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finitevoid · 5 months ago

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Vanitas sits cross-legged on his bed, holding Terra’s old practice Keyblade and contemplating the exam’s results. You failed to keep the darkness inside of you in-check. Terra, hesitantly, as if despite himself, had looked at Vanitas, when their master said that.

Vanitas rubs his gloved hand over his mouth, relishing in the scratchy feeling of leather against his soft skin. His thumb brushes the wood grain of the Keyblade, idly.

Vanitas ponders the ways of the light and the dark. Terra and Vanitas have always been close; and what is Vanitas, if not ineffably tainted by the dark?

He chokes on the thought, attempting to swallow it and the emotions it conjures. He cannot allow himself to make an Unversed. Vanitas is being foolish; foolhardy, as his Master would say. He has to keep better control of his wandering thoughts; a focused mind leads to a focused heart, and only with focus can Vanitas overcome the darkness inside of him.

And then there’s a wooden knock on his doorway. Expecting Aqua, or maybe the Master, Vanitas tosses the practice Keyblade onto his bedspread with more force than it probably requires, raising his head somewhat miserably, to look at—

Vanitas goes very, very still.

A boy stands in the open doorway, standing prim and tall. He’s dressed in… some kind of armor, Vanitas decides. It doesn’t look like metal, but it doesn’t look like cloth either. Not quite flesh, though something about it feels… organic. Bright, gleaming white, it hugs the boy’s torso, covering him from the tips of his fingers to the spiked, jagged helmet that covers his face.

He’s standing with one hand behind his back, and he raises the other in a jaunty wave. He bobs excitedly in place, leaning his weight on his heels.

It sort of reminds Vanitas of when he… no, that can’t be right. But there’s something about this boy, something that has him freezing still like a rabbit standing before a predator. An Unversed tugs itself from his chest, bubbling up from the pooling darkness at Vanitas’ feet.

A Hareraiser rises from the ground, formless purple turning into a rabbit, red eyes crying, holding onto its own ears. Vanitas feels his fear ebb, halfway to being calm. Swallowing the immediate rush of guilt and regret that tastes like bile, he fixes his gaze on the stranger.

He stands from his bed, falling into a combat position. The masked boy pays this no mind, though. Instead, he bends a little at the waist and coos. “Oh my,” he gasps, reaching out for the Unversed. “Aren’t you just the cutest little thing!” It flinches away from his outstretched fingers, skittering across the wooden floor. It hides behind Vanitas’ shins, making tiny noises.

“Who are you?” Vanitas snaps, making his voice as authoritative as he doesn’t feel.

The mask tilts, until it's faceless visage is looking at Vanitas, and not the Hareraiser. “So that’s seriously your Negativity? That’s so cool,” he sighs, forlorn and breathless, like he’s genuinely jealous of Vanitas’ Unversed. “Oh, sorry!” He chirps, straightening up suddenly. “Where’re my manners?” He hooks his hands underneath his helmet and pulls it off, revealing—

—something about his face is making Vanitas’ head spin. Spin and spin, like someone’s attached a rope to his heart and is tugging on it, incessantly. Something is making Vanitas’ chest feel hot and his fingers twitch. Viciously, he pushes it down. Shoves it back down and stomps on it, pulling on his memories of his Master’s advice for strength.

“You have to be in control, Vanitas,” Master Eraqus had said, three years ago now, eyes stony with seriousness. “You can never, ever let your heart run wild.”

It helps, a little. It makes him feel more grounded, present in his body. He is the master of his emotions, and one day, he will be free of his darkness. He just has to remember that.

Unbeknownst to Vanitas’ disparate emotions, the boy beams wide. His cheeks are ruddy with a youthful vigor that Vanitas lacks, and his green eyes sparkle like gems. There’s something bright, about his eyes, about his teeth. Like they’re backlit by the setting sun, just enough to make them gleam.

Blonde hair bounces as he sticks his hand out to shake. “I’m Ventus!”

He doesn’t want to touch this boy; something is telling him not to touch him. Something in the heart-pounding fear rattling his chest. Except for— something in him wants nothing more than to touch him. To feel— skin unlike Vanitas’ own. Unperturbed, Ventus drops his hand, grinning wide.

“I can’t believe myself! My master would have my head for being so rude!” He laughs, cheerful and bubbly, shaking his head. He thumps the heel of his hand to his forehead, expression sheepish. “That’s no way to introduce myself, is it? Especially not to someone who could become a friend.”

He drops his hand, and something about his entire cadence changes. His expression sharpens, though it doesn’t change; his smile goes from sheepish to wicked between one blink and the next. “Because we are going to become friends, aren’t we…” there’s something leading in his tone, halfway sweet and halfway… something else. “…Vanitas?”

Vanitas’ fingers go cold, and before he can swallow the feeling, another Hareraiser is rising from an inky puddle at his feet. Then two more, rising into existence as if formed from the shuddering in his chest, the pounding of his heartbeat.

“How do you know that?” Vanitas asks, sharply. Another Hareraiser, and only then does the fear fade. “Tell me how you know my name.”

Ventus’ eyebrows climb to his hairline, a smile frozen to his face. “I know a lot,” he says, shrugging like this is… like this is nothing, a casual discussion, a joke. He smiles like Vanitas is an idiot, fluttering a hand. “‘Cause, the thing is… I’m not from here.”

Vanitas stares at him, blankly.

Grinning, Ventus extends a finger towards Vanitas’ window. Not just his window; at the sky. The stars. Other worlds. He’s from… he’s from away. He’s from outside.

Vanitas wasn’t born on the Land of Departure. Nobody is; the Master welcomes those with the aptitude to wield a Keyblade, or he gifts them with the aptitude. Aqua and Terra don’t ever talk much about their life before coming here, but he knows there’s nowhere for them to return to. Why would there be? Their home is here.

Except, Vanitas wasn’t born here. His memory is— infamously— spotty, but he remembers… not a desert so much as just dirt, dirt devoid of life. Scraping against his soft, bare palms; hard dusty rock that spat clouds that made him choke. Flashes of sheer brown cliffaces, and the taste of his own blood.

“You’re from outside…” Vanitas says.

Ventus laughs like that’s just so funny, shoulders shaking and chest shuddering. He laughs like nobody Vanitas has ever met, like his laughter buoys him, elevates him, makes him better. And something burns in Vanitas— something between this boy’s face, and his laugh, and his name.

Wait.

The only other Keyblade Master— the man Master Eraqus had called his good friend— who’d come to oversee Aqua and Terra’s exam… he was from outside, too. This boy had joked about a master, maybe even a Master.

Vanitas says, “Master Eraqus said Master Xehanort didn’t have an apprentice.”

Ventus’ expression snaps to Vanitas, and for the first time, something truly ugly flashes across his face. And then it’s smoothed out, turned into something gentle and soft and a little mocking. “Well… if you spend all your time locked up here,” he shrugs a shoulder, giving a gentle smile. “What’dyou know?”

Vanitas doesn’t look down to see whatever Unversed that statement spawns; he just stands there, almost stutters out of his combat stance, and then forces himself to summon his Keyblade. Void Gear is heavy in his hand, and he holds it in front of himself defensively.

Ventus’ eyes fall onto the Keyblade, and then flick back to Vanitas’ face. “Funny,” he says, a wry tilt to his mouth. “Can I give you some advice? Since we’re friends?”

“Since when have we been friends?” Vanitas snaps.

Ventus laughs again. “Since always, silly,” he mimes wiping a tear from his eye. “But, hey. Since you don’t believe me, I’ll tell you anyway! Call it a sign of good faith.” He beams, clasping his hands in front of himself. “You might…” He taps a hand to his cheek, looking up at nothing, theatrical, “…want to check on Terra.”

“What?” Whatever Vanitas was expecting, it wasn’t that.

“I don’t think he’s gonna be feeling like himself,” Ventus says, the sides of his smile curled up sharp. “Not for much longer, anyway.”

Vanitas’ mind is racing, even as more Unversed rise from his feet. The Master will be so disappointed in him… but he can’t think about that. Instead, he thinks about Ventus. About his words, and his mocking smile, and the fact that he knows Vanitas’ name.

“What’s gonna happen to Terra?” Vanitas’ voice is foreign to his ears, a cruel scrape against the otherwise quiet. “What are you going to do to Terra?”

He feels the Unversed looming around the dark corners of the room.

“Me?” Ventus says, pointing to himself. “Nothing.”

“What is your master going to do, then?”

His eyes glow. He seems to gleam. His face… looking at it, Vanitas feels hot. Like claws raking against his heart, rending open his chest from the inside out. Looking at his face makes him feel like Vanitas is oozing something.

“Who are you?”

“Who cares?" He says, easy as breathing. "Anyway, my master'll be expecting me back. Nice meeting you!” Ventus waves a hand, wiggling his fingers. And then there’s a pop, so loud Vanitas’ ears hurt. A bright, white light flashes, like lightning crashing against the cold ground. Vanitas flinches away, flinging Void Gear in front of his chest protectively.

When he blinks, Ventus is gone. Vanitas is alone.

Well, Vanitas and a horde of Unversed. He rubs at his nose, blowing out a frustrated breath. Another Unversed forms as he does; a Blue Sea Salt hovers in the air next to his head, and it gently headbutts him.

Vanitas shoves it away, still trying to calm the racing of his heart. A Bruiser noses underneath Vanitas’ arm, and he allows himself to lean against it, lightheaded. He doesn’t know what’s going on— not yet.

But he needs to find out. He needs to warn the Master, about this boy, and—

Maybe… Maybe he better check on Terra, first. That’s all. It’ll all make sense. Vanitas will make it make sense. With his bare hands and determination clutched in both fists, he’ll make it make sense.

And if he locks the Unversed in his bedroom, trapping them inside… well, nobody needs to know. He has to take precautions. He has to hide the evidence. He has to figure this out.

He needs to focus.