Black hair, blue eyes, and no pictures. For years this is all Vanitas has of his mother. And for a while he is content with this, as content as a child who knows no better can be. For the stories he is fed on, from the people who knew her, who travelled with her, sustain him when he has questions, and when they mention how the hue of his eyes and the tone of his hair is a lot like hers, whether it catches the light or not, he feels a little pleased.

And then his body lengthens and he becomes observant enough to see the strange grimace on his father's face whenever his own cuts out a sharper set of angles along the pane of a mirror, angles that are neither reflected in his father's jaw-line or across the space of his cheek.

You look like her.

The sentiment is never spoken, not by his father. It doesn't have to be. And Vanitas grows to resent it, to feel fury spike in his gut as his father stares gormlessly at cooking pans, wearing a helpless look of dismay every time it's his turn to nurse soup over the fire, to chop meat and vegetables up into something that won't hit the bottom of a pan like a landslide, and that will eventually crisp into something black, when he forgets to stir.

So furious is he, that Vanitas learns, in no small part due to spite, how to cut leeks into curls that resemble crescent and full moons both, how to slice the meat just thickly enough for it to sear into the pan and not burn all the way through whenever it floats into the golden oil. And he never forgets to stir.

His father looks at him as he does all these things and something passes in his eyes. Sadness, perhaps. Pain, most definitely. And it worsens by the year as Vanitas grows, as his hair falls into his eyes, and he has to learn to brush it aside impatiently, or else tie it back.

'She had a temper too,' one of the jugglers tells him, one evening as Vanitas clucks his tongue and glares down as a piece of chicken that's become a little too bruised with dirt to be deemed usable. 'Just be thankful that your son hasn't learned to curse up a storm the way she did!'

This last part is directed to his father and Vanitas feels a strange mix of grief, rage, and guilt as his father's face closes off. And that feeling only worsens the next day. as his father's arms branch out to cut out away part of the vampire face as its teeth fall across the throats of every person Vanitas has ever known, and all to stain them red.

Vanitas stares at the fall of his father's body, at the way it lies before him, so messy and cluttered, like everything the man did in life.

I'm not her, he thinks. You shouldn't have bothered saving me.

And still it sits in him, that cold, hard curl of hope that maybe his father felt something for him other than resentment for the way a ghost of the woman he had loved lay inside the shape of Vanitas' face, and dared to breathe there.

But what sinks in deeper, and never leaves, is the knowledge that he'll never get the chance to know for sure.

Hope dies. It flat-lines. And it barely so much as flickers, when a boy called Mikhail sits at his feet, in the cage they both share, and chatters and chatters to him, in a way no one has ever quite done before.

Because to Mikhail he is nothing but an older boy, one who does not bear an uncanny resemblance to a woman who was never allowed to die in the memories of those who knew her. No, here, he is saviour, harbinger, and brother.

Someone who is willing to say no, take me instead, when the doctors step forward with their surgical tools, ready to rake them like swords across their skin. And each time he does, each time he bears the brunt of the pain, takes the slice of the scalpel that was meant for Mikael alone, Vanitas wonders if this is what his father felt like in his final moments. Wonders if was the similar churning of red-hot rage and ice-cold fear that he feels when he sees the terror forcing Mikael's eyes wide. Wonders. Wonders. And hurts.

And then on the day when Vanitas realises it was pointless, it was all pointless, his volunteering has chased away more of the body he was born into, altering it into something that will now, not for much longer, be human, and not even Mikhail has been spared, soon his mind will break along with Vanitas in the chairs they have been strapped into-

There is a crash of noise. Scientists scream. Electricity flies and flares, flying them alive. Metal is crushed and inside Vanitas' mind, there is the sound of a door flying open.

And now there is a stranger with long hair that wavers like a river before them both, their arm curling around Mikael like a mother, who looks at him with blue eyes beneath their hood, eyes so much lighter than his own, who asks him the same question the travelling band of performers must have asked his father the day he was born-

Will you come? Away with us?

Perhaps hope has not died away completely. Because it gives one tiny flicker inside Vanitas's chest, before it unfurls with a mighty roar as he takes a step forward. And another and another, shaky and soaked with sweat, as he walks and walks up to this new person and refuses to fall into anyone's arms.

Vanitas sneers down at a pot full of something thick and brown, that crunches when Mikhail prods an experimental finger against it.

'Huh,' he says. 'It looks like mud. But it's not at all squelchy like it!'

'It was,' says Luna, with an apologetic tilt of their head. 'Supposed to be mousse.' And they fold their hands together like an a nervous child, in expectation of a harsh scolding.

Well. Vanitas would hate to disappoint.

'Mousse,' he repeats with a sneer, the words shooting from between his nearly clenched teeth like bullet. 'Mousse? It's tar. How did you even- STOP THAT!' he roars, rapping Mikhail's finger as it sneaks out a brown curl of the self-proclaimed mousse. 'You'll get sick and I'll be the one who has to make sure she-' and here he points an accusing finger up at Luna-'doesn't accidently kill you when she tries to nurse you!'

With a pout, Mikhail rescues his bruised finger and swallows down a remnant of the brown sludge still clinging to it in a show of defiance. He damn near gags at the taste though, and Vanitas' glare quickly hardens into a glower.

'S-so?' Mikail stutters out. 'Father's much nicer when he's the one taking care of me!'

'Oh? In that case, would you rather I let you choke down the poppy seeds she gives you the next time you fall sick?'

Luna shrugs. 'They're supposed to help with the pain.'

Vanitas narrows his eyes. And to his great dismay, ends up having to chase Luna from the bedroom later on that evening as soon as Mikhail starts complaining of an upset stomach.

'I can make medicine!' the great and mighty vampire of the Blue Moon exclaims, carefully fending off the broom Vanitas sticks in their face, though a few sticks wisp past the ends of their fingers and end up protruding into their forehead anyway.

Undeterred, Vanitas just sticks the broom into their face harder.

'Leave,' he enunciates coolly, and with an unmistakable pout, a little too similar to the one Mikael constantly likes to wear, Luna does.

Vanitas promptly drops the broom and whirls back to Mikhail's shuddering form, now wrapped deeply beneath the duvet. 'I told you,' he hisses, ruffled like a cat at the sight of the other's face, now crumpled in pain. 'I warned you not to eat it! You have nobody to blame but yourself!'

Still, his hands, when he lays rags of fabric, cooled with water, across Mikhail's forehead are soft and careful. The same way Luna's hands are later, when they sneak back into the bedroom, under the threat of Vanitas' warning glower, and slip their fingers round Mikhail's own.

'I'm sorry,' they coo. 'I'll practise! I'll get better, you'll see!'

Don't bother, Vanitas wants to say.

'Don't worry,' Mikael says instead. 'Brother's much better at cooking! You don't need to learn.'

Vanitas's jaw sets and he stalks from the room before he grows even sicker at the sight of the pair of them.

I'm not your mother, he thinks darkly. And pushes aside the strange, almost soft and yet razor-sharp feelings that curdle his stomach at the thought that maybe, maybe these people, could ever care for him the way a family should.

'You chased the Vampire of the Blue Moon with a broom?' Noé echoes. His eyes are wide, not with his usual wonder but with surprise at the idea that this fairytale being, so long the villain in all the tales vampires paint about them, could have flinched away from such an object wielded by the unsteady hands of an adolescent human.

Vanitas snorts. 'An idiot who thinks a sick child should be fed poppy seeds, deserves far worse. They got off rather lightly, all things considered.'

He turns his back on Noé, before he can see those wide eyes soften, the emotion inside them gentling into their usual fondness whenever that vampire lets out the smile Vanitas is still stupidly bad at dealing with. Instead, with a well-practised mutter, Vanitas leans down and picks up a few books from where they have slipped from the desk.

'Do you have to pile them up near the corner like that?' he asks in mild exasperation. 'Of course they're going to fall!'

Noé hums, not sounding sorry in the slightest, the bastard. 'Will you cook for me too? I'd like to taste it sometime; the cooking that impressed the original Vanitas.'

Vanitas' hands flutter to a stop over the spine of the nearest book. He grits his teeth. And straightens.

This is the trouble with Noé; give him an inch, and sometimes, when he least expects it, he'll reach out and take a mile. Of information, of trust, and all the other things Vanitas has tried never to allow anyone to touch.

The idea of him even talking to Noé about Luna, the one who marked him, who made him kin, who dragged him even further from being human, who he hates and hates-

-who also lay a hand on his when he never asked for it, who walked with him through whirls of silver snow, who gave him a home, someplace without pain, without a father with sad eyes, where there was only Mikhail and Luna with eyes of blue, a blue that now stole into his own eyes to erase the darker hue his dead mother had gifted him with-

Luna, the original Vanitas, now as distant as the moon, who floats into his mind before he can push her back, whenever he thinks of the word 'mother' and what it may have been to have one in his life-

Who he hates and hates and loves-

Vanitas bites the thought back. He has never intended to talk about her, them, with Noé or anyone.

But Noé has slurped down Mikhail's blood. And seen things Vanitas should snap at him for, should refuse to talk about and now...

Vanitas doesn't understand what it is about Noe that makes him share things. Not many, just a few, but still far more than he should.

So he breathes out, makes the sound harsh and frustrated, and prepares himself for war.

'You have the entire staff of this hotel at our beck and call; you don't need me to cook for you.'

'I know. That's why I said I'd like it, not that I need it.'

Vanitas turns; reads the smile on Noé's face and sees that it's not quite smug, not the way he, Vanitas, would have made it, but still skirting the line of self-assured just enough to mean Noé's after something. It's infuriating.

So Vanitas bristles. Because he's allowed enough concessions.

'Good! Because you've never having any! Go bark at someone else about it, you spoiled child!'

Ah, good that gets the annoying smile vanishing from his partner's face! Vanitas grins as Noé frowns, and goes back to arranging the books within the shelf of his arms. Then, grin widening with every step he now stalks over to Noe, he stops and lets them fall, pages crinkling and covers flapping, onto the vampire's lap.

'Clean up after yourself!' he snaps. Amongst the brief waterfall of paper and neatly printed words that swirls and billows and temporarily shields him from Noe's anger, he puffs out his chest. 'You're old enough to learn how to do it!'

Then he flees the room.

Out of spite, Vanitas bakes a cupcake. A warm, brown, treacle-soft thing, with only a hit of butter-like icing to decorate the sponge beneath. He doesn't want to appear too nice, after all.

And so he gives it to Jeanne. He realises his mistake as soon as she melts over it, chewing with relish as her eyes flutter shut with a small moan of appreciation. Which does awkward things to him in all the wrong places.

Then her eyes open and she stares at him, something soft and hungry in her expression, the way perhaps his father and mother may have stared at each other before Vanitas burst into the world all those years ago and ruined everything...

And so Vanitas soon finds himself fleeing once again.

'I'm sorry,' Noé tells, him on the rooftop where Vanitas attempts to bury his face in his knees and ignore him. He leaves his neck open to the night though, the red rose of Jeane's mark blooming into what he hopes is full view, despite the fall of his hair, as it remains perched prettily above his jugular. 'I know you don't like that I've seen parts of your past, and I know that you don't want to talk about it; but sometimes when you let us mention it, when the conversation takes that turn...' he trails off unsure.

Vanitas gets it. He does. As much as he tries to keep them buried, as much as he's tried to erase every trace of Luna from this horrible world, some part of him wants to remember her, wants to share what he knows of her with others. She's stuck inside him, wrestled into every secret part of his heart, clouding his hate, dogging his mission and cluttering up his tongue with secrets.

Just like how Noé has now become an immovable barrier, something he can't cut away with his knife. Someone he can't kill. Someone who might now know his original name, thanks to Mikhail and a hundred things more.

Vanitas is terrified by this thought. And too cowardly to ask and discover how little of himself remains truly hidden from Noé's eyes.

Still...

'Vanitas?' Noé calls, Noé asks, and Vanitas breathes out, reminds himself that no other name has yet to fall from his partner's lips. And relaxes, just slightly, as Noé shifts to sit beside him.

And Vanitas listens to him breathe as he does so, wonders at the rustle and rush of his own breath, at how it compares and contrasts. Does he still breathe like a human would? If he ever changed too much, became too unstable, hardly human, would something in his pulse give him away? Would Noé feel it? Would Jeanne?

'What do you want?' he finally asks back.

Noé breathes out some more. 'Just to be with you,' he eventually replies and Vanitas jerks, dares to glance up at Noé's face and is once again shattered by the revelation of his smile. 'Sorry,' Noé adds, because of course he is. 'I know you find it annoying; but I just felt like saying it. And I can't be bothered to lie.'

Vanitas stares at him. That's a funny thing to want, for someone you claim to still dislike, he wants to snip out. But he doesn't.

'...I'm still not cooking anything for you,' he manages.

Noé's smile becomes an outright grin, before it erupts into a small puff of laughter. And Vanitas bristles, in no way mollified when Noé shakes his head after a few seconds and refuses to elaborate on what, exactly, is so funny about what Vanitas just said.

Most people don't find Vanitas funny in the slightest. It's a mark of how strange Noé truly is.

Still, Vanitas will allow it. Just as he will allow himself to maybe, just briefly, lean against Noé, enough to feel Noe tense for a few precious seconds, to hear the breath stutter in his throat. But Vanitas will be careful not to look at his face, not to stare into his eyes. He knows, or can at least guess, at the expression he will see there.

And he doesn't want to see it. Not one echo of what his father may have looked like when he stared at his mother; it's bad enough just seeing it on Jeanne's face.

Vanitas lets a hand fly out, lets it twist through his hair. Dark hair, hair his mother cursed him with, along with the rest of her beauty. It may have been better for everyone if she hadn't. Maybe his father wouldn't have cared enough to die for him then and then Vanitas would have never been here tonight, breathing. A different story would be playing out here, perhaps a better one.

Maybe...

Noé's shoulder twitches beneath his head. And Vanitas knows it's time to move, to crawl away, before Noé asks him if he's cold or else tries to pull him inside. Or maybe even decides to do something even more daring.

And Vanitas is nowhere near brave enough to handle something like that.

In the morning, he steals down to the kitchen, and watches the glow of his eyes in the stainless steel of the pans. He hesitates, staring into the blurred blue irises his mother didn't leave him with.

No, Luna did that.

Angry, spiteful, and with maybe something else coiling in his guts, Vanitas cracks eggs into a bowl he liberates from a shelf, and sieves flour with a vigour that would have caused Luna to laugh outloud. And resolves to let nothing even so much as approaching the shape of an apple to fall into his hands. And more importantly, out of them, into the bowl.

He told Noé he wouldn't cook for him, and he's not. But baking is not cooking, not truly. And Vanitas will cling to such a superifical definition with all the petty strength he's got left.

He leaves the plate beside Noe's head half an hour later. Steals his way out of the door, as his partner's eyes blink open, the scent of an orange scented spongue already coaxing him into wakefulness.

Vanitas doesn't expect anything. Not praise, or thanks, or even a hum of appreciation. Doesn't want it either.

But perhaps, for once, he would like to leave someone something better than all the things other people have left him with over the years.

Even as Noé looks round for him, eyes wide and hair dishevelled, Vanitas is nearing the outside world again, passing a mirror. Letting a cold eye pass over his appearance, over black hair and blue eyes both...and then he catches it, a smear of flour on his cheek. White and faint, like fingerprints left from a ghost.

It's this which makes him stop. Makes him smile, just a little. And linger a few seconds more, caught between deciding whether or not to continue out, through the door. Or move back, into whatever comes next.

Notes: I'm using a mixture of pronouns for Luna here, because despite despite the way they tell us they have no gender in canon, I suspect Vanitas will continue to rather stubbornly refer to Luna as 'she' because of the way he precieves them in his mind's eye and a lot of this is from his persepective. I may be proven wrong or mis-remember something - it will be interesting in the future to see how he continues to refer to them.