(A/Ns: i did exactly as i'd said, despite the fact im away right now :D this has been ready since Tuesday hehe. Sorry if they're a little OOC, this is my first time fully writing drug withdrawal. Anyway, ch 4 should be up on August 10th. this writing challenge has killed me ajfhskjfhkg.

Content warnings: drug abuse, graphic depictions of self-harm, references to suicide, drug withdrawal, swearing, smoking, vomiting, omorashi (very light, not graphic at all, but i thought i'd tag it correctly anyway :p). No, it's not a happy chapter. At all..

Disclaimer: i do not own Vanitas no Carte)


Chapter 3: Recovery

"Domi, I promise: I do not have a crush on him!"

It had just passed 3pm, and Noé hadn't heard anything from Vanitas upstairs. He considered checking on him, since the withdrawal was sure to start soon, but there was no way he couldn't not tell Domi – his best friend – about this first.

Domi and Noé had only met three years ago. It'd happened, funnily enough, at an LGBT bar. Noé, being himself, had stumbled upon Domi and her girlfriend, and had offered them a lift home, and it had pretty much gone from there. And now, Domi knew about every single little and insignificant event which happened in Noé's life. So, really, it hadn't been much of a surprise that, when confronted with a drug addict to help detox, Noé's instinct was to tell Domi all about it.

And she was more than willing to lend an ear.

Noé, darling. Why else would you let him into your house?"

"Because I cared, that's why!" Noé tried to reason with her, but after replaying it back in his head, he realised it just sounded cringey, rather than him actually trying to help. "I appreciate the concern, but-"

How old is he?"

"Uh, 21…" Noé answered reluctantly, knowing full-well that Domi would use that against him somehow.

Ah, your boy-toy then~" She gave a condescending snicker. "Noé, you're too innocent to have someone like that wandering around your house. How does he get money? By whoring himself off?"

"E-Er, that would be a… um, a yes."

Knew it."

"Domi, that means nothing," Noé scolded. "He needs help. That's all."


Is he… talking about me?

After retreating to upstairs earlier, Vanitas had done nothing except lie sprawled out on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze. Eventually, as the high began to wear off, the comedown hit him like a sack of bricks, and he fell asleep.

It would've been convenient to blame his awakening on Noé's (excessively loud) phone call downstairs, but the truth was, Vanitas had woken up long before that. His hands were shaking, much more than they had yesterday, and every few minutes he was assaulted by waves of nausea.

It was the cocaine comedown, he told himself. Desperately, he tried to avoid remembering that it had been 12 hours now since his last fix, the time having just passed 3pm. Withdrawal hadn't started yet, he told himself.

The unsettling feeling in the pit in his stomach begged to differ.

Vanitas sighed, his eyes falling shut again as he laid an arm across his face. His breathing was shallow, and uneven.

Perhaps he wasn't ready to detox.

Why had he even agreed to do it? Because Noé had him wrapped around his finger, whether he meant for it to seem like that or not. Oh, and he'd been high. Very high.

His anxiety was beginning to get a hold of the better of him. A thin layer of sweat coated his skin, in raw contrast to the scratchy feeling in his throat.

Water. Water was what he needed, but he was dead-certain the churning in his stomach would reject it.

Tentatively, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Legs weak and muscles flaccid, Vanitas, keeping one hand buried in his hair, staggered towards the bathroom, the other hand wrapped around his stomach.


"Domi, please listen to me…" Noé sighed one last time, glancing upwards at the footsteps creaking the floor above him. "Look, I have to go, but-"

But you'll call me if you change your mind?"

"Yes, I- I mean no! No!" Noé cut himself off; too late, at that. Son of a bitch. "No, Domi! I-I don't have a crush on Vanitas, for the last time!"

"Aaaalright, bye my dear~"

Noé facepalmed, pulling the phone away from his ear and dropping onto the sofa behind him with an exaggerated sigh.

Then, he heard the bathroom door slam shut from upstairs.

Maybe I should… leave him be for a little bit…

Taking advantage of the last few moments of peace he may have for the next week or so, Noé pulled open his phone again, loading the search engine. It'd just occurred to him that he had absolutely no prior knowledge of drugs, or drug withdrawal. Sure, he'd heard some stuff – everyone had heard something at one point or another – but what about the timescale? The symptoms? The factors involved?

Really, it had only just clicked with him that he had no idea what to expect. Before, he'd acted on impulse; he'd just been pretending to know what the hell he was even doing. Noé facepalmed, drawing in a deep breath with the faith that they could push through this. And then… after it was done…

They could cross that bridge when they came to it. If they came to it.

Noé went onto the first website he found.

Heroin withdrawal symptoms may only last a week or so, but the symptoms can be severe and include:

· Nausea/vomiting

· Abdominal pain

· Diarrhoea

· Sweating

· Shaking

· Nervousness

· Agitation

· Depression

· Muscle spasms

· Cravings for drugs

· Relapse

Hopefully, they wouldn't be as severe as that. Shallow hope, of course. Vanitas was far too deep into this to get away lightly, and both him and Noé knew that. Anything from this point on wasn't hope – it was more like denial.

To make matters worse, it had probably already started. The urgency of the door slamming shut was still a sound too fresh in Noé's audio memory. His concern got the better of him, and – barely familiarised on the situation – Noé decided to go and check on him.

Before he even reached the top of the stairs, all he could hear reverberating from the bathroom was the most violent, painful retching he'd ever heard – spare the time Domi got food poisoning.

"Vanitas?" he called, receiving no response at first, which only boosted his worry. Striding towards the bathroom a little faster, Noé tried calling again, knocking on the door as well. "Vanitas? Do you… need something?"

Silence first, and then a verbal reply. "No… fuck o-"

Unable to finish the word he ended on, Vanitas was brusquely cut off by another gag. That was when Noé decided to go against what he'd rather explicitly asked for, and opened the lock with the set of keys permanently kept in his room.

Sure enough, the second he opened the door, there was a gentle but aggressive-natured kick at the door. It was to no avail, and after a brief, weak glare, Vanitas turned his head and attention back to the toilet bowl, continuing to empty his stomach into it.

Noé, arms folded over, simply waited at the door until he was finished.

"I said… fuck off…" Vanitas panted, closing his eyes for a few moments before collapsing against the bath tub. "It's not… the withdrawal yet. Just… comedown."

"Really?" Noé cocked an eyebrow. "Do you need water, or… something?"

"I don't need your help," Vanitas spat. "Piss off."

"No. I said I'd help you through this, and I-I'm… I'm sticking to my word!"

"Good luck, my dear Noé. This is only the start of it," he said sarcastically. "Fuck, I need a cigarette…"

With one hand held over his stomach, Vanitas froze, and grimaced, leaning forward again with his head dangling over the toilet. And a moment later, he gagged, bringing up only water mixed with bile.

After a minute, he was finished, blindly groping for the toilet paper.

"Are you… done yet?" Noé asked hesitantly.

"Not… I'm not sure…" Vanitas stuttered, wiping his mouth limply. He could feel himself shaking horribly, like a mixture of coldness and crippling anxiety over nothing.

"I'll… go and get some blankets…" Noé said, after pouring a glass of water and placing it conveniently on the floor beside where Vanitas was crouched.

Just a minute later, Noé returned, with a pile of blankets in his arms, all a variety of colours. When he opened the door, Vanitas was no longer sprawled across the bathroom, but was stood in front of the mirror instead. Cold water dripping down his face, he turned his bloodshot eyes towards Noé, and deadpanned, "Never mind what I said. This is the heroin."

Wordlessly, his hands clasping at sink, Vanitas staggered out of the bathroom, grabbing one of the multi-coloured blankets from Noé's hands and flinging it around him. After brusquely picking up the cigarettes from his room, Vanitas made his way down the stairs, stumbling over each step and eventually making it to the bottom. As he walked towards the exit, leaning dependently on the kitchen counters, he easily slipped a cigarette from the pack, leaving the rest of the pack on the table. Then, sticking the cigarette between his teeth, he fiddled with the lock for a few moments, before setting eyes on the keys on the other counter and successfully opening it.

His hands trembled as he brought the lighter up to the cigarette, dropping onto the bench and trying to hold the flame up to the tip. It took a few seconds – at least 20 – but he succeeded, inhaling desperately and waiting for the nicotine to flood his thoughts and calm him down, just marginally.

About a minute later, Noé arrived, poking his head through the sliding door and staring at the other. Then, he spoke. "Do you want, erm… something to eat?"

Vanitas frowned, but didn't avert his gaze from straight ahead of him, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fucking freezing."

"That, er, wasn't my question…"

"Yeah, well it was my answer," Vanitas snapped. "No, I don't want food, Noé. I want heroin."

"Apologies, that's not on the menu," Noé replied tactfully, biting back the smirk which started to tug at his lips at his own comment. "You need to eat."

"I won't keep it down, but sure. Go ahead."

Noé nodded, and spun on his heel.

Meanwhile, Vanitas simply dropped his head, screwing his eyes shut to will away the pounding headache now residing in his head, ready to develop into a full-on migraine. One finger trailing over his barely exposed arms, he could physically feel the goose bumps, along with his intense shaking. He'd been through withdrawal before, but not intentionally.

Not when the thought that he'd never get high again was at the forefront of his mind.

But, of course he'd get high again. This wasn't permanent. This wouldn't last forever. He just had to get through this, and…

Convince Noé that he was better. And then he'd leave, and instantly revert to his previous lifestyle: sex and drugs.

The cigarette continued burning away between his fingers, but he didn't smoke it. Eventually, it was burnt away, and Vanitas brought it up to his lips one more time to suck the life out of it before snuffing it out in the ashtray.

One craving down, two to go.

Despite the thin layer of sweat coating his body, he shivered relentlessly. His skin felt like it was being pricked by ice. His muscles felt strained. Every system in his body just seemed to be shutting down within him, but Vanitas knew this wasn't even the start; it hadn't even been 24 hours since the last hit.

Reluctantly, he peeled himself off the bench, immediately grabbing the back of it as he pulled open the door.

"Here," Noé offered the moment he stepped past the threshold into his kitchen, extending a blanket to him. Vanitas, internally grateful, snatched it out of his grip, wrapping himself in a cocoon of blankets. "I didn't know what to make you that would sit well in your stomach, so… I went with soup."

"Sure," Vanitas grunted, hissing silently as he lifted one leg up to chest. The searing pain in his lower back was only exacerbated by the absence of the drugs coursing through his veins. It was more noticeable, more prominent, more…

Painful. You could even say agony, but that wouldn't be until he reached 72 hours.

Vanitas, stomach still unsettled and churning, was only able to eat half of the soup, which was – admittedly – better than Noé had anticipated. Once he'd finished eating, without saying a word, Vanitas shoved the bowl backwards, grimacing at the feeling of the warm liquid filtering into his stomach. He traipsed towards the door, one hand using whatever furniture was nearby to haul himself along the corridor and up the stairs and into his room.

Exhaustedly, he collapsed onto the bed, curling up into a tiny, shaking ball of blankets and trying to bite back the nausea.

Sure enough, Noé followed him up there. "Vanitas? Do you need anything?"

"Quit asking me that!" Vanitas said bitterly, and then added more calmly: "A bucket. My stupid legs won't get me to the bathroom for next time."

"O-Of course," Noé responded as if it were obvious, hurrying down the stairs and returning less than a minute later with said item. Tentatively, he placed it on the bedside table, turning away from Vanitas as soon as he could.

It was inherently obvious that Vanitas wasn't really ready to detox, but he'd pushed him far enough to turn back. Noé knew he had to push through with Vanitas.

"You can piss off now," Vanitas groaned, one hand snaking around to his stomach. "I'll scream if I need something."

"Um, alright…" Noé said, and then left him, only partially confident he'd even call for help.


As expected, Noé hadn't heard a single thing from Vanitas since leaving him earlier. In that time, he'd cleaned the bathroom, hoovered the entirety of downstairs, and cooked, prepared and eaten his own dinner. He did consider making something for Vanitas, but given the rather uncomfortable encounters he'd witnessed between Vanitas and food, Noé decided to give that one a miss.

It had just passed 7pm, meaning it'd been nearly 4 hours since he'd even seen him. A check up was probably in need.

Hesitantly, Noé knocked on the bedroom door. There was a low groan from the other room, and that was the only response.

Very responsive, then… Noé thought sarcastically to himself. Then, with that thought fresh in his mind, he slowly pushed the door open, scanning the room for Vanitas.

Initially, he didn't even find him, given that the bed and all its blankets had been abandoned. However, after a few more seconds of searching, it became evident where Vanitas had moved to – still wrapped in blankets and sheets and curled around the bucket, of course.

The… floor?

"The bed was too hot," Vanitas panted in response to the question Noé hadn't even asked. Yet. It was evident that what he'd said was true as well, given the layer of sweat coating his skin and expanding through his clothes, and leaving marks on the laminated wooden floor. To say he was drenched in sweat would be an understatement.

As if speaking was too much effort, a second later, he sat up abruptly, grabbed the bucket, and threw up again. Noé grimaced at every sickening retch, taking a subconscious step back away from the other and waiting politely until he was done.

"Fuck…" Vanitas spat, collapsing back onto the floor. He hissed, his back slamming against the floorboards with an audible crunch. His entire body was convulsing, and despite how hot he felt, he still shivered relentlessly, unable to unwrap himself from more than 2 blankets at once.

"Is there anything you need?" Noé offered, unsure of what else he could do.

Vanitas' expression held the same disdain as always. "Half a gram of heroin and a couple lines of coke would be nice, but considering you'll probably say 'no' to that, I'll stick with water."

"I'll… get that in a moment, but can I… ask first: Vanitas, what drugs are you actually, you know… addicted to?"

Bitterly, Vanitas shot him a look which promptly said 'you fucking idiot, Noé'however, answered the question nonetheless. "Heroin, cigarettes, of course, and… yeah, cocaine too." He paused, grabbing his stomach and curling his legs even tighter into his chest, hissing at the searing pain in his head and back; Noé didn't even know the body could achieve that position naturally. "Everything else is just… ngh… recreational."

Noé desperately wanted to ask him so many questions. How long? What led him down this path? Where were his parents in all of this?

But he didn't, biting his tongue and reverting his attention to now. "At least get back onto the bed. It can't be comfortable down there."

For the first time since he'd started the detox, the devious grin from their first encounter began to tug at Vanitas' lips. "My dear Noé, wouldn't you like to know about down there?"

As expected, Noé didn't pick up on what he was insinuating. "Pardon?"

"Never mind," Vanitas' smile was short-lived. "I thought you were getting me water."

"Ah, of course!" Noé said, hurrying out of the room and downstairs.

Meanwhile, with an exasperated sigh, Vanitas was just about able to peel himself off the floor, and slide over to the bed. Movement only intensified the constant aching in his muscles, but eventually, he pulled himself up onto the bed, leaving a puddle of sweat where he rolled over and burying his face into one of the pillows.

He glanced down, and saw shaking hands. And the innumerable puncture marks on his arms were just a painful reminder of what he was missing out on right now.

It seemed so easy to end the suffering, and yet, he was so, so far from it.

Before he'd realised it, Noé returned, perching on the side of the bed and handing him a bottle of water, just opened. "Here. You need to drink."

Reluctantly, Vanitas snatched the plastic bottle from his grip, his trembling hands barely lifting it to his lips. A few sips was enough; he'd just start feeling sick after that.

"How's your stomach?"

"Fucking awful."

"Do you want to watch something?" Noé gestured to the TV on the wall.

Vanitas' fingers twitched for a cigarette, but he shrugged anyway. "Can't hurt to try."

Noé, nodding, picked up the remote, switching on the television and flicking through the channels. "Horror film?"

"No," Vanitas shut him down instantly. "Find one of those… ironic comedies. Watching some random fuckers fall into a series of unfortunate events might prove cathartic."

Fairly certain he knew what was being asked for, Noé opened Netflix, flicking through the films until he selected one; "The Hangover."

"Fucking great…" Vanitas muttered, hugging the bucket tighter. "Stay here."

"What?"

"Stay with me," Vanitas demanded, smirking. "What, don't tell me you've had enough of the homeless drug addict withdrawing already?"

Noé managed to crack a grin at that remark. "Not a chance."


Somehow, as if some miracle had befallen them, Vanitas and Noé managed to get through the entirety of the film within incident. That was, of course, not including the two times Vanitas threw up, but twice in 2 hours must have been a record for him.

Admittedly, towards the end, Vanitas had gotten slightly restless, jostling his leg every few seconds. Then, he began nodding off, curled up around a pillow. Noé's thigh had also become part of his pillow.

Vanitas had seemed totally disinterested and disengaged, though.

"What's the time?" he asked drowsily, gripping his stomach with one hand and burying his face in his sleeve.

"It's… just gone 9pm," Noé said. "Are you… alright? You… keep moving your leg, that's all."

Hazily, Vanitas glanced up at him with a slightly annoyed expression. Then, sheepishly, he confessed, "I really need to pee but I'm too tired to get up."

"Oh! Y-You should've said… I'll help you to the toilet."

Needing to pee was a good thing, right? At least it meant he wasn't totally dehydrated.

However, the moment Vanitas shifted even slightly, with Noé's hand on his shoulder, he froze. Blindly, he groped around for the bucket behind him, retracting his hand from Noé's and plastering it over his mouth. Then, as he hung his head over the receptacle, he retched, emptying his stomach. It was mostly water and bile at this point, and some stomach acid too.

At one point, when he went to retch, his entire body lurched forward. Vanitas' eyes widened, as one hand abruptly moved from where he was trying to keep himself upright and flew to his pants. He swatted Noé's hand away, and choked on his own gag.

Then, Noé saw it: the wet patch slowly expanding from Vanitas' crotch.

"Vanitas…" he sighed. An overwhelming feeling of sympathy washed over him, as he watched Vanitas' control over his body slowly deteriorate. "I'll… get some towels, and… more clothes."

Vanitas, still hunched over the bucket, couldn't do anything in response. His entire body ached, and the only thing he was capable of was sitting there frozen, with tears uncontrollably falling from his eyes, down his face and onto the sheets.

Gritting his teeth together, he eventually managed to peel himself off the bed, falling straight onto the floor. When his back smashed onto the hard-wooden floorboards, Vanitas could've sworn he heard a crack.

Wordlessly, once he returned with a pile of clothes and towels, Noé stripped the bed of its sheets. Then, he cautiously approached Vanitas, curled up into his usually shielded ball but on the floor. He appeared to be shivering visibly; Noé took it upon himself to drape a towel over his frail form, and push the new clothes further towards him.

"I'll… put new sheets on the bed in a moment. If you give me your clothes I'll put them in the wash now."

"I just want to sleep…" Vanitas sobbed to himself, his words muffled by the towel and almost indecipherable. Even quieter, he added, "And… be high."

"I know you do," Noé said softly, but sternly. "This'll be over soon, Vanitas. I promise."

They both knew he was lying.


Those were the last words spoken by either of them the previous night.

Sunday morning came along faster than Noé had expected, and to no surprise, upon awakening at 7am, the first thing he did was go and check on Vanitas.

As with the day before, Vanitas was on the floor; he probably hadn't moved from there after changing. The only thing difference was the mountain of sheets and blankets covering his shaking form. His greasy, dishevelled hair was poking out of the top of the mound just marginally.

On top of this, his face was effectively buried in the bucket, as if he thought he would vomit with every breath. His breathing was shallow, tear stains streaking down his cheeks.

"Stop staring at me," Vanitas hissed at him. He glanced up at the other, just enough for him to see the dilated pupils and sweat covering his forehead. "What do you want?"

Noé hadn't realised he was staring. Not that it was much of a surprise.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, trying not to let his worry be evident in his tone as he spoke.

"Worse," Vanitas said blatantly. "My stomach… urgh… really fucking hurts, and my head, and… everything."

"Well…" Noé desperately ran through the options to offer him in his head. "Do you want another bath, or…?"

"Yes," Vanitas answered.

Well that's… good, I guess… Noé thought, involuntarily wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell which had gradually polluted his guest room. The smell of sweat, vomit, and stale tobacco and weed, to be specific.

Hastily, he spun on his heel and left the room, using the bathroom himself before turning on the taps.

When he returned to the guest room, Vanitas had surprisingly managed to get up – just about – to the bed without throwing up. His state wasn't exactly better, mind you. One hand, shaking unfathomably worse than yesterday, was buried in his hair, covering his eyes from which he was visibly crying.

"Vanitas…?"

"It's not…" he sniffed, barely able to speak through the hysteria. "… not the heroin… it's the cocaine… that does this to me."

"O-Ok…"

"Don't try to fix it," Vanitas spat, rolling off the bed leaning on every object in site – including Noé – on his journey to the bathroom. "Can you make some food? I'm fucking starving."

Noé tilted his head at him questioningly. "Are you… sure you'll keep it down?"

"Don't know, don't care," Vanitas answered, kicking the bathroom door open and slamming it shut behind him.

The second the door slammed shut, his emotional walls broke. Muscles frustratingly limp, he slid down onto the floor with his back against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

He hated being seen like this. He hated feeling the way he did. He hated himself for getting himself in this situation.

The bath was almost overflowing.

With agonising pain in every part of his body, Vanitas lifted himself off the floor and turned off the taps. His mind flashed back to a couple of days ago, when he'd gotten in the bath high. When he'd been high.

He desperately missed that feeling. Desperately missed the alleviation of all the burdens which rested upon him with a quick shot or snort or smoke. That floaty feeling, like there was nothing better than that in the entire world.

Tears still falling down his face, Vanitas peeled off the oversized clothes given to him by Noé – already drenched – and dropped them onto the floor beside him.

Despite steam visibly rising from the water, he was still shivering, goose bumps appearing all over his body. He sniffed, lifting his shaking hands out of the water again.

And he felt nothing except numbness.

Eyes screwing shit, Vanitas trailed a finger over his wrists. Over the track marks going all up his forearm to his elbow. At around his elbow, there were less.

Instead, his arms were scarred with multiple cuts; self-inflicted slashes to the wrists. From times like this, you could say. From the times where being high just hadn't worked.

Subconsciously, his line of vision lifted from his wrists to Noé's razor, tucked away at the side of the bathtub.

There was nothing to lose at this point, really.

With eagerly trembling fingers, Vanitas attempted to wipe some of the tears from his eyes. Then, he grabbed the shaving razor, and broke the plastic open in one move; he might not have done this in a while, but old habits die hard, and breaking razors was something he'd become highly accustomed to.

Hesitation was not needed. Taking a deep breath, Vanitas dragged the sharp edge of the razor along his wrists twice, deep enough to draw blood but shallow enough not to inflict any serious physical damage. Beads of blood formed at the wound, before trickling down his pale skin and dropping into the water.

It would be so easy to end it all right now.

But for some reason – albeit very faintly – Noé's words did not stop ringing throughout his head.

Maybe there was a reason to believe he would be okay.

Right now, however, that didn't matter. With one hand gripping the edge of the tub, Vanitas lifted himself out of the water. It was too cold to stay there. It felt like something was crawling in his skin, and the water constantly touching his arms and legs and stomach really, really wasn't helping.

After getting dress again, the tips of his hair just damp and only slightly irritating, he staggered downstairs, driven by the smell of… pancakes? And for once, smelling food didn't make him want to puke.

"I didn't know what to make you," Noé said the moment Vanitas stepped into the room.

"It's fine," Vanitas muttered, dropping into the closest seat of his dining table and laying his head in his arms. He pulled a sleeve over his wrist discreetly, hiding the evidence of how his bath had gone.

"You weren't up there for very long," Noé noticed. "Is… everything okay?"

"As good as it'll ever be," Vanitas replied wryly.

Silence befell them for the last few minutes of Noé cooking. Then, he brought two plates over to the table, each with three pancakes piled on top of one another and topped of with fruit.

Vanitas didn't meet eyes with Noé when he started eating. His taste buds were destroyed (though that was most likely the cigarettes than the drug themselves), his stomach was rolling around sickeningly, but the repulsive feeling he usually experienced when eating seemed to have just… gone.

"Thanks for the meal," he said, barely producing words as he dropped the fork onto the near-empty plate.

Just then, he felt his stomach cramp.

Perhaps he had been naïve to think things would have actually gotten better on the second day.

"I'm gonna go lie down…" Vanitas grimaced, holding his stomach tightly. He knew this would happen.

Before he even made it to the bedroom, his stomach cramped again, a twisting sensation in his lower regions acting as a warning sign. His grip tightening on his stomach, Vanitas turned towards the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

It was messy, and disgusting, and nauseating. It was like his body was violently rejecting every attempt to make itself better.

Then, dizziness overcame him. Dehydration, presumably. He wanted to throw up again.

Really, he was an idiot for thinking he was – in any way – improving.


Noé hadn't seen Vanitas since breakfast that morning.

After hearing the bathroom door slam shut, he'd tried to offer him help, but had quickly been told to, quote, "piss off". At some point in the next two hours, Vanitas had emerged, and proceeded to lock himself in the guest room.

Part of Noé wanted to check on him. And make sure he hadn't relapse. But all traces of drugs had been eradicated from his home yesterday morning. Yes – only yesterday morning, when the confrontation and entire ordeal had gone down.

Was that where he made his mistake?

Regardless, as painful as it was to see, Vanitas slowly, ever-so gradually getting better. Sure, the withdrawal was worsening, but as the drugs left his body, Vanitas slowly returned to his true self.

Of course, that might have been better if Noé hadn't discovered that Vanitas' true self was, in fact, arrogant.

At 5pm, after leaving him alone all day once again, and even going shopping at one point, Noé tried again. Tentatively, he knocked on the guest room door; it was still locked.

"What the fuck-" Vanitas' aggressive yelling was promptly cut off with a gag, and then a pained cry.

"Alright, I-I'm picking the lock now!" Noé declared much more confidently than he felt, as he stared down at the keys to every other room in the house.

Miraculously, however, it worked.

"I can hear you screaming from… downstairs…" Noé started, his words trailing off when Vanitas glared at him. The glare wasn't as sharp as he probably wanted it to be, though it still worked in shutting Noé up.

"My back is… hagh, shit," Vanitas cursed, curling up into an even tighter ball. Once again, he was curled around the bucket, his face resting on the rim of the receptacle. Nonetheless, the lingering smell of bleach which had previously hung over the room had somewhat lessened, implying he hadn't been properly sick in a while. "Can you please just-" Vanitas lost his sentence mid-way to a strained sob. "-get… half a gram. A-And then… I'll continue."

"No," Noé straight-up refused, and then softened his posture and tone. "You're doing well, Vanitas."

"Y-Yeah well… f-fuck you…" Vanitas snarled at him, trembling more and more with every word. "Y-You're lucky I haven't… shit on your floors y-yet… I feel like I'm fucking dying here."

Wordlessly, Noé approached the bed, perching on the edge beside Vanitas. And when Vanitas didn't even try to protest, he began dragging his fingers through his hair – his sweat-matted, vomit-smelling hair.

He didn't speak again until Vanitas' breathing finally slowed. "We'll get through this. You will."

"F-Fuck you too…" Vanitas bit back.

"Trust me," Noé almost smiled. Almost. "I believe in you, Vanitas… you'll… you'll be okay."