The glint in Noé's eyes is all that Vanitas needs to know that they are about to resolve this situation his way, and that Vanitas will Not Like It. Maybe it's fair? Not that Vanitas believes in fairness, but he's heard (only here and there, mind you) that Noé occasionally gets the same feeling from Vanitas.

With that half-second warning, Vanitas finds himself in the familiar position of being hefted like a bedraggled cat into Noé's arms before the momentum of being flung forward robs the air from his lungs as well as the chance to protest.

He has no choice but to watch as the disgruntled guard blocking their exit zooms ever closer and brace himself for impact.

Ah, putain–

~0~

Later, if tasked to describe what came next, he might be able to link that event to now, but not yet. At the moment, all he knows is that there is the most blasted ringing slicing through his head and a persistent sense of…

Oh, he's going to puke.

He's barely conscious, but he feels his body sloshing back and forth or is that because– yup, those are hands, meaning this is someone's fault. Past the ringing he can hear warbling sounds that slowly coalesce into a voice calling his name. Unfortunately, the clearer the voice, the more the urge to vomit rises up his throat until it all crystallizes into Noé asking if he's okay and Vanitas responding by rolling onto his side just in time to heave out whatever happened to be in his stomach that day. He can't for the life of him remember what he ate today. In fact, he's not even sure what day it is. Hmm. That can't be good.

The pressure straining against his skull is almost unbearable for a few seconds while he gasps and lays there. This is dumb. What happened? And why are Noé's hands being so damn touchy – he wouldn't maybe mind at another moment but right now his head hurts and it's dark and – oh. He hasn't opened his eyes.

He squints his eyes open gradually, as much because they don't seem to be listening to him as because the light beyond stings a little. What greets him is possibly one of the most panicked faces he's seen on Noé as of late. His eyes are watery and his mouth is crumpled as if he's one second away from a sob. Oh no. Granted, Noé panics and cries over just about anything, but Vanitas doesn't like seeing him like that. It's annoying and distressing and...

He's carefully wiping Vanitas's mouth with his sleeve, which Vanitas doesn't understand until he remembers the whole throwing up thing.

Gross, he says. Thinks? Unclear. Noé tries to take such good care of his clothes, what's he doing dirtying them for Vanitas's sake?

"I'm so glad you're awake," Noé blurts, wiping his own eyes with the heel of his hand. "I'm sorry - I was just - I didn't -"

Dominique's silhouette swims into view, placing a hand on Noé's shoulder. "Sweetie, you can apologize later, let me take a look at him while you get your things, alright?"

Noé hesitates for a moment before scrubbing his face roughly and standing up. Sunlight streams from the enormous windows lining the hallway of the mansion they broke into to cure a curse-bearer, making Noé's hair glow and form a halo around his face. There's a little tuft at the top that almost vanishes into pure light, maybe like a little dandelion stuck on his head–

Vanitas isn't sure if he blinks too long, or Noé's just that fast or his brain is just that rattled, but one second here's there and the next he's not, and for some reason a jolt of panic goes through him, making the pounding in his head worse, or maybe it's in his chest?

Where is he going? Where - Noé…!

"No? No what?"

Vanitas tries to focus his eyes on her, not understanding what she means. He didn't say no to anything, did he?

Dominique leans over him and pulls one of his eyelids open wide and then the next, and he tries to flail and protest but his limbs feel so heavy and his head is killing him so he tries to stay as still as he can. Not to make things easier for her, of course.

"Can you give me your name and what today is?"

He stares at her.

He knows his own damn name for Christ's sake, but the exact day is so much harder to pinpoint. It feels like slogging through a heavy, muddy marsh. He wonders what it feels like for Noé to go through other people's memories. Is it anything like it is going through your own? Does it change based on whether it's a happy or sad memory, or how strongly you remember it, or –

Dominique snaps her fingers in front of his face and he realizes he got distracted. He swallows hard despite the sting of acid in his throat and tries to pull the words that make a sentence out from his brain and into his mouth. "Vanitas. And it's…" God, he tries, he really does, but what the hell is today? This is certainly not the first time he's found himself wounded around vampires, but usually they're enemies instead of allies and he doesn't have the luxury of time to get his bearings. This may be a very nice change of pace, but the fact that his brain feels like a child's rattling toy is not the kind of thing he likes to advertise to anyone, friend or foe. He schools his face into as neutral an expression as he can and says with confidence he certainly does not feel, "Early May."

Dominique tsks but doesn't say anything else so he must have succeeded. Vanitas closes his eyes against another wave of pain that rolls from the back of his head to the front and grits his teeth. He can distantly feel his fake claws pricking against his palms and tries to focus on that sensation, or the rubble digging uncomfortably into his back. When it passes he lets out a wavering breath and asks, "What happened?"

She lets out a long-suffering sigh that truly rivals his own. "I know you two have this truly bizarre habit of using you as a projectile, but when he threw you at the guard, the old man put up his shield and you crashed headfirst into astermite-reinforced metal." Her voice softens a bit as she says, "You weren't waking up. Noé was beside himself."

As if on cue, Noé trots over, holding Murr, their coats, and one of Vanitas's daggers. Vanitas feels a dizzying sense of relief at the sight, as if merely by his presence things will be easier for Vanitas. Which makes no sense given it's his fault Vanitas feels like absolute shit, but it's a feeling that has been rearing its head more and more often lately, much to his discomfort.

Noé kneels next to Vanitas and touches his shoulder gently, eyes darkened with worry and face tight. "Are you okay?"

Vanitas's vision keeps fogging at the edges, the ringing hasn't stopped, his stomach is still twisting itself like there's spoiled food in there that needs to come out, and he can barely think around the splitting headache. But somehow, despite the fact that he could really lay it on Noé and berate him (and he will, later), Vanitas can't help but mutter, "I'll be fine."

Some of the tightness leaves Noé's face and Vanitas doesn't understand why that matters. He closes his eyes as if that will prevent him from thinking about that too hard. Not like he can think properly right now anyway.

"...How long was I out?"

He hears Noé sniffle at that, but it's Dominique who answers. "About five minutes, give or take. We focused on taking out the guards and clearing our exit."

Ugh. Probably a concussion. But five minutes is pretty good in his book - he vaguely remembers being knocked out for longer than that several times during chasseur training. This is nothing.

Noé's hand is still on his shoulder. It squeezes carefully. "Can you stand up, Vanitas?"

This is nothing, but the thought of gathering up the fractured remnants of his strength to attempt to sit up, much less stand, makes his breath hitch.

He's been through worse. He's been through so much worse, he tells himself as he forces himself to sit up even though pain flares from the base of his neck and bursts through the rest of his head like a whip. He gasps. This was a mistake, a mistake, a –

Suddenly there are arms wrapping around him, supporting his back and cradling him oh so carefully. Vanitas can't do anything but groan and curl in on himself, keenly aware that he is leaning fully against Noé's chest, and hasn't he been in this position before? Ferris wheel, the unbearable weight of his rain-soaked clothes and the gentle heat of Noé's chest against his cold nose– Vanitas can vaguely make out a frantic whisper of I'm sorry being murmured over and over against his forehead. Stop apologizing, he wants to say, if he could make his tongue work.

He can hear Dominique's voice ringing out from above, the words weaving in and out of the crackling static of his head. The word 'doctor' bursts through like a gunshot and he has enough presence of mind to grip Noé's arm and bark out, "No!"

"What - Vanitas, you're clearly hurt, we should –"

"There's nothing they can do… to fix a concussion," Vanitas gasps out. "I just need to rest for a bit… I've been through worse…"

Somehow that seems to be the wrong thing to say, because Noé makes a pained sound and pulls Vanitas in closer. Vanitas's breath leaves him for entirely different reasons as the sizzling skin of Noé's neck presses against his nose and cheek, the scent of cinnamon distracting him from the pain for a brief, glorious moment.

Then Noé slides his arms underneath Vanitas, and everything goes to hell.

The sudden motion makes his nausea bloom like a drop of color spreading in water, head empty as if all his blood got left behind on the ground. Then it rushes back up with twice the force and he almost blacks out, only aware of shoving his hand against his mouth while he pushes air in and out of his nose in an attempt to prevent his tremors from breaking out into dry heaves. His head is going to burst, it's going to burst like an overripe melon, he knows it–

"Please don't make that sound," Noé says brokenly, and Vanitas doesn't know what he's talking about, only knows he needs more of that cinnamon scent to distract him, and if he buries his face into Noé's neck it's only in a desperate attempt to find relief…

Yes, he thinks as the black in his vision takes over completely, that's the only reason why.

~0~

Vanitas knows something is wrong from the mere fact that he is on his back and he can feel the glare of sunlight on his face. He is a side-sleeper by choice and in the rare occasion that he sleeps far enough into the day that there is this much light he's usually cocooned himself into the covers to prevent exactly what is happening right now.

A pounding headache and stiffness spreading all along his neck quickly take priority and he surmises he got injured somehow. His stomach also seems to have some complaints, if the slight nausea is anything to go by. Wonderful.

Knowing that something must have gone out of his control for him to be in this situation is enough to ignite his irritability, but the spark is snuffed out in ice water as he shifts and becomes abruptly aware of the entire length of a body pressed against his left side. He freezes and tries to control the sudden hammering of his heart and the way it feels like it drives needles deeper into the softest parts of his brain.

Then the sound of a familiar snore makes him all but groan and roll his eyes. Noé. Of course.

He risks peeking through one sleep-sticky eye and sees that indeed it is Noé, on his side with his back to him, somehow managing to fit his enormous frame onto the edge of the bed. He's lying above the covers, for which Vanitas is infinitely grateful but this doesn't answer why, given his own bed is a mere few feet away.

The light disturbing his sleep earlier is in fact the rays of the late afternoon sun dipping past the window on its way to its daily slumber. It bathes the room in a warm, golden glow and Vanitas finds himself staring at the way Noé's hair glimmers against the light once more, this time a fiery orange. A few of the individual strands look like threads of molten metal that Vanitas's fingers itch to touch.

But not now. The tension in his body is suddenly too exhausting to keep up, and he lets himself relax despite the lingering discomfort in the back of his mind about being this close to someone while he sleeps. But maybe it's not so bad. The warm and comfortable press of Noé's body works like a weighted blanket, and if there's anyone Vanitas could maybe, possibly, tolerate this close to him… he supposes it would be Noé. After all, he can let the man kill him but not sleep in front of him?

Satisfied with his justification, Vanitas turns his head and lets himself sink into sleep again with the faint waft of cinnamon encircling him.

~0~

When next he wakes, the clock on the bedside stand ticks close to two in the morning, but Vanitas doesn't need it to know. He's always felt a special kinship with the dead of the night as a companion in his never-ending battle with insomnia. It's either a moment of peace and solitude or tormented thoughts.

Moonlight graces enough of the white windowsill to reflect some light into the room, but most of it is shrouded in darkness. He can barely hear Noé's soft breathing across the room, the sound broken up by sleepy murmurs and frequent tossing and turning.

At first, it seems like any other night – or at least, a night where Vanitas goes to sleep early and in the hotel, but the twinge that races up his neck and straight through the center of his head reminds Vanitas suddenly of the series of events that led to the now. At least it's crystal clear now, the earlier fogginess gone. Vanitas almost wants to groan at how stupid the situation is. To think he got a concussion from getting thrown by Noé. At least he'll be able to hold this over Noé's head for the rest of his life.

He gingerly turns his head to watch Noé, who is tangled in the bedsheets with one innocently indecent bare foot poking out and the slightest gleam of drool on his chin. The side of Vanitas's mouth quirks into a smile despite himself. Noé's arms are wrapped around his pillow, cradling it securely against him in what looks to be the world's most comfortable position.

I want to be that pillow.

The thought pops into his mind completely unbidden, and he freezes. His brain, usually so good at staying in line and suppressing anything and everything, supplies him with the memory of the last time he was awake – the heavy press of Noé's body against his side and the enticing scent of cinnamon wafting from locks of hair that looked so soft they begged to be petted like Murr.

He tries to shut down the image as fast as he can, but the effect remains: a shudder that leaves his breath caught in his throat and heat blooming across his cheeks.

Oh god. He slaps his hands over his face and proceeds to berate himself with a litany of denial. It's obviously due to the concussion, his head is just still addled and he's a red-blooded male with an admitted bit of touch starvation - of course something as intimate as sleeping next to each other is making him have weird thoughts. This really is Noé's fault - what was he doing there in the first place?

He's in the middle of a whirlwind of denial and justifications when he hears a sleepy "...Vanitas?"

Vanitas freezes.

"Are you awake?"

He grits his teeth and lowers his hands from his face. "...Yes, Noé."

The bed rustles as Noé half sits up, his pajama top slipping off one dark, smooth shoulder and the other hand coming up to rub his eyes. "Oh! 'M so glad…" He yawns and wobbles in place. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. Just a mild headache."

Noé's face falls a bit. "...Of course… d'you need anything?"

"No, Noé, now go back to sleep."

Undeterred as per usual, Noé presses on. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Noé's head cocks to the side like the world's largest, droopy-eyed dog. His voice is so thick with sleep it's a wonder Vanitas can even understand him. He supposes at this point he's had a lot of practice. "But your heartbeat picked up."

"No, it didn't."

"Yes, it did, wha' happened?"

Vanitas groans. "Alright, you caught me. I was envisioning Jeanne in a very, very low-cut corset and a rip along her skirt at a quite convenient location if you catch my drift. Now stop listening to other people's heartbeats. It's creepy," he adds.

There's a pause during which Vanitas is hoping Noé is deeply regretting starting this conversation, but Noé simply yawns again. "Sorry… it's a habit."

Despite his goal of ending this exchange as quickly as possible, Vanitas cannot resist saying, "You make a habit of listening to people's heartbeats? You absolute pervert."

Noé lets himself fall back onto the bed and buries his face into his pillow again, making it hard to hear as he murmurs, "No… just yours…"

Then the asshole has the nerve to fall asleep, leaving Vanitas to wonder why it feels like his chest is caving in and how it's not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

~0~

A gentle metallic clink and the scrape of a chair on the thread-bare carpet rouse Vanitas. As intended, the covers wrapped around him shield his face and give him the privacy to orient himself without letting whoever is in the room know he is awake. The faint light filtering through and the bustling noise of carriages and clamoring paperboys tell him it's morning, though the exact time eludes him. He takes stock of his body, carefully tensing and untensing his muscles from head to toe to determine his physical state after yesterday's fiasco. The headache that has seemingly decided to settle into the front of his skull for the foreseeable future is bearable, at least, and his stomach is noticeably more settled than what he remembers. But his body feels completely off, rested from sleeping longer than he normally does but somehow still sluggish, like an engine that's serviced and ready to go but has no fuel.

As if on cue, his stomach contracts painfully and lets out a slow meandering growl that makes Vanitas want to hide his face even further into the covers because there's no way whoever is there didn't hear–

"...Vanitas?"

Noé whispers it out carefully as if there's any chance Vanitas isn't awake, but Vanitas isn't sure he wants to give him the satisfaction, or if he's even ready to face him yet after last night. On the other hand, does Vanitas need to get used to this? Showing his every vulnerable side to him? He has already, so many times, but it always feels fresh, like Vanitas is ripping off a smaller, but still new bandage. Times of crisis are one thing, but here… in their mundane hotel room, in the safety of his cocoon…

"I made you breakfast," Noé continues whispering. "Well, not made, but… prepared? I figured you would be hungry."

Oh. Well, that does tip the scale… He is painfully hungry now and isn't really going to feel any better until he eats, he imagines. So he purses his lips and shuffles around slowly until he's sitting up and the covers have slipped off enough to reveal his face.

Vanitas looks around the hotel room first, noting the disaster of Noé's bed and their jackets strewn over the chair in the corner. He realizes now that while he is still wearing his pants and shirt, his vest and shoes were thankfully taken off. That being said, he'll be requesting that Amelia change out his bedding now that it has been dirtied by his street clothes. A faint breeze trickles through the open window, making him feel more alert already.

He finally lets his gaze fall upon Noé, fully dressed and sitting next to his bedside, at attention like a golden retriever awaiting his orders. Vanitas rolls his eyes a bit and says, "Good morning to you too, Noé. If you're trying to rid yourself of the title of absolute pervert and creep, sitting next to someone and waiting for them to wake up is hardly the way."

Noé's lips twist into a mild pout, but it appears he's getting better at not rising to the bait because within a second he stands up to reveal a platter of food set on a butler tray behind him.

"Ta-da!" he says, waving his arms, eyes starry with pride. "Amelia made the eggs, but I spread the jam and butter on the bread and made the coffee just the way you like it!"

Vanitas wonders if this is Noé's way of returning the favor, given how Vanitas had baked for him after… that incident. It's certainly a nice change of pace from the long-winded apology he was expecting. He raises one thin eyebrow. "I'm not so much of an invalid that I need my bread prepared for me like a child but… I applaud your efforts nonetheless." He pauses, rolls around the words in his mouth first and then adds, "Thank you. I am in fact starving."

Noé beams.

Vanitas's eyes flicker down to his lap and he busies himself with rearranging the covers to make way for Noé to settle the tray on his lap. A plate with a poached egg and a few slices of a baguette sit with a small cup of coffee on a saucer. Vanitas doesn't usually eat more than the bread with cheese and jam most mornings, but the egg is definitely a welcome addition today. He starts with the coffee, taking a careful sip of the hot beverage. The color is right but with Noé you never know…

"Oh," he murmurs as lowers the cup. "You got it right."

Noé leans forward, a blush of excitement on his cheeks. "An espresso with half a teaspoon of cream, right?"

Vanitas chuckles a little despite himself. "Us Parisians call it a noisette, yes."

He decides to start on the poached egg while it's still warm. It's rather uncomfortable to have Noé avidly observing him as he eats but he can't find it in him to ruin Noé's good mood after he's gone through all this effort.

"So," he begins after dabbing his mouth with a napkin but before his brain can catch up, "Care to tell me what you were doing sleeping on my bed yesterday? It was quite difficult to sleep with someone's giant frame taking up half the bed."

What Vanitas is expecting is for Noé to get flustered and blurt something out that will be an easy excuse to latch onto and then Vanitas will be able to scratch that itch and write off the incident forever. What Vanitas gets is a series of emotions that does start out with discomfort, but flitters through guilt, confusion, narrow-eyed consideration, and then ends with a much milder version of the fluster he'd been searching for.

There is a hint of color high on Noé's cheekbones, and he runs his gloved hands one over the other as if nervous, but his gaze doesn't waver from Vanitas's. "I'm sorry if that made it harder for you to get some rest. I just… didn't want to be far from you." He lowers his gaze a bit and mumbles, "I was really worried, you know?"

Vanitas is trying to scramble for a response as Noé chucks yet another open-hearted curveball at him, evading all of his attempts to steer this ship back onto safe waters.

"A-as you should be!" he says, turning his head away with a delicate sniffle. "I mean, look at the damage you caused."

He reaches up to touch his head more for the dramatic pose than anything else, but his fingers brush against what is a surprisingly large and tender bump on the top of his head and he winces sharply. He tries to probe further and feel out the knot, but has to give up almost immediately as even the feather-light touch of his fingertips causes a throb of pain to surge from the spot.

"Is it bad?" Noé is back to whispering, shoulders tense and eyebrows pulled into a frown.

"It's fine," Vanitas mutters automatically. He picks up his fork and stabs the runny remains of the poached egg with enough force to obnoxiously end the conversation.

But Noé simply sighs and says, "I'm supposed to ask you if you remember everything from yesterday, and what today's date is."

Vanitas rolls his eyes. Of course his pointed food stab did nothing to deter Noé. "Yes, yes, I remember all of that." Mostly - the immediate aftermath of the incident is a little fuzzy, but he's certainly not going to let Noé know that. "And today is May 7th. Or 8th. Whichever, close enough."

Noé's eyes narrow with suspicion, but then he sighs again and agrees, "Close enough. It's the 8th."

Vanitas hums around another sip of coffee and eyes the sloppy spread of jam and butter on the baguettes, bits coating the sides and promising sticky fingers. My but Noé can barely be trusted even with that. There is a blessed moment of silence, and then Noé begins to fidget.

Oh no. It's coming, isn't it? He couldn't have just stopped at serving him breakfast?

"Vanitas, I need to apologize–"

Vanitas sets the coffee down with more force than is strictly necessary. This promises to be a long-winded and uncomfortably heart-felt apology and Vanitas cannot handle that at the moment.

"Yes!" he cuts in. "You definitely should! You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Noé." The words and pointing fingers flow on autopilot because if there's one thing Vanitas is good at, it's refusing good will. And besides, this is his chance to begin the long triumph of holding this over Noé's head as he's been intending. "I may be near invincible if I do say so myself, but you're a beast with zero understanding of his own strength. Any human would be at risk with a gorilla like you. You should treat me with a little more respect, after all, I am– afgkugh–"

He is rudely interrupted by a piece of bread being shoved into his open mouth. Vanitas blinks once, twice, and is unable to process more than a feeling of thorough indignity - or is that just the jam getting all over his mouth?

"You're right," Noé says, grabbing Vanitas by the shoulders now that he's been rendered speechless by a piece of bread too big to eat in one bite. "Even though I told you back in the catacombs that you needed to take better care of yourself as a human, somehow I made myself an exception, thinking that I would never hurt you, that I alone knew your limits and would never cross them. Instead, I treated your body with disdain. I'm sorry."

Who talks like that? Vanitas thinks desperately, squirming in place and trying to look anywhere but at Noé's furiously earnest eyes while simultaneously trying to chew the bread without dropping the half still sticking out of his mouth. And where did Noé learn such a devious tactic?

The fingers on his shoulders loosen a fraction, the grip softening along with Noé's expression, but it doesn't offer any actual freedom when Vanitas tries to jerk away. His only defense is to chew faster and intercept the next onslaught of emotion he can feel coming from Noé's gentle eyes.

"Vanitas. I know you don't like to hear it, but you're not quite as unlovable as you believe."

Vanitas chews faster.

"You're precious to me," Noé continues, unaware or uncaring of Vanitas's predicament. "And I promise to treat you and your body with the care you deserve."

Oh god. This is… the stupidest thing he's heard Noé say… and yet, he can feel his whole face beginning to burn. The way he's phrased it sounds like the kind of melodrama Vanitas usually relishes in spouting, especially once upon a time to Jeanne. But unlike Vanitas, Noé's brilliantly purple eyes are unflinchingly honest and staring at him with an intensity that seems even higher than usual…

Then comes the pièce de résistance, the final indignity . Noé leans over and gently, so gently, presses a kiss to his forehead.

Vanitas can feel the tickle of Noé's bangs against his nose and a puff of warm breath over his skin, the heat spreading from that singular point and lighting every nerve on fire until it reaches his recently-injured and still very delicate brain and completely short-circuits it.

He's been rendered speechless yet again and through even more devious means this time. Vanitas tries to derive comfort from the blush on Noé's own face, but the bastard somehow looks satisfied and that makes it impossible.

Vanitas is sure that steam is coming out of his ears at this point.

"Don't… ever do that… again," he finally manages weakly, but even to his own ears it sounds strangled and unconvincing. "It's just a concussion. Hardly… the worst thing I've had to deal with, so there was no need for… all that…."

But Noé just laughs happily, as if a weight has been thrown off his shoulders and everything is alright in his world, and what power does Vanitas have in the face of that? He has no choice but to dip his head to hide his face, unable to control the way his lips tremble as he tries to process the unfamiliar clench of gratefulness and the desperation of bewilderment. He doesn't know how to thank him, nor how to explain that Noé is certainly dooming himself with his most naive proclamation thus far, so the only thing he can do is remain silent and pick up another one of the slices of bread and bite into it.

When he risks a glance at Noé, the vampire's face is so bewilderingly fond and knowing that it's clear he understood somehow. And Vanitas hasn't let himself think about what happiness could possibly mean for a person like him, but maybe… if he can wish for something beyond how to die… maybe this can be it.