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Vanitas couldn’t sleep. This feeling—barely more than a vague premonition—kept him from it. Like lying in bed as a child, waiting. Alone in the darkness. Waiting for something to happen, anything. You don’t yet know what exactly you’re waiting for. But you do know that it’s something malicious, something lurking, just waiting to break free. And suddenly—like something, someone bodiless creeping up behind you—you feel its damp, cold breath against your neck. Instinctively, you know it can only be a predator, the evil monster that has come to take you. You want to scream for your parents, but instead, you just pull the blanket over your head—in the naïve hope that a piece of fabric will stop a monster from devouring you.
You plead, pray, beg for help on your knees. But the night has always lured monsters out—it always has. And unlike the shadows in the dark, some monsters can’t simply be banished with light and the bit of courage it takes to convince yourself that there’s nothing there.
Sometimes, something was there.
And in Vanitas’ life, very few of those nighttime monsters had been mere childhood imagination.
Not the hands that tore him from sleep.
Not the claws that dug into the thin skin of his sides, leaving cruel, deep scratches as he desperately tried to escape.
Not the helpless way his fingers scraped against the ground, until blood welled beneath his nail beds.
And the constant, never-ending feeling of being hunted made him restless, kept the demons in his head from ever fading into the background.
To be chased like a damned animal. To be used as a lab rat, tortured.
All of it left its marks on a person.
Vanitas felt watched. Completely, utterly observed in the room he shared with Noé. He simply couldn’t sleep there. Even when he lay on the rooftops of Paris, he barely ever slept.
Too dangerous.
The shadows of the night were too present. The fear that if he let himself relax for even the tiniest moment, someone would pounce.
Not Noé specifically. He trusted the vampire—even if it was reckless. But it was enough that someone, anyone was present to put him on edge. And so, he rarely stayed in their shared room at night. Instead, he watched the sun set, the moon rise, let the stars drift overhead, and waited until dawn once again painted the sky in red.
There, he would sometimes drift off for a few hours. But of course, it was far from comfortable and couldn’t be considered real sleep. He remained alert, waking at the slightest disturbance.
If he ever wanted to really sleep—deep, restful sleep—he had to go somewhere else. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere where no one was. No living soul. Somewhere he was alone. Somewhere he didn’t feel Noé’s gaze on his back. Somewhere he didn’t have to fight that irrational fear whispering that Noé might sink his fangs into his throat at any moment.
Before Noé had ever voiced the desire to taste his blood, things had been better. But now, his mind tormented him with horrific visions, keeping him from sleeping.
And so, he preferred to retreat to the rooftop.
The young doctor hated himself for his cowardice. Rationally, Noé wouldn’t attack him—he was far too stubbornly bound to his own ideals. But vampires were selfish and deceitful. And Noé, like every single one of those blood-sucking bats, carried the instinct, the urge to drink blood.
There was no reason to make it easy for him.
If the night was too cold to endure outside, Vanitas would lean back in a chair instead. Legs stretched out before him—so they wouldn’t fall asleep, so he could run at any moment—head resting on his gloved forearms.
In that case, he positioned his chair so that he could see Noé.
He could keep that up for a long time.
Yes, Vanitas could go without proper sleep for a long time. It had saved his life before—spared him a scar or two.
He only truly slept when he felt absolutely safe.
And right now, he didn’t.
If someone had accused him of being afraid of Noé, he would have denied it immediately. But deep in his subconscious, there was something. A quiet, ingrained fear—one he had been conditioned into.
It defied all rational thought. Infuriated him.
It betrayed the trust he had built in Noé.
But he couldn’t do anything about it.
He only felt safe around him if he knew that, if necessary— he could still defend himself.
Vanitas looked strangely lost in his billowing black coat. Almost as if the fabric wanted to swallow him whole—dark, vanishingly thin, and in a thoroughly foul mood.
A sigh echoed through the alley. His shadow stretched out ahead of him. Only in the dim glow of the streetlamps did Vanitas step out of the narrow passage and glance around. For a moment, it felt as though he had just escaped from a long dream, yet he couldn't for the life of him explain where that feeling came from. Reality seemed oddly distant, out of reach. As if his mind were floating half a meter beside his head, lazily circling, drifting aimlessly like a small cloud in the air.
He blinked several times and shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation. Staggering slightly, he tried to bring his body and mind back into alignment, pressing his fingers to his temples with a frustrated growl. Damn sleep deprivation!
Mouth stretching into a massive yawn, he shuffled along the alleys. His legs felt heavy, as if he were wading through syrup, and his back ached with every cursed step.
Damn it all!
Noé was, in many ways, a nuisance—at least when it came to moving around Paris. Otherwise, Vanitas had to admit, he was actually useful to have around. He had a certain level of combat prowess, was alert, and could be entertaining. But he was also yet another person Vanitas had to look after. In more ways than one. Noé was complicated like that.
Well, at the moment, Noé was one thing above all else: gone.
Again.
With an exasperated sigh, Vanitas rubbed his burning blue eyes. What was the point of having a bodyguard if he kept wandering off and getting lost? How useful was someone meant to protect him if they weren’t even there?
Of course, Vanitas would never admit it, but he had actually gone looking for Noé—just to make sure he hadn’t fallen into the wrong hands. Moreau’s, for instance.
That would be an absolute disaster.
Vanitas had grown used to Noé, and, more than he liked to admit, he needed him. Some kind of stability in his chaotic, hunted life. Besides, if Moreau got hold of Noé, there was no doubt he would connect him back to Vanitas. (That man had eyes and ears everywhere. Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t already tracked him down and dragged him back by the hair.) And Moreau would squeeze every bit of information out of him.
Vanitas had no desire for another encounter with that man.
If he found out about the heir of the Blue Moon’s plans… Vanitas didn’t even want to imagine what would happen.
With a sigh and a frustrated tug at his hair, Vanitas turned into the next alley. It was unlit and smelled foul. He came to a halt, glancing around with a brief moment of disorientation. He didn’t move—like someone who had walked into a room and immediately forgotten why they were there. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he spun on his heel, his coat flaring behind him.
No, Noé had a weakness for beautiful things. He would be somewhere impressive—where sunlight streamed spectacularly through stained glass windows, where horse and rider were immortalized in majestic sculptures. Places that reminded you just how laughably short a human—or vampire—lifespan was compared to the vastness of history. Ancient, awe-inspiring places that took your breath away. (At least if you were a vampire with white hair, violet eyes, and an infuriatingly strong sense of justice.)
Which left… about a hundred different landmarks.
Vanitas sighed heavily and turned again to leave the alley—nearly colliding with a trash can. The loud metallic clatter and the grating scrape as it shifted sent a jolt straight through his eardrums, scraping like nails over the surface of his brain.
Vanitas hissed and shot the trash can a venomous glare.
That strange sense of detachment had been clinging to him all day, like he didn’t quite belong in this time.
And on top of that, he felt dizzy—like he was coming down with a cold. And it pissed him off.
Already irritated by Noé’s disappearance, the dizziness was just adding fuel to the fire. Muttering angrily under his breath, he stomped through the streets with such determination that a few passersby hurriedly stepped out of his way.
Noé, as it turned out, was sitting in front of Notre Dame.
He and his damn cat were perched on a bench, watching the sun dip behind the towering cathedral.
Vanitas found it a phenomenally stupid idea for a vampire to sit right in front of a church. That was practically walking into the lion’s den.
Muttering curses under his breath, he stormed over.
“Noé,” he hissed into the vampire’s ear from behind, making Noé flinch before turning to him with a cheerful smile.
“Vanitas! The stained glass windows are beautiful, don’t you think?” Noé asked, his expression a mix of childlike wonder and quiet reverence. (Vanitas found it utterly reckless of him to sit with his back exposed like that.)
Vanitas exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose. The dizziness was creeping back. His balance faltered briefly, but he managed to steady himself.
Could they please just go now?
To make matters worse, his head had apparently decided to torture him, a dull throbbing settling behind his eyes and refusing to leave.
“Yes, very pretty. Now let’s go,” Vanitas exhaled, fixing Noé with a sharp glare.
Noé sighed as he got to his feet.
Vanitas always forgot how tall he was.
And damn it—he was really tall.
Shit.
The vampire could easily overpower him. Effortlessly.
A cold shiver ran down Vanitas’ spine. Suddenly, he realized he was still staring at Noé, and Noé—head tilted, eyes steady—was watching him right back.
Vanitas quickly averted his gaze, looking instead at Murr.
The cat padded up beside him, fixing him with a grumpy, accusatory stare. A raspy meow rang out.
Vanitas resisted the childish urge to stick out his tongue at the feline and turned away.
Noé strolled behind him, pausing every so often to admire something or other—something that was quickly driving Vanitas up the wall.
“Move your ass, Noé~,” he whined.
Noé rolled his eyes but begrudgingly picked up the pace.
Vanitas, meanwhile, was massaging his temples with both hands.
“You alright?” Noé asked, voice tinged with concern.
Vanitas only grunted in response.
As if mocking him, his miserable sense of balance decided to fail him once again.
He noticed Noé’s skeptical glance but ignored it.
His steps turned unsteady, stumbling slightly as he cursed his own idiocy for going out to look for Noé in the first place. The vampire would’ve come back on his own—eventually. Probably when he got hungry, much like that damn cat. (Who, by the way, was constantly leaving white hairs all over Vanitas’ coat.)
Silence stretched between them.
Vanitas’ head felt stuffed with cotton, like someone was slowly packing wool through his nose and into his skull. All the sounds around him blended into an indistinct hum—whether it was the gurgling of the river, the murmurs of passing strangers (was he imagining it, or were they staring more than usual?), or the evening wind rustling through the trees along the Seine.
That sluggish cloud in his mind grew heavier, drowning his thoughts beneath the throbbing headache and the pressure in his sinuses. His gaze drifted unfocused to the shimmering black water of the Seine beside them.
For a moment, it felt like he was walking underwater.
The pain faded, the world darkened—
And then everything suddenly tilted sideways.
Thoughtfully, the vampire observed the doctor. His movements were more erratic than usual. Normally, his gait was both predatory and fleeting—like a man simultaneously on the hunt and on the run. His steps were measured yet cautious, springy, with tension coiled in his legs. But today, his steps dragged, and he stumbled from time to time.
Vanitas hadn’t said why he had been looking for him, but he seemed as if he were in pain, and Noé didn’t want to irritate him unnecessarily. A grumpy Vanitas was already bad enough—an irritated one was even worse. So, he simply followed behind the staggering human.
Noé had just decided to stay quiet and take a closer look at his surroundings when several things happened at once.
The first thing Noé noticed was Vanitas’ knees suddenly giving out, sending him crashing headfirst against the railing at the riverbank with a resounding dong before collapsing onto the filthy cobblestone pavement.
It all happened far too fast for him to react.
A split second later, the second impact came—a sharp yank and a stabbing pain. Startled, Noé had stepped back and accidentally trodden on Murr’s tail. A sudden, searing pain shot through his leg as the cat let out a screeching yowl and sank his teeth into him.
Cursing, Noé leaped forward, hastily apologizing to his white-furred companion.
His gaze darted back to the doctor lying motionless on the ground. A chill ran down his spine.
He looked dead.
But then, Noé caught the faint sound of a beating heart and the soft rhythm of breath.
In two strides, he was at Vanitas’ side. He exhaled in relief, sinking to his knees beside the unconscious man.
Vanitas muttered unintelligible nonsense, his head tossing restlessly from side to side, but he didn’t wake.
The young vampire glanced around in a panic.
Who could help him?
Could anyone even help him?
The area was quiet. They hadn’t encountered a single soul in ages. They were alone.
Hesitantly, Noé lifted Vanitas into his arms.
He was well aware that the other man sometimes recoiled from touch, and he hoped that, in his current state, Vanitas wouldn’t mind. The last thing he wanted was to violate his privacy.
The black coat slipped, and it took some effort to balance Vanitas, the coat, and the cat all at once. Normally, he would have simply slung the doctor under his arm, but he didn’t know whether—and if so, how—Vanitas was injured.
It seemed like a good sign that he couldn’t smell any blood, but that didn’t necessarily mean the doctor had escaped unscathed.
Noé stood uncertainly on the deserted street.
Where was he supposed to go now?
Vanitas stirred weakly, his hand gripping Noé’s coat.
“I’ll take you to a doctor,” he declared firmly.
But the dark-haired man muttered something that sounded very much like:
“Don’t you dare.”
His head lolled back, limp.
Noé hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. Should he really listen to Vanitas or take him to a doctor against his will?
No.
At the very least, he had to let Vanitas make that decision for himself—especially since he was already being carried against his will.
Noé might have been a little naive in his view of the world, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that Vanitas’ problem with certain things wasn’t necessarily personal—it was more about people in general and their expectations of him.
He turned around. Now he just had to find the way back to the hotel.
He would have liked to take a little tour of Paris, but he decided against it.
After all, he couldn’t exactly walk into a shop with a young man wrapped in a black coat and a white cat perched on his stomach. Nor could he just leave Vanitas outside. (Although Murr would certainly have kept an excellent watch over him.)
The image made him smirk.
For a while, Noé wandered through Paris in search of a solution. Eventually, he settled onto a bench, leaning Vanitas against his shoulder and tilting his head back. He just needed a short break.
Murr trampled around Vanitas’ midsection, kneading himself a comfortable spot before curling up.
Noé watched with amusement, knowing full well that Vanitas would complain later about the white cat hairs all over his black coat.
Vanitas’ head rested against his shoulder, and Noé felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. The deep, rhythmic breaths reassured him. Vanitas didn’t seem to be in pain.
Vanitas wasn’t exactly short, but next to Noé, he did seem rather small and scrawny—almost like half a child.
Noé shook his head.
Even though he hadn’t known the young man for long, he could say with absolute certainty that this was a deceptive illusion.
Of course, Vanitas could be childish and silly at times, but he had no hesitation when it came to taking a life. That kind of cold-bloodedness spoke of experience—of age.
It was as if his soul had wandered through centuries, far older than its current owner.
And then there were his eyes.
It gnawed at Noé when Vanitas made that face.
That unreadable expression.
It was a mix of razor-sharp focus, absolute resignation, restrained fury, ice-cold rage, unease—bordering on fear—and something else. Something indescribable.
What could possibly make this young man—this extraordinary doctor—look like that?
For a moment, Noé studied him, letting his gaze wander over the dark lashes, the closed eyelids, the deep shadows beneath them. (Why had he never noticed them before?) Over the dark mess of hair and the hourglass earring.
His arms lay limp at his sides, his weight pressing against Noé’s shoulder and collarbone.
Murr grumbled and nestled deeper into Vanitas’ stomach.
The vampire smirked.
Vanitas was going to be so annoyed when he woke up.
He looked completely peaceful.
Noé leaned back, careful to keep Vanitas’ head from slipping, and gazed up at the sky.
The evening air was cool.
Dark clouds drifted overhead.
A gust of wind rustled through the trees.
Noé’s head snapped up.
There was something in the breeze—something unsettling.
A faint whisper of foreboding.
A dark uncertainty.
Carried to them on the wind.
The vampire lifted his nose into the air and parted his lips slightly to scent more clearly. The air crackled, like before a heavy thunderstorm. Noé shook his head—he needed to hurry. He didn’t want Vanitas to get sick. Pure self-preservation.
A Vanitas in perfect health was already difficult to endure, at least for prolonged periods. An irritable Vanitas was even worse—almost unbearable. And sick? Noé snorted loudly.
He didn’t know what that would be like, but he had absolutely no desire to find out. And knowing Vanitas, the man would outright refuse to see a doctor.
Noé let out a deep sigh, tilted his head back, and looked up at the sky. A nagging curiosity stirred within him. He would have really liked to examine Vanitas' blood for an explanation of this uncharacteristic behavior. But he didn’t. First, Vanitas would notice—and that wouldn’t end well for him. Second, his curiosity wasn’t strong enough to justify betraying Vanitas' trust. And third, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.
Vanitas' eyelids fluttered. He felt something warm beneath his cheek—and a murderous headache. Something heavy rested on his stomach, vibrating faintly. The haze before his eyes slowly lifted, like surfacing from deep water without closing his eyes as he broke through.
At first, he could only make out vague shapes, but then his vision gradually sharpened. It took him a moment to realize, first, that a particularly fat cat had made itself comfortable on his stomach, and second, that he had been sleeping—leaned against Noé… Sleeping!
Damn it all…
He jolted so violently that Murr slid off him with an indignant hiss and fled toward Noé. Groaning, Vanitas pushed himself upright. His head punished him immediately with a searing pain that made him squeeze his eyes shut.
The vampire flinched in surprise. Vanitas hissed in pain, clutching his head as he instinctively pulled away from Noé.
Noé stared at him, wide-eyed.
"Are you alri—?" he started, but Vanitas lifted a hand to cut him off.
Then, much quieter and softer than usual, he said, "Let’s go home." Even the usual sarcasm and sharpness were missing from his voice.
Noé opened his mouth to say something but hesitated, then remained silent. Vanitas braced himself against the ground and started moving, unsteady on his feet. Noé walked closely behind him, ready to catch him if he collapsed again.
As soon as they reached their room, Vanitas disappeared onto the roof. Noé, who had no desire whatsoever to scrape what was left of Vanitas off the street later, silently followed him.
For a moment, he looked around until he spotted the slumped figure perched on the rooftop.
Vanitas sat in the evening sun, knees drawn to his chest, arms folded over them, his head resting on top, staring absently at the horizon beyond the rooftops of Paris. The clouds had cleared, and the sun was setting in deep, dark red-orange hues. The spot he sat on was cold, hard, and battered by the wind, but he didn’t move. The dizziness had subsided somewhat, but his thoughts were still racing.
A little quiet on the rooftop suited him just fine.
What would have happened if someone else had found him? The Chasseurs—or worse, Dr. Moreau? Another vampire, one not as peaceful as Noé? Someone could have robbed him, stolen the book—Shit!… The book!
Without thinking, his fingers flew to his pockets. Thank God. It was still there. His breath quickened, and he trembled all over.
What if Noé took advantage of my helplessness? The thought shot through his mind like a dagger.
Panic-stricken, he ran his fingers over his neck—but of course, he found no wound. He berated himself for being an idiot. That fool wouldn’t dare. It wasn’t in his nature to just bite a human like that. He was far too kindhearted for that.
Desperate and ashamed, Vanitas buried his face in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. For a long time, he simply breathed, his hot breath pressed against the darkness of his own grasp. Eventually, he lifted his head again, turning his gaze back to the fading daylight. Even that made his eyes burn after the dimness beneath his coat.
He sighed. Slowly, his gaze dropped to the shingles beneath him, and he absentmindedly began playing with the small pebbles scattered there—rolling them between his fingers, weighing them in his palm, letting them fall, only to pick them up and start again. The cool solidity of the shingles beneath him and the pebbles in his hands grounded him in a strangely comforting way, keeping his thoughts from spiraling too far.
Then, suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine.
Even without turning around, he knew someone was standing behind him, watching. Years of conditioning, he thought wryly.
Then, a large shadow fell over him. Even without glancing at the silhouette, he knew it could only be Noé. Who else would know he was up here?
Still, having someone behind him made him uneasy.
"Sit down, would you? You’re making me nervous, standing there," he grumbled without turning his head.
Noé stepped into his field of vision but ignored the request.
"How did you know it was me?" he asked instead, also keeping his eyes on the horizon rather than looking at Vanitas.
"Your shadow," Vanitas answered simply. "Besides, who else would it be?" he added and offered Noé a tired smile.
He looked up at the vampire.
Even Vanitas had to admit—completely devoid of any romantic interest—that vampires were beautiful. All the ones he had met so far carried themselves with that effortless elegance. They were simply fascinating, stunning creatures. No matter that, to him, they were still selfish beings. Objectively speaking, they were undeniably beautiful.
Noé stood with his profile to the setting sun, its deep orange-red light reflecting in his violet eyes.
"Does it still hurt?"
It was an idle question, nothing more.
Vanitas looked up. "Who says it ever did?"
A skeptical look. A dry scoff.
"That very attractive sound you made when your head hit the bridge railing," Noé replied with a grin.
Vanitas rolled his eyes. "No, it doesn’t anymore."
A raised eyebrow from the vampire, but no further comment.
"Don’t start. As if you actually care. You can’t stand me anyway," the human muttered, fixing his gaze on the ground again.
"That’s true. But I’d rather not lose my personal physician."
A snort—this time from another nose. Then silence.
Noé stared at the horizon, lost in thought.
Vanitas was extremely cautious, always on guard—Noé had noticed it several times. He might be naïve, but he wasn’t stupid. Even though Vanitas tried to hide it, Noé saw how he sometimes sniffed his food first, how his nostrils flared slightly when he did. At first, he had assumed Vanitas was just picky, but by now, he was convinced he was checking for poison.
He noticed how Vanitas always positioned himself with his back against a wall, so no one could sneak up behind him. How he never slept near others. How he tensed, even if just for a fraction of a second, whenever someone touched him unexpectedly—though he hid it well. Vampires had sharp senses.
He had also noticed how Vanitas meticulously ensured that at least two or three layers of clothing separated him from the world, how he always kept his forearms covered. Noé had already caught glimpses of the scars underneath.
They must have been deep wounds.
In more ways than one.
"Let's go inside and get some sleep," Noé said suddenly.
"You go on ahead, I'll be right behind you," came the reply. Noé considered that a blatant lie. Still, he turned to leave, glancing back at Vanitas one last time. His gaze was vacant, with that strange expression that just didn’t seem to fit him.
The vampire shook his head and trudged across the shingles toward the window.
"Try not to fall off, you idiot," he called through the wind.
The distant look on Vanitas' face vanished, like mist swept away by a sudden gust. He looked at Noé, grinned, and called back,
"Says the moron who gets lost all the time!"
"I don’t get lost!" Noé shouted in response.
"Mhm. Sure," Vanitas retorted.
When Noé recognized the familiar mischief in his voice, he felt relief wash over him. Vanitas stuck his tongue out at him, and Noé huffed, a smile creeping onto his lips. He lingered in the room for a moment before lying down. Originally, he had planned to stay awake until Vanitas finally decided to come inside—and to drag him in if necessary—but exhaustion took its toll, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Shortly after 2 AM, the wind and rain outside grew so relentless that Vanitas finally came in. He yawned. He was utterly exhausted, yet he refused to surrender to sleep. Determined to stay awake, he settled into an uncomfortable chair and gazed over at Noé, who was sleeping peacefully.
A small pang of envy stirred in his chest.
Why did sleep come so easily to others? The moment he lay down, his eyes snapped open, and every little movement from Noé startled him awake. And if, by some miracle, he did manage to fall asleep, he wouldn’t really wake up—instead, he’d be trapped in sleep paralysis or tormented by nightmares.
Beyond that, a part of him still warned him against surrendering to the helplessness that sleep inevitably brought in the presence of another person. Rationally, he knew Noé wouldn’t harm him. But unfortunately, his body and instincts weren’t always rational.
Take what happened with Jeanne, for example.
Okay… every interaction with the Hellfire Witch.
His jaw stretched in another massive yawn, and he rested his head against the back of the chair.
Sometimes, when night fell, the shadows in the depths of his mind stirred, trying to claw their way to the surface. In those moments, he pushed them back with all his strength and forced himself to think of something else.
Just like now: What really interested him was whether vampire venom could be used as an anesthetic for humans.
Whenever exhaustion crept too close, he focused on his work as a doctor—it helped him stay clear-headed and alert.
He would’ve liked to test the theory himself, but Noé couldn’t see his memories, and Jeanne was gone. Domi would kill him on the spot.
In principle, he had no objection to being bitten by Noé, but his memories were far too personal for that. Besides, he didn’t want Noé to start treating him like fragile glass afterward or—worse—to approach the whole matter with preconceived notions. Given how emotional Noé could be at times, that could very well end in someone’s death.
Not that Vanitas particularly cared.
And anyway, it was a ridiculous request.
He wondered what a cross-section of a vampire’s fangs looked like. Were they hollow or grooved? Or did they first create an exit wound before injecting venom? Was the venom delivered through their teeth, or was it mixed into their saliva?
He glanced over at Noé, who was clutching his pillow in an unrelenting death grip, and made a mental note to interrogate him when he woke up.
Slowly, despite his best efforts, the very thing he had tried so desperately to avoid began to happen. His wretched body demanded the sleep he had been holding off for far too long.
Pain.
Burning hot iron searing through his ribs.
His throat was raw from screaming—it hurt.
His ears rang with the sound of his own cries.
Over and over again, the dark silhouette of the doctor loomed over him, exploiting his helplessness, the helplessness that had overtaken him thanks to the drug hidden in his food.
It had tasted bitter—so bitter. Why had he let himself be tricked like some dumb mutt?
Tears and blood flowed equally, and through the haze, he saw the doctor’s grotesque, distorted figure drawing closer.
The scream that tore from Vanitas' throat jolted Noé awake like a slap to the face.
The sound crashed through the room, slicing through the air like a fiery whip, searing down his spine and stabbing into his eardrums like red-hot needles.
He was on his feet before he had even fully opened his eyes, claws bared, fangs flashing as he searched for the intruder.
The room lay in darkness.
The moon cast its pale light through the window, illuminating Vanitas’ empty bed and the chair.
But the chair wasn’t empty.
Something was convulsing, writhing.
It jerked and twitched like a creature in the throes of death.
And it was screaming—a piercing, gut-wrenching sound, followed by incoherent murmurs.
A sickening scent reached Noé’s nose.
The stench of sheer, paralyzing terror.
Tense, every muscle coiled, he crept closer… and froze.
The thing writhing in agony on the chair was—
Vanitas.
The sight sent bile rushing up Noé’s throat in pure horror.
The doctor’s skeletal hands were clawed so tightly into the black wood of the chair that it creaked under the pressure.
His face was ghostly pale, slick with sweat. His entire body was locked in a painful spasm.
Desperation. Pain. Panic.
Whatever was tormenting him was so overwhelming that he didn’t even notice how hard he was gripping the chair.
Noé’s heart pounded, his ears ringing with the erratic, stumbling rhythm of Vanitas’ heartbeat and the ragged, labored gasps of his breath.
Was it the injury from earlier that was hurting him so badly?
Was it something else?
Should he intervene?
The vampire couldn’t say for sure— the only thing he knew with absolute certainty was: Something was terribly wrong!
Arms and legs lashed out helplessly, flailing through the air.
Vanitas let out a ghastly sound, somewhere between unimaginable pain and sheer terror, sending an icy shiver down Noé’s spine. He curled up tightly again, his gloved hands clawing into the dark wooden chair. The sharp nails tore through the fabric of his gloves, splintering against the wood.
A strangled sob echoed through the room. Noé flinched and just stared, unable to do anything but stare. The pitiful sound felt like a gunshot fired in a shady alley on a dark night.
Never—not under any circumstances—would he have associated such vulnerable behavior with Vanitas.
Vanitas was proud and sarcastic, dignified and playful. But not like this... so… His brain simply refused to accept that this whimpering, writhing, sickly creature over there was Vanitas.
Then Noé managed to tear his gaze away from the convulsing, thrashing body. Panic surged inside him. What was he supposed to do? Desperately, he scanned the room for anything that could help.
Another whimper.
More out of reflex than conscious thought, he stepped forward and carefully placed a hand on Vanitas’ shoulder. Or at least, that was the plan.
The moment he touched him, Vanitas flinched so violently that Noé instinctively jumped back.
A scream—horrifying and more piercing than any before—ripped through the air as Vanitas lashed out at him.
Noé was so caught off guard that he failed to dodge in time. Vanitas’ clawed fingers raked across his cheek, leaving deep, burning gashes.
Completely stunned, Noé stepped forward again.
"Vanitas?! Vanitas, wake up!" he murmured.
Vanitas struck at him again, but this time, Noé was ready. He caught his hand mid-air. The slender fingers in their black gloves trembled violently, curling as if in agony.
The second hand shot out, closing around Noé’s wrist like a vice, squeezing tight. But it wasn’t a threatening gesture—it felt more like a desperate attempt to break free. His claws scratched uselessly against the vampire’s wrist, leaving fresh, bloody streaks as they shredded his gloves. But Noé grasped Vanitas’ other hand and held them both together.
"Vanitas!" Noé called, his fear rising.
"Vanitas, wake up!"
But Vanitas only writhed, wept, screamed, and struggled.
Noé took a deep breath.
I really hope he doesn’t kill me for this, flashed through his mind.
Then, he gave him a light slap on the shoulder.
Vanitas’ eyes flew open.
They were his blue eyes—yet at the same time, they weren’t.
They churned like the depths of a dark, restless sea. Unfathomable, but carrying the terrible certainty that something lurked deep within the shadows.
They were unfocused, wild—but not in the way they usually were. Not adventurous or mischievous, not teasing or sarcastic.
No, these eyes were haunted. Hunted. Like a gaunt, starving animal that had just been cornered by its predator.
It was as if he were staring straight into the face of horror itself.
Pure, unfiltered panic.
And it was as if he wasn’t even seeing Noé at all. He was staring straight through him.
This wasn’t Vanitas.
This was someone else, wearing Vanitas’ skin.
Noé’s eyes glowed faintly in the dark, but the only emotions in them were open concern and fear.
What was wrong with Vanitas?
"Vanitas, calm down," Noé said.
His voice came out pathetically thin and trembling. He cursed himself for it. He was supposed to be reassuring him, but his own fear was pressing against the walls of the room like a rising tide.
"Don't bite me… please don't kill me!" Vanitas begged.
His claws had buried themselves into his scalp, and there was a wild, desperate look in his eyes, like a trapped animal frantically searching for an escape route.
Noé needed a moment to process what Vanitas had just said.
More importantly, how he had said it.
He had begged.
He never begged.
And it took Noé another moment to hastily close his mouth, hiding his fangs.
"I'm not going to bite you," Noé said, slightly unsure.
Sure, Vanitas smelled incredibly tempting, but first of all, he had no intention of betraying his trust.
And second, he still vividly remembered Vanitas' threat— and he believed him capable of carrying it out.
Vanitas' movements slowly weakened. His chest heaved less violently, his trembling flanks settling.
His eyes gradually cleared. He released his grip on his own hair, fingertips shaking.
"Noé?" he croaked.
His voice sounded weak. Worn down. So... resigned, as if he had already lived through a hundred lifetimes and wasn’t merely at the start of his own.
And beyond that, he seemed completely elsewhere—trapped in the grip of either the nightmare or his memories. Noé couldn’t tell.
He could still see the way Vanitas’ entire body trembled.
"Yeah, it’s me," Noé said, relieved.
Vanitas shook his head, and Noé carefully let go of his wrists. He took a step back.
His eyes flickered to the mirror hanging on the wall.
His reflection stared back— eyes glowing a sharp, bloody crimson in the darkness.
He really did look threatening.
Only now did he realize the position they were in.
Vanitas, curled up and trembling in the chair.
And Noé, standing over him.
It looked as though the doctor had truly become Noé’s prey.
Uneasy, the vampire swallowed and flexed his fingers. Then, he turned and dropped onto his bed.
He stared at his hands, unmoving.
It wasn’t until he felt the wet warmth of blood dripping from his torn wrist and cheek onto the floor that he stirred again.
He heard Vanitas shifting, running a hand through his sweat-dampened black hair.
A deep sigh.
Noé tensed, bracing himself—for a slap, maybe even an attack.
He still didn’t know Vanitas well enough to predict how he would react in a situation like this.
All of a sudden, he jumped up, tore the door open, and disappeared into the dark hallway.
At first, the vampire was completely perplexed. Then Noé wanted to follow him—but let himself fall back onto the bed instead, taking a deep breath.
If the other had really been dreaming about vampires, one chasing after him was probably counterproductive.
He had actually wanted to get some sleep in the meantime, but something kept him from it. And after a while of tossing and turning, he sat up again.
What was wrong with Vanitas?
What had he dreamed of to leave such a reaction behind?
Damn it!
He clenched his hands into trembling fists and gritted his teeth.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
The vampire forced back the burning helplessness.
Blood dripped onto the bed. Startled, he released his fangs from his lower lip.
It took him a while before he looked up again.
He heard sluggish footsteps in the hallway. Nervously, he took a deep breath.
Was this the attack he had been expecting?
Noé looked up expectantly at the exhausted man standing there.
Vanitas looked awful. He leaned weakly against the doorframe, staring at the floor. An unpleasant silence followed.
“Noé—…” Vanitas began, staggering toward the bed.
Noé didn’t miss the slight tremble.
He jumped up to help him, but Vanitas only raised a hand in refusal.
Uncertain, Noé stood in the middle of the room.
“I won’t ask what you dreamed about,” Noé began hesitantly, “but whatever it was, it’s over.”
“How do you know that?” Vanitas croaked hoarsely.
His voice was unusually rough—whether from screaming, crying, or something else entirely, Noé couldn’t tell.
His head jerked up in shock. He hadn’t expected an answer at all.
The blood still running down his cheek splattered onto the floor with the sudden movement.
“You mean it’s… it’s not over?” Noé whispered, horrified, turning pale as a sheet.
Vanitas hesitated briefly. Then, a sad smile spread across his face.
“I actually wanted to know how you knew it was a memory… and not just a nasty nightmare.”
“Only memories are that strong,” Noé said, troubled.
Vanitas pressed his lips into a thin line.
“That’s something only someone with experience would say.”
Suddenly, Noé’s expression hardened.
A snort escaped him—a sound so unfitting for Noé that it caught Vanitas off guard.
He tasted his own blood in his mouth.
He must have bitten his tongue during the dream.
“Why did you scream like that?” came the counterquestion.
Vanitas didn’t answer. His blue eyes just stared into the void.
Resignation. Despair. Rage.
Then, he turned his face toward Noé and smirked.
“And why the threatening look?”
Noé pressed his lips together before hesitantly replying, “It doesn’t matter. The past can’t be changed.”
His answer was vague.
Vanitas let out a bitter, humorless laugh.
Noé seemed just as unwilling to talk about his past as Vanitas himself.
For a while, neither of them spoke, wrapping themselves in their own cocoons of silence.
“Where’s all that blood from?” Vanitas finally asked after a long pause.
Noé flinched again and looked down.
“You scratched me when I tried to wake you,” Noé admitted honestly, holding his wrist into the moonlight.
The blood ran down his arm, dripping onto the floor.
He hadn’t even realized it was bleeding that much.
“Oh,” Vanitas murmured, mildly impressed.
Now, Vanitas also noticed the scratches on Noé’s face and the wounds on his lower lip.
“Let me see,” the human demanded seriously, holding out his hand.
Noé rolled his eyes.
The doctor’s claws had pierced through his gloves, glistening red.
With a heavy sigh, Noé removed his tattered glove and placed his hand in Vanitas’ outstretched palm.
“May I?” he muttered dryly.
Vanitas scoffed, but Noé saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
The dark-haired man also removed his ruined left glove but kept the right one on—something Noé certainly noticed.
Then, he pulled Noé’s hand closer to his face, carefully parting the edges of the wound.
Noé hissed.
Vanitas grinned again.
“Don’t be such a baby,” he teased.
Noé glared at him, but despite himself, a faint smirk played on his lips.
He made a conscious effort to avoid looking too closely at Vanitas’ scars.
Still, he caught himself wondering what lay beneath those layers of coat and shirt.
First, the doctor examined the wounds on his wrist.
Vanitas’ skin was cold and damp with sweat.
Then, he took Noé’s face in his hands and studied him carefully.
“And what’s this?” he asked, nodding toward his punctured lip.
“Bit myself,” Noé replied curtly.
The dark-haired man in front of him raised a mocking eyebrow.
“One would think you know how to handle your own teeth.”
The doctor’s voice dripped with amusement.
Noé was about to fire back a sharp remark but swallowed it down.
Vanitas exhaled once more.
Then, he stood up, ran a hand through his hair— and froze.
Noé watched as his hand slowly dropped, only to rise again hesitantly toward his nose.
He sniffed, dissatisfied.
He still smelled the fear on himself.
Still felt the trembling.
The sweat made his shirt cling to his skin.
He hated it when his body betrayed his weakness.
Grumbling under his breath, he turned away, shrugged off his coat, and hesitated for a moment.
Then, he grabbed a fresh shirt and disappeared into the bathroom.
A shower would wash away the sweat— and hopefully, the memories with it.
Carefully, he undressed and stepped under the warm water.
The heat loosened his stiff muscles as he looked down at himself.
Absentmindedly, he traced his scars with his fingers.
He knew them all by heart.
As if a tiger had tried to maul him.
Most of them were Moreau’s handiwork.
He sighed deeply, dried off, put his pants and shirt back on, and returned to Noé, who had now sat down on his bed and looked up as Vanitas entered.
Vanitas let himself fall onto the bed, buttoning up his shirt.
In the darkness, the other probably couldn’t see much.
But it took him longer than expected, and as he stepped through the moonlight, Noé caught sight of deep scars etched through the thin white fabric.
He quickly turned away to give Vanitas his privacy.
What had he been through?
Noé thought back to the day they had gone into the catacombs beneath Notre Dame. That day, for the first time, he had seen Vanitas without his usual layers of two or three fabrics wrapped around his body. He couldn’t say whether Vanitas had noticed or not, but after they had overpowered the two Chasseurs and stripped them of their clothes, Vanitas had retreated into the shadows of the vast cathedral to change.
Noé had been too excited at the time to pay much attention to him. He had finished dressing and his gaze had shot over to Vanitas. His back appeared from behind a pillar. The blue stained-glass windows flooded the grand hall with an eerie light, making the ceiling seem almost nonexistent.
The massive buttresses supporting the imposing cathedral cast deep shadows. And between those shadows and the pale moonlight, Vanitas' slender back emerged. At first, Noé thought the light was playing tricks on him, but then… No, it couldn’t be an illusion. The doctor’s back was pale and sinewy. His ribcage was visible, but he didn’t seem unhealthily thin. And across his back—his torso, shoulder blades, and sides—ran knotted scars. It looked as if a tangled web of roots had grown over his skin. Again and again, enormous claw marks, as if a monstrous beast had tried to tear him apart.
Looking back, Noé couldn’t say why—perhaps it was the shock—but his coat had slipped from his fingers. With a dull thud, the fabric hit the stone floor, and both he and Vanitas flinched. It had been a quiet sound, but in Notre Dame, late at night, Noé might as well have fired a gun.
"Do you want to start blowing a trumpet while you’re at it?!" Vanitas hissed at him. His head peeked out from behind the pillar, eyes flashing with anger—but also something else… Noé couldn’t quite place the emotion buried in them.
"And you?" Noé managed to say once he had regained his composure. "Do you want to make it easy for the Chasseurs and just wait here for them?"
Vanitas grumbled something unintelligible.
A little later, as Noé climbed the stairs, he nearly tripped. He shook his head. Even later that day, it had been hard to concentrate—even when Vanitas had revealed parts of his secret. Noé didn’t believe he had told the whole truth. But what had surprised him was that Vanitas had trusted him with such a personal piece of information at all.
The entire day had been strange, and Noé had felt that, somehow, they had grown closer. For the first time, Vanitas had asked real questions about Noé’s existence as a vampire. He had also protected him. Of course, they had bickered, but despite everything, Noé had learned a lot.
But the most striking moment had happened after the catacombs.
What had truly surprised him was when Vanitas had leaned his back against him. Even through several layers of fabric, Noé had been able to feel the scars. Or maybe he had just imagined it—after all, there had been a lot of cloth between them.
A shiver ran down his spine as he thought about it.
It had to be said: Noé had felt something like emotion at the fact that Vanitas—a human—had turned his back on him, a vampire, and leaned against him to rest. Either his trust in Noé had grown because of the day’s events, or he had simply lost all sense of reason. Both had seemed unbelievable to Noé at the time.
Maybe, Noé had thought back then, maybe Vanitas had simply been too exhausted.
And maybe, just that one time, the tiny spark of trust and rationality had won against the deep scars of the past.
Noé was abruptly torn from his thoughts when Vanitas threw himself onto the bed with an audible thud. The bed creaked. There was some rustling, and then Vanitas cocooned himself in his blanket, as if trying to hide from his memories.
Just as Noé was about to open his mouth to ask something, Vanitas' voice rang through the dark room:
"Hey, Noé… What exactly are a vampire’s fangs like?"
Noé hesitated—then smiled and began to explain