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It’s just another perfectly uneventful evening. As per usual, Noé is a real riot of a roommate – snoozing at full volume, tossing and turning and mumbling glorious nonsense. “Not sweet enough”, “pink apples”, “mmm-hnnng” and other such words of wisdom.
It’s objectively cute, but Vanitas doesn't know how to appreciate it. Where he should feel endeared, he can only muster jealousy. He longs for a night of sleep uninterrupted by nightmares, but too many knives in his back make it impossible for him to find a comfortable position to rest in.
So despite the late hour, he remains vertical. He keeps the moon company and in return it illuminates his room, giving him a reading light so he can shuffle through his Encyclopaedia of Vampire Anatomy for General Practitioners.
It’s a well-loved book with a faded cover, pencilled notes in the margins and plenty of dog-ears. Vanitas has read it backwards and forwards many times by now, but its detailed illustrations of surgical and physiological techniques never get old.
“Charming,” he chirps at a particularly intricate graphic of a vampire penis. It shares general features with the human counterpart but is significantly larger both in length and girth. Feeling inspired in the late hour, Vanitas pulls his gloves off with his teeth.
The paper is rough under his bare fingertip when he traces the lines of the illustration. The adjoining text purports that the depiction is in life-size scale, but that has to be an inflated claim. It’s too big. Way too big. Vanitas flattens his hand over the page, trying to visualise the image under his palm in three dimensions. He’s pretty sure he wouldn't even be able to reach all the way around it.
An unbidden heat thrums through his core, curls around his spine and rises all the way to his head, making him dizzy. He dismisses it as a perfectly insignificant bodily hiccup. Bodies do weird things sometimes. He should know. He’s a doctor, after all.
And while he’s at it, he also dismisses his favourite textbook’s treatment of the vampire’s sexual organs. Scientists hold themselves to high standards when it comes to honesty, but even the best will make some spicy exaggerations in the name of sales and sensationalism.
“Ta-tatin,” Noé mumbles in his sleep, and that’s Vanitas' cue to find another topic to read up on. He flips the page so fast that it slices the air like a whip.
A sharp pain and then drip-drip, blood trickling. A paper cut. How inconvenient and how painful. It's absurd that something so small can hurt so much. Such quotidian injuries, Vanitas thinks sort of uncharitably, have a lot in common with unrequited feelings.
He’s just about to go to the restroom to clean the cut under cold water when Noé bolts awake, sitting upright in his bed.
“Uh.” Vanitas stops in his tracks, turning his head sideways and slanting Noé an assessing glance, wondering if the vampire is fully awake or acting out some dramatic dream.
Noé’s eyes carry an intensity that just about swallows everything he looks at. His gaze slides down the length of Vanitas’ neck, collarbone, arm, hand.
A spike of adrenaline slits through Vanitas’ chest. Anyone would react to being looked at with such hunger. Fight or flee or freeze... or whatever people with normal nervous systems do. But Vantias’ perverted instincts only allow for excitement. Danger courts his worst tendencies, turning the pulse in his veins into a siren song set to the melody of bad decisions. “I did promise that you could lick the blood off next time I got injured, didn’t I?” He asks into the night.
The night answers the way it does. With flickering stars. Diamond-red eyes blinking, then moving closer. Astermite-fueled street lamps drape a cloak of mystery over Noé’s shoulders, and the moon paints a halo around his head. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice spread thin across his words.
“Why ask? Aren’t you afraid I’ll change my mind?” Vanitas’ smile is sharp as a scalpel. He damn near hurts himself on it.
In lieu of a useful answer, Noé circles Vanitas' wrist and tugs him closer. Even when they’re toe to toe, they don’t see eye to eye. The nearness exacerbates the effect of their height difference, and Vanitas has to crane his neck back. He resents it deeply. “What?” He spits. Noe’s grip is loose enough to wiggle out of with minimum effort, but Vanitas – fuck absolutely everything to hell – doesn’t want to escape.
It would be so much easier if Noé used his power cordially. If he would just drop a stray demand every now and then. But no, all Vanitas ever receives is gentle coaxing, which leaves him little room for plausible deniability. He wishes he could lie (if not to others, then at least to himself) and say that he’s being coerced into baring his soul, but it’s embarrassingly obvious that everything he gives to Noé is given freely.
“Are you sure?” Noé asks once again, quieter this time. He doesn't sound the least bit bored from having to repeat himself. It’s suspicious. No one’s that patient unless they’re waiting for a suitably incentivising reward. Human (and vampire) nature is predictable in that respect. Everybody wants something.
The problem, then, isn't Noé’s friendliness. No, the problem is that Vanitas can’t afford it.
Vanitas screams internally as Noé’s fingers press down on his pulse point. He doesn’t allow anyone to touch him like that – doesn’t allow anyone to touch him at all if he can avoid it. And yet, here he is. “Wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it,” he sneers, continuing his lifetime streak of double dealings. He always means what he says in the heat of the moment, sure, but he also always ends up backtracking.
Well, at least he has the saving grace and spine to wear his prickly personality on his sleeve. He’s very upfront about being bad company, waving his red flags and baring his teeth at anyone who dares approach.
“Of course not,” Noé says in a strange lilt that could almost pass for sarcasm. It’s an admirable attempt, even if it’s undercut by the frown that tucks at his brows.
It makes Vanitas laugh in a way that sounds dissonant even to his own ears. His useless desires chase him out of his skin, leaving him a hollow bell. It’s pathetic how badly he yearns for someone to fill him up. With his heart in his throat and hope wrapped so tight it scratches bones, he croaks, “whatever. I'm sure, okay? You can have my blood. Hurry up and get it before it dries.”
The air crackles with energy, and it all springs from Noé. He embodies the entire sky. His presence is rumbling thunder borne on a hot breeze, and his eyes are sparkling stars, red as the moon over Altus.
To think someone could get so fired up over something so insignificant. Over a papercut. Over a few drops of blood. Over Vanitas.
The unreal reality hits Vanitas hard, a rush that easily outperforms the best medicines on the market. His title gives him access to the good stuff, but his relationship with chemicals is a one-way street from his boredom to the pharmacy. To be the object of cravings is entirely different. In Noé’s gaze, he feels coveted, put on a pedestal he doesn't deserve, high above all highs.
Although Vanitas knows he shouldn’t be trusted with that kind of power, he accepts it. He rolls around in unearned affection like a pig in a mud bath. Carefree but gross.
The worst part isn’t the stare-off, though. It’s the way Noé is the first to give in, fluttering his eyes shut as he brings Vanitas’ finger to his lips, sucking it into his mouth. An inhuman sound rips from his throat, and the ground practically shakes with it. Vanitas struggles to find his footing only to realise he doesn’t need to carry his own weight when Noé holds him tight enough to leave bruises.
How blessed, Vanitas thinks with sardonic relief, to be able to finally let go. He tells himself that he’s just playing along, making his knees go all weak and wobbly on purpose. But somewhere along the line of pretence, he gets swept away, and he finds himself floating on a cloud far above his everyday neurosis.
It’s there, a little glimpse of freedom. And then it’s gone, wrapped up in a single teardrop that pools at the corner of Noé’s eye. It falls heavily, shifting the gravity of the entire room. Vanitas chances a glance at Noé, but what stares back at him is misplaced sympathy.
A whole parade of shivers crawls up Vanitas’ spine, the hair on his nape prickling. “What did you do?” Panic has a tight hold of his throat, scratching every syllable into a hoarse accusation. “You lied. You said you couldn’t see my memories if–”
“I never lied. I told you I might be able to glimpse a few feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings,” Vanitas touchés. Righteously insulted by the false accusation.
“Vanitas,” Noé says in the most offensively forbearing voice. Vanitas doesn't even have to strain his ears to hear the overtones of pity.
Everything that challenges Vanitas’ delicately balanced scales of self-preservation is met with a string of curses. “Shut up,” he spits, finally yanking his wrist free of Noé’s grasp. A phantom heat lingers, and he’ll do anything to make it go away – get himself a cold cloth of denial and press it to his wounds, crush insults between his teeth like ice, get a god damned brain freeze. It’s Noé's fault. Everything is Noé's fault.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Vanitas repeats the only grounding mantra he knows, slamming his flat palms against Noé’s chest to push him back.
Noé is steadfast as a tree. He could easily affix himself, plant roots into the creaky floor and fortify himself with thorns. He could stand his ground. He could push back. He could hurt Vanitas. But he clearly doesn't want to.
It’s frankly offensive, the way Noé yields – lets himself be pushed until the back of his knees hit the edge of his bed, and he falls. The mattress squeaks. It’s a punishing sound which promises that someone will have to pay for breaking its springs. The turnaround rate is quick. What goes around comes back around, and it has Vanitas plummeting into the messy bed he made for himself.
The landing is a mix of soft and firm – there’s hair in his mouth, hard muscle pressing against him. Somewhere, from under him, Noé croaks, “I really am sorry, Vanitas, but I wish you’d be a little more–”
“Stop apologising.”
A heavy sigh drops from Noé’s mouth, making his bangs wave across his forehead. “I promise I didn't see any of your memories. But I… I felt your loneliness.”
For someone brought up in a gilded castle, Noé has horribly unpolished manners. He will drop the rudest remarks with the most innocent charm.
“Do you have to be so difficult?” Vanitas hauled himself to his elbows, looking down at Noé over the tip of his nose. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?”
“I–”
“No.” Vanitas fixes the problem the only way he knows how to. By tactless means. He smacks both hands over Noé’s mouth, silencing the gibberish.
Somehow it isn’t enough. He needs to seal the deal. Moving as though possessed, he drops forward, pressing his lips against his own hands. He feels Noé’s gasp against his palm, and then he feels hands curling around his wrists, tugging experimentally.
“It’s okay,” Noé whispers, like that’s supposed to mean something.
It’s inevitable, Vanitas decides, and he’s nothing if not practical about destiny’s call. He can’t think of a better way to stop the stream of stupidity Noé keeps letting out than to steal the words from his mouth.
But as Vanitas starts to lean in, he gets a little stuck on strategy. The one who moves first wins, that’s the rule. He’s proactive in fights and has thus far in his life treated kissing similarly. Still, he's a doctor, so he aims to do the least amount of harm.
But with Noé, it’s different. He wants to destroy Noé completely. And that – that seems like the kind of thing that requires explicit permission. “Can I?” he asks, hovering so close to Noé’s lips that they share the same bated breath.
Noé makes a noise in the back of his throat and it sounds like confusion. Next thing, he drags Vanitas in by the back of his head, slotting their lips together. The kiss tastes like confusion too, bitter on Vanitas’ tongue.
It’s ridiculous, the whole hell of it. Noé is probably the last to realise what kind of power he has over Vanitas. He’s so oblivious. Any idiot can see it – even Dante knows.
Piqued and peeved, Vanitas claws at Noé’s shoulders. He digs his nails in to leave his mark, decorating Noé’s skin with little crescent moons. “Damn you, you stupid vampire,” he smacks the words against Noé’s lips, adding teeth just to prove a point. “You make a fool of me.”
“How so?” Noé asks, breathless. He brushes a thumb along Vanitas’ jaw. It’s not an instruction, but Vanitas is weak, so he cranes his head back nonetheless, exposing his neck.
“I told you I've only ever been honest with you,” Noé says. There’s a smile in his voice and in the shape of his lips as he presses them to Vanitas’ collarbone.
Every kiss is a pearl in the necklace he licks and sucks into Vanitas' skin. It’s the threat of teeth that does it for Vanitas. He chases the heat, lacing his fingers in Noé’s hair, pulling experimentally. The reward comes in the form of hands around his waist.
“God, you’re so–” Noé starts, but cuts himself off with a thick exhale.
“I’m so what?” Vanitas demands although he’s not sure he wants to know.
“Beautiful.”
And that’s how something that starts with just a papercut escalates into a bloodbath. It’s the last twist of the knife. The one that breaks cartilage and bone, going straight for Vanitas’ heart.
“No.” Vanitas' hands curl into fists, and he bumps them weakly against Noe’s ribcage. But there’s no use in knocking against an open door. The only thing holding Vanitas back is himself. “Shut up,” he laments one last time. At this point, he can’t tell if he’s addressing Noé or himself or the entire universe, and it doesn't matter anyway.
The fight drains out of him, leaving him empty. Without the steam of resentment which fuels him, he is just a hollow chimney for the evening wind to blow through and drag a howling cry from.
Some indefinite eternity passes. Vanitas wouldn’t mind being torn apart by silence and diffuse into the ether.
But the universe is blind and deaf or maybe just sadistic. It never grants him any of his wishes. At worst it gives him hardships, at best it gives him irony. Tonight, it gives him solid arms around his core.
And Vanitas is entirely too wounded to fight back. He has no choice but to let himself be hauled into Noe’s space, face smushing against a firm chest. What a wonderful and pathetic way to hide from the world.
Of course, being a little corrupt and all, Vanitas can’t help but take advantage of his own misery. Can’t help but breathe in the scent of a sleep-ruffled Noé. Can’t help but twist his cursed fingers in the fabric of Noe’s pyjamas. Can’t help himself when he’s broken, and the only thing holding him together is the glue of affection that Noé keeps drizzling on him.
Noé – always so patient, always willing to give a lost cause a chance.
“Can I talk now?” Noe asks – always so damn considerate too, asking for permission instead of just barreling ahead.
Vanitas groans. It’s the only way for him to express the depths of his turmoil. Words simply won’t do.
Guttural noises have an unreliable correlation with language – they can mean just about anything. But Noé hums the way he does when he’s gearing up to say something profound, so he must have extracted an answer he’s happy with from Vanitas’ fumbling attempt at communication.
“Don’t you realise how I feel about you?” Noé's fingers are gentle. Devastatingly so. Playing with Vanitas’ hair like the strings of an instrument.
But it all rubs Vanitas the wrong way. He throws back the question in a snarky tone. “I doubt that you understand your own feelings.”
“And you call me difficult,” Noé scolds, rolling his eyes. “Just–” he scratches the back of his neck, opens and closes his mouth a few times, aborted sentences stuck in the silence before he finally asks, “what do you want?” It sounds a suspicious lot like an open question, a no-consequences game. But those are in the realm of universal cures and unicorns, cute ideas with little hold in reality. There are always consequences lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce – always punishments waiting to drop like a guillotine.
For reasons of insanity, Vanitas takes the bait and answers honestly. It’s a death sentence, and it fits right into his mouth. “Let me touch you,” he says. He doesn't know how to be polite about it, doesn't know how to frame a desire as a question, doesn't know how to be kind or patient or at the very least fucking normal about anything.
He doesn’t know how to be any of the things Noé deserves. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from wanting Noé.
Noé's reaction is rewarding. A hitched breath and a shiver. “Anything you want. You can touch me wherever and however you like.” His eyes are blood-red, gaze falling over Vanitas, down to his lips.
It’s so utterly transparent and ridiculous that it makes Vanitas smile, softer on the edges than is custom.
The gap between them closes again. Vanitas’ eyes close too. His hand finds its way down Noé’s front, flattening over the bulge in his trousers, rubbing against it.
He traces the outline of Noé’s cock with almost-steady fingers, making a case study out of it. There’s no way Vanitas is going to fit his hand around it, but he wants to try – wants to squeeze it in his fist, watch it fill and twitch under his touch.
His pulse drums an offbeat tune in his ears, heat rushing to his head. “I can’t believe I-” but he doesn't dare finish that sentence. A stinging blush creeps down his neck. He can practically feel the colour festering on his skin, painting him pink. So he looks away as far as he can without turning his head, and lets his hands do the work of undoing Noé’s trousers.
He pulls Noé’s cock out through his fly. It really is big. Really is pretty. Really is… a lot of things, but Vanitas can’t put his thoughts together without them ripping apart again.
Luckily, he doesn't need to think – he needs to pour his awareness into his body. To feel. To touch.
Noé’s breath staggers with every little touch. Vanitas isn’t gentle as much as he’s explorative, running thumb and forefinger up and down the shaft, trying to commit the shape and size and measure to memory.
“Vanitas,” Noé says. There’s no follow-up though, all of it lost to heavy breathing. The back of his head hits the mattress fingers, curling in the sheets. Vanitas takes it all in, catalogues every reaction. Maybe it’s professional damage – he’s trained to pay close attention to causes and effects, to symptoms and treatments – in any case, he finds himself fascinated with the mechanics of pleasure. When he curls his fist around the shaft, Noé twitches. When he strokes and flicks his wrist on an upturn, when he circles the head, when he picks up the pace – Noé takes it all so beautifully.
Too enchanted, Vanitas forgets to keep his stupid face in line and drops his mask of aloofness. He doesn't even realise his mouth hangs open until he feels a finger brushing against his cheek, then his lower lip.
“You’re actually really soft,” Noé says. Of course, he’d go and say something to that effect. He very consistently says random and weird stuff.
But despite himself, Vanitas has come to appreciate Noé’s conversational style. He shakes his head almost bashfully, and he swears he can feel his brain bang against his cranium. Absolutely addled.
He channels his embarrassment into focus, tightens his grip around Noé’s cock, stroking up and down, mapping the line of the thick vein on the underside with burning hands and aching teeth.
The drag is dry, and there is probably a whole litany of solutions to that kind of thing, but Vanitas doesn’t have the experience or wherewithal to reach for them. He can think of one fix, though. A sure-fire way to get Noé’s dick nice and wet.
He dips his head, lips parting. The logistics of how he’s going to fit Noé’s cock into his mouth are a little lost on him, but then again, his talent for improvisation usually saves him when he jumps into the fire without a plan. So he lets his instincts move him, becomes a puppet to the pleasure principle. Wetting his lips first, he picks his angle, and then he sticks out his tongue, licking a long stripe from the base to the tip. A hitched breath falls from above, and it goes straight to Vanitas’ ego.
An unwelcome thought creeps forward from the back of his mind, whispering that it would be mannerly to advertise the fact that he’s uninitiated in the world of sex. If nothing else, to warn Noé about the potential sloppiness of what is about to transpire. But Vanitas dismisses it promptly, shoving it back into the vaults of denial where it belongs. He’ll quite literally rather die than admit to being a blushing virgin.
Instead, he sucks the tip of Noé’s dick into his mouth, swiping his tongue over the head. Breathing through his nose, oxygen feels short. Everything is so dizzying. To stop the world from spinning, he closes his eyes and starts moving in earnest. It feels as though his jaw is always clenched, set at an angle to produce insults or nasty rejoinders. Now though, he relaxes. Let’s go.
He starts bobbing his head in time to the melody of Noé’s whimpers, rushing in and backing off slowly as his tongue sings along, flattening against the underside of Noé’s cock.
Suddenly, there’s a hand caressing the back of Vanitas’ head, coming to rest behind his ear. That’s all it takes to make him jump out of his skin. He breathes harder, puffing against Noé’s cock, taking it so deep that it forces tears into his eyes.
Noé’s fingers curl into Vanitas’s hair, tensing. He probably wants to push Vanitas' head down. Vanitas sort of wishes he would.
But of course, Noé, the incurable gentleman, holds the line. He doesn’t overstep a boundary unless explicitly encouraged to.
It is what it is, and Vanitas does what he does – takes everything he can. He sinks down until the limits of his physical form put a stop to the fun, wrapping a hand around the base.
He’s rewarded with a breathy rendition of his name that trails off into puffs and praises. “You’re so good at this,” and “I can't believe this is happening,” and “you look so lovely.”
Life, with all its cruelty and claptrap, has rendered Vanitas immune to compliments. At least that’s what he wants to believe. It's a mystery, then, that his stomach fills with fire, sending heat through his system. His cock throbs between his legs, but he gracefully ignores it in favour of the sweet superiority of self-denial.
The tightness of his trousers is a sweet reminder. When it comes to his body, he tries to maintain the perfect control that the rest of the world denies him.
The fleeting feeling of power wakes a beast inside of him, making him rake his nails down Noé’s thighs. He’s as hungry for blood as a curse-bearing vampire.
The sensation of choking is a rope around Vanitas’ throat, tightening until black dots dance across his visual field. The threat of passing out only makes him double down, chasing oblivion. He feels like he’s running, but there’s no ground beneath his feet.
When the feeling of falling is about to turn his lungs inside out, he catches himself, pulling back and giving the tip little heaving slurps as he catches his breath.
It seems illegal to seek eye contact in a situation so intimate, but the hands at the back of his nape brush soft circles into his skin, and it feels like an invitation. Feeling brave, he cranes his head back. Noé’s eyes are even brighter than usual, his lips soft with panting. It seems that he thrives on falling apart as much as Vanitas enjoys being the carrier of chaos, making them a perfect match.
“If you keep going, I–” Noé starts, gripping Vanitas' shoulder. His touch is hot iron, melting right through skin, bone, defences. There’s so much Vanitas wants to say, but the words clog in his mouth. Deciding there are better uses for his mouth anyway, he licks his lips and sinks back down on Noé once again, humming instead of talking. The vibrations sing slickly in his throat, and Noé hiccups.
Wearing his feelings on the surface, Noé relays his desperation with his failed attempts to keep still, wringing sweetly, twitching with every sucking motion. It’s all too easy for Vanitas to calibrate his moves to the reactions they elicit. The trick to the trade, he quickly finds out, is being slow when pulling off. Taking time to flit his lips over every inch. An elegant dismount.
There’s a lesson somewhere in there Vanitas supposes a little begrudgingly. Something about savouring the taste, texture, temperature of each moment. It’s not a modus operandi that matches his usual style of rushing into things, but he finds that he’s willing to practise patience if Noé is his teacher.
He skates his greedy fingers up and around Noé’s hip bones, pressing down as he sucks the cock in his mouth down to the hilt again, staying a bit longer this time.
Above him, Noé is panting. It’s the sweetest sound of surrender. The hands in Vanitas' hair tighten. And that’s all the warning he gets before Noé spills into his mouth, sighing and shivering and stuttering.
Vanitas swallows because he’s pretty sure that’s what the script dictates. He likes it too, not for the taste, but for the feeling it gives him. Then, refusing to be coy about any of this, he sits up and grabs the sleeve of Noé's pyjamas, using it to wipe his mouth.
“Can I return the favour?” Noé asks, squeezing Vanitas’ waist. A hand ghosts down Vanitas’ side, trailing the line of his hip bone, waiting there – waiting for permission. Vanitas longs for the kind of normality that would allow him to say yes, or at least say no – say something. Instead, he slaps Noé's hand away. Smack and then silence and then shame.
Usually, Vanitas can pull off a convincing disguise of detachment, but unwanted touch does him in every time. He goes rigid, confidence seeping out of him on a gasp. What’s left is just a stiff scaffold wrapped around a cold stone.
The problem is his selfishness. He’s willing to take but never to give, to touch but not to be touched. He wants to feel the weight of Noé’s affection as a tangible reality in his hand, or in his mouth, or inside of him – wants everything Noé will give him, but he isn’t willing to bare himself in return.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to,” Vanitas says, instead of saying ‘I don’t want you to’, which would be closer to the truth but also to his limit of self-disclosure.
“I’m sorry,” Noé says in classic Noé fashion. His impulses consistently reach for apologies, even when it’s uncalled for.
It only makes Vanitas feel worse. He’s the one who should be expressing regret. “Listen, I know it’s a bit weird, but–”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not,” Noé repeats a little firmer.
The argumentative beast inside Vanitas is tempted to throw a moot point back and forth until the heart of the matter is forgotten. But Vanitas is too tired. He shrugs it off.
“Can I hold you?” Noé asks. Back at it with the non-sequiturs, with the weirdness, with the Noé-ness.
Vanitas ought to say no. It’s the least he can do to be true to himself. Instead, he nods. He even initiates the hug. Like a loser.
He doesn't know how to hold or be held, and trying makes him feel more like a dead fish than himself. But it’s not half-bad. He doesn’t exactly feel whole in Noé’s arms, but he doesn't feel broken either, and that at least is something.