#im scared to reread but im TRYING TO STICK TO MY HOUR LIMIT AHHH

[noes-pillow]

this one i didnt have time to edit within my 1 hour time limit so yeah... like i implied in the last post, these arent gonna be great quality, im just going off vibes... so here have some pain... happy @whumptober

VNC Whumptober Day 2:

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

cw: so much fucking angst, torture implications

Noé is…

Right, he’s in a memory. Who’s memory?

Vanitas'

But this is odd. This body doesn’t seem to recognize that name.

…

Noé has perfected this technique. His teacher trained him diligently. It was beneficial. He learned so much about the capabilities of his power. Even if now he still feels like there’s a part of them he hasn’t quite found yet.

But for now, he knows when he’s diving. It feels like a lucid dream. One where you walk the halls of the dreamscape in a body you can’t control, which is yours for the moment, although it doesn’t belong to you.

It feels deep.

It feels personal.

It feels violating.

It belongs to the person of whom his fangs are currently embedded.

While Noé’s body enjoys the nourishment of blood, the taste of which he could never find a replacement, his mind is none the wiser.

His mind is trapped.

Trapped in a body.

The body of a child.

A young boy no older than 8.

A boy covered in bandages.

A boy who misses his family.

For a moment he sees his own childhood. The times when he was alone after his grandparents died. The time until Teacher bought him.

Teacher.

Mikhail.

Vanitas’ younger brother. Mikhail.

He was part of these experiments too.

Then the thought dawned on Noé.

How long had Vanitas been with Moreau when Mikhail met him?

The image he had seen in Mikhail’s blood placed him around the age of 10-12. But this body. This body was no older than 8.

2 years.

Vanitas had to endure for at least 2 whole years. And more when he took on more sessions to spare Misha.

Vanitas.

The boy here couldn’t be called by that name. For all this body knew, Vanitas wasn’t someone that even existed.

Yet.

…

Vanitas cradles Noé’s unconscious form. He knows the vampire is out of it. His arms are limp. They would normally seek out the closest thing to latch onto to ground himself in his slumber. But for now his mind is far from at rest.

The sapphire eyed human lays his partner back on the bed next to himself. He runs his fingers over the bite on his neck and winces at the sting.

His fingers are covered in blood. They’re dripping. He feels it dripping down his neck too. And he has a horrifyingly sensual realization.

Vanitas licks his fingers. It tastes of blood, obviously. Warm iron. But something else. There is no aroma, but Vanitas can still taste Noé’s venom.

It is a comforting feeling. A sweet gentle numbness on his tongue. As if he was feeling his adrenaline pump without any of the pain.

But for as gentle as this feeling is, Noé’s bite itself is anything but. He’s managed to rip several strands of muscle in his neck and it fucking hurts. But honestly he doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t need to look to know he’s been marked. And the wound will likely scar underneath it.

Good.

Vanitas rolls up his sleeve and scours at the marks that appeared on his skin years after his birth.

It is about time Vanitas has a scar he chose to have. A mark, dare he say, he wants.

And the human nestles his head under his vampire’s chin. Just this once, Noé would be his hug pillow for the night.

It was only fair.

Noé, experiencing the exact memories of himself as a child, needed to know he wasn’t alone.

“I’m here.” He whispers. “Noé.”

There is no response.

Vanitas hugs him tighter.

“Don’t move. Moving is bad. Moving hurts.” The vampire mumbles.

He can’t hear him.

Vanitas cries.

Please. Hear me…

Noé…

…

Vanitas!

Noé’s thoughts and those of this child are one and the same.

Don’t move. Moving is bad. Moving hurts.

He feels a tightness around him but he fights it. He prepares himself for another shock. These were still shocks, right? Moreau hadn’t taken out the rolling cart yet. Which means he probably wasn’t bleeding yet. Yet.

Noé’s consciousness separates long enough for him to make a single wish.

He calls out to the body of the boy he was. He hopes he can hear him. He hopes this is the part of his power he had never been able to grasp. Now is his chance. Noé wants this boy to know he isn’t alone. That he wasn’t alone. That Noé was always there with him in his pain. Just that. Just to call out to him.

Noé has this wish.

And just as Noé reaches out to this boy.

He realizes.

I don’t know your name, No. 69.

And the title is too bitter for Noé to think, let alone speak. He just can’t refer to this child as that. Named Vanitas or not, this boy will become someone important to him. This boy is someone important to him. But to the boy, what’s important isn’t his future.

Its what he was forced to leave behind in his past.

Vanitas!

Noé can’t decide what’s worse. Thinking you are alone, or knowing someone could’ve changed that.

No matter how many times Noé could try to call Vanitas’ name, this body wouldn’t recognize it. This body would still feel alone.

And he would continue to feel as such until a chance encounter on an airship above Paris.

But that was a decade away.

Countless days.

Countless days specifically with Moreau.

Im sorry...

...Vanitas.

fin