the Beast than everyone else’. Vanitas had had a fairly clear thought of wanting to kill him, back there, hatred in his eyes enough to make Dante, who had been restraining him, shiver and gulp in fear for his own life. He hadn’t felt so much loathing for a single living soul ever since—
Every time they hit a particularly rough spot, and the wagon bounced up on the rocks, Vanitas wanted to spare a few angry glances at Olivier, who sat in the front, having been asked by Roland to keep an eye on his two friends. The only thing stopping him, aside from the fact that Olivier himself barely spared a glance on them without necessity, was that his eyes instead instantly went to check on Noé, who sat next to him, staring into the distance as if he didn’t notice any bouncing at all. His left forearm was tied with layers and layers of blooded cloth.
They didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to the chasseurs— Astolfo was bound to wake up at some point, after all, and Roland was careful to let them know when to leave without alarming his protege about the certain vampire still present among the group. Vanitas could almost hear the tantrum of rage and frustration Granatum was going to throw that moment, and the thought made a dark smile appear on his face, eyebrows furrowed. They separated nearing the train station, and while Vanitas couldn’t care less about that, Noé seemed genuinely upset about such a departure, even though he hadn’t said a thing, not once ever since they had first climbed into that wagon. He only communicated in glances: softness in the corners of his eyes at some final mentions of Jean Jacques, gratitude at Olivier seeing them away, and, other than that, endless and endless sadness. It was almost like he had lost not his hand, but his sense of speech. And his eyes were dry, clear as ever, as if they were made of glass, and not made to shred tears at moments like that, even if it was that stupid reason of not seeing Roland that would make him finally break down and sob. And don’t get him wrong, Vanitas hated tears and people crying—
But somehow he hated the fact that Noé hadn’t cried even more.
They got Noé a spare coat to hide his wound and get on the train without trouble. It was weird, seeing Noé in something other than his usual, soft, white clothing, but then again, it was unusual to see him so quiet, so indifferent, so…
They sat opposite of each other, Vanitas trying and failing to nonchalantly look at the window, while Noé was just silently staring at the floor with an expression so blank it was obvious there was hardly anything in his head in that moment but a desperate, clinging need to just stay awake for some reason. It gave a nostalgic feeling, really, to the beginning of a journey, but it was far from a pleasant one, and Vanitas gritted his teeth at the thought alone. They won the fight. They won the fight, but there was no satisfaction hanging in the air.
He hadn’t actually addressed that yet, having been too shocked when he had found out. It was then, Vanitas had ascended after taking the curse away, so incredibly relieved after all that had happened, he could only think about how that was Noé’s fault that he was starting to become so — he couldn’t let himself say ‘happy’, too soon, too deep in denial — so enthusiastic about hard work. One more saved, but Noé— he hadn’t been prepared to see that, the final hopeful smile Noé had sent at him before passing out, his remaining hand holding tightly onto his left arm.
Noé hadn’t smiled once after he woke up, but honestly, Vanitas would hate it if he did.
“Hey, you.”
Noé blinked once, actually lifting his head to look at him, the same mist covering his eyes. Still silent.
Vanitas thought about what to say, for a moment. His usual ‘quit it’ crossed his mind, and he was about to open his mouth, but then closed it again, mentally cursing himself. He wanted to make Noé cry, but he didn’t want to make him feel worse about himself. “Come here.”
His words only got Noé to look at him all surprised, but that was already more of a reaction than he had hoped for. Vanitas gave out a deep sigh, standing up from his seat and positioning himself next to Noé. His hand reached for a sleeve with a nothing to peek out of it, before he stopped himself, his gaze lifting to look Noé right in the eyes, where Archiviste had already turned his own head to watch Vanitas.
“Does it,” he cringed at himself before even finishing the sentence, because of course, what kind of a stupid question that was, even with the vampire’s super strength and regeneration power; Vanitas never was particularly good at checking on people, despite calling himself a doctor, and he hated this sentence in particular, “...hurt?”
Noé blinked at him, just stared for a long moment, before shaking his head, his right hand coming to rest at his other arm, wiggling it a little. Vanitas groaned, snatching Noé’s hand to take it in his, and searched for eye contact again, frowning.
“I didn’t ask to hear a ‘no’, idiot.”
“It doesn’t!” his voice was weak, hoarse from hours of silence, but still defensive. His eyes, now accompanied by the sound of his voice, tore Vanitas’ soul apart.
“Don’t give me that, you—” he trailed, trying to collect himself, “You could have died, that’s how reckless you are.”
Something shivered then in the lines of Noé’s expression.
He had almost lost an eye when he was little. He didn’t even remember how, really— but for months he had only seen the world from his right side, almost disappearing from his view at all when he had to squint. He’d thought he was very lucky when the bandage on his face was finally removed, lucky to actually get his eye back. He had been getting used to it. If he had hurt one eye, he could have had easily hurt two, and yet he somehow saved both of them. That should have been a gift from the world.
He could have had lost an entire arm, then.
He could have had died.
He could have been blown to pieces instead of being left steadily standing on the ground.
He had just thought a hand wasn’t a price that big.
“I could have died.” Noé echoed, and Vanitas was almost surprised that he agreed. Noé’s features shifted, and he inhaled a sharp breath of air, looking down at their joined hands. His fingers trembled. “You know, Vanitas…”
A tear fell down on top of Vanitas’ hand.
“...I’m so glad to be alive.”
Vanitas’ breath catched. In a quick motion, he brought Noé’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles and closing his own eyes shut for a moment. Tears kept falling down, slowly, and Vanitas heard a broken sob above him, but it was muffled by the ringing in his ears and the beating of his own heart. He held onto the hand under his lips like the most precious thing he had, only then letting himself think that that was the thought that wouldn’t leave his head, that if he had turned in search for Noé back then and seen something different, if that brat Astolfo had took his Archiviste's last breath—
Vanitas would have had killed him without hesitation.
I'm so glad to be alive.
I'm so glad you're still alive.
Vanitas opened his eyes and shifted his position to get a hold of Noé’s face, only to see that Noé was breaking apart in a feeling of relief, sobbing through laughter coming through his chest. Vanitas bit his lip, his fingers gently wiping the tears away. Noé brought his right hand back up, leaning it against one of Vanitas’ own still cupping his cheeks.
“...I can’t hold onto you anymore.”
“Idiot,” Vanitas interrupted him. “We only did what we did because we were together, shouldn’t this be your line?”
Noé’s head fell down to rest on Vanitas’ shoulder.
“So, will you hold onto me instead?”
Vanitas’s fingers clenched the back of his coat like that was his own life he was holding onto.
“...Just go ahead to sleep.”