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“Brother!!”
The boy paused midstride, grimacing as he looked back upon his blond counterpart as he was pinned to the operating table by two of Moreau’s masked assistants. His entire body shook, the dirtied bandages rubbing against his torn skin as his pulse pounded in his ears.
“Oh!? Number 71, please don’t be so boisterous! You may rip out the tubes, my dear~” said Dr. Moreau, chuckling and sighing and shouting all at once in a cacophony of expressions.
He raised a trembling hand, reaching for him. Hot tears poured over his cheeks as he kicked and squirmed against the hands that grabbed him. He wailed with the futility of a captured animal. “Brother! Please, help me! Help!”
“Stop!”
The world slowed, and as each of the figures turned to face him, his stomach fell deeper, deeper, deeper...
“Hm?! What is the matter, Number 69?!”
“I...” He faltered, the words catching in his raw throat. “Use m-me instead, Doctor.”
The doctor released a squeal of delight, gloved hands flying to his face as he danced with glee. “Oh, my boy, you are too kind! You couldn’t bear the thought of not helping me, could you!” Grabbing 71’s arm, Moreau tossed him to the ground like a doll before tugging 69 into his place. He leaned his goggled face inches away from the 69th child, mouth stretched wide and foul breath filling the air around them as he ran his dirtied hands along the boy’s cheek. “I cannot thank you enough, Number 69!”
Frozen against the table, the boy could do nothing but relish in this moment before the pain.
And when the pain finally arrived, all he could do was wait for it to end.
The needles, each filled with bright liquids, would be inserted in his arms one by one, the sharp tip tearing through flesh and muscle before the viscous contents would find its way into his veins. Then there would be scalpels—several of them, in various shapes and sizes—and they would slice along his pale skin to expose his innards, nearby tubes sucking away his crimson blood as it would ooze from the gashes. And then there would be more injections, and more slicing, and more tubes.
As the agonizing pain shot through his frail body, and the gushing of blood against his eardrums drowned out the voices of those around him, Number 69 feared it would never stop, that it was his fate to remain Dr. Moreau’s plaything forever. However, despite all the torture, he could take solace in knowing that his brother was safe. Even if he refused to scream, even if he held in his tears until the bitter end, he could take it all knowing Misha wasn’t suffering.
And the knives went deeper, and the injections increased in dosage, and the electricity coursed through his veins; and when he wasn’t being taken apart, he was vomiting and trembling and crying silently into his pillow and—
“Vanitas!!”
He gasped, his whole body convulsing as he choked on the cold night air. Thrashing against the table—or was it a mattress?—he kicked and punched at the figures around him. Someone caught his hands midair and—
“It’s okay!” Noé shouted, gripping Vanitas’ wrists firmly. Vanitas squirmed for a moment, whimpering in the darkness as the haze over his eyes lifted. His chest rose and fell jaggedly. “You’re safe, it’s just me.”
As soon as Noé let go of his hands, Vanitas pulled them into his chest. “What’re… Where—” he choked against the tightness of his throat. Raising a hand to his face, he realized his cheeks were damp.
“Vanitas...”
“D-Don’t look at me!” he shouted.
Noé crouched at his bedside, watching him with a soft gaze and furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?” he asked, a dreadful sincerity swarming behind his violet eyes.
Catching his breath—but only just—Vanitas clenched his teeth, reaching to his coat at his side. “I said not to look at m-agh!” he started, but as he blindly felt for the daggers hidden in his coat, the edge of one of the blades sliced against his fingertip. He recoiled sharply, pulling his finger to his chest and curling deeper against himself.
The blood welled against the wound, a dark color in the lightless room, and Vanitas’ visage only contorted further.
As the decadent scent wafted in the air, Noé paused as the aroma filled his nostrils. He slammed his palm over his mouth, forcing himself to look away.
“You vampires,” Vanitas hissed, every vowel filled with venom and malice, “You’re all the same.” Silence filled the air once more, and in the pause between words Vanitas choked. “I told you... to let me sleep outside...” The anger slipped from his countenance, and in its place arose a terrible vulnerability. “Why didn’t you let me be alone?!”
Noé stood abruptly before rushing into the bathroom, flicking on the lights as he rummaged through the cabinets. Once he found his target, he hurried back into the room and fell to the ground at Vanitas’ side. Without saying a word, Noé pulled out a bandage and—
“Stop!!” His entire body stiffened. “Don’t you dare... Don’t you dare bring that thing near me!”
He froze. He’d never seen Vanitas genuinely terrified before, and he was unsure how to act around him. His heart ached for the man, and though he longed to taste the blood on his finger to get a glimpse into the memories that were troubling him, he knew... He knew that wasn’t what Vanitas needed from him in that moment.
Instead, he put the bandage back in the box, closed the lid, and kicked it out of sight under his own bed. As softly as he could, Noé lowered himself onto the edge of Vanitas’ bed.
“It’s gone,” he reassured, exposing both hands before him, spreading his fingers for good measure. Vanitas merely glared at him before hiding his face behind his knees. Not sure what else to do, Noé merely sat beside him in silence, listening to the muffled sniffles leaking through his fetal position.
Once the sounds had faded and Vanitas had stopped trembling, Noé stood to return to his own bed.
Vanitas grabbed his wrist, hesitating before squeezing tightly.
“Don’t go.”
Without hesitating, Noé climbed onto the bed and pulled Vanitas into his side, and as he wrapped his arms against his torso, the man uncurled against his side. He buried his face against his chest as the tears began to fall once more. Noé caressed his hands over Vanitas’ back, the gentle grazing of his fingers over the material of his bed-shirt eliciting more tremors to free themselves from his core.
Whether it was the warmth of Noé’s embrace or the beating of his heart against his chest, Vanitas wasn’t sure; however, he knew for certain that he was safe, and that was enough.