(A/Ns: august 10th came around fast, i only finished this yesterday whoops.

triggers: smoking, drug withdrawal, vomiting, swearing, refs to suicide, lots of crying and angst, like... a lot of it, overdosing. the usual basically.

please review if you can! :D

disclaimer: i do not own Vanitas no Carte)


Chapter 4: Relapse

Somehow, as if a miracle had struck them – or he was just very, very lucky – Noé made it to Monday morning without incident.

Of course, it could've just been Vanitas being silent. Maybe Noé had been right; would he even cry for help? Or would he try to keep up the façade of "I don't need any help"?

Okay, that one was dropped a long time.

Nevertheless, whatever the reason was for being so lifeless, it didn't concern Noé particularly much. Admittedly, he knew he was slightly naïve, but that didn't stop him from trusting Vanitas to ask for help. So, when he'd woken up at 6:30am to get ready for work, the last thing on his mental priority list was checking on Vanitas.

By the time he'd showered, gotten dressed, and had breakfast, it was coming up to 7:30am. At this point, it was probably just right to break the news to Vanitas that he was off to work soon, and yes – he'd called someone over to 'babysit', you could say.

The moment Noé opened the door even a crack, his sense of smell was assaulted by a foul air of sweat and vomit, and mould, almost. The state of Vanitas wasn't immediately obvious, a mound of blankets which violently shook being the only indication that he was even there.

At least he's on the bed rather than the floor… Noé thought briefly, slowly approaching said mound. Part of him felt slightly guilty for waking up Vanitas – he probably hadn't slept much – but the intensifying smell as he got closer implied another round of cleaning would be needed.

"Vanitas?" Noé tried, placing a hand on the trembling shoulder, protruding out of one of the blankets. He wrinkled his nose as Vanitas stirred, shifted, but didn't wake up. It was good he was sleeping and all, but Noé knew he'd get annoyed if he left him with…

Well, the person he'd called over.

"Vanitas," he tried again, slightly louder. "I need you to wake up."

"Ngh?" Vanitas muttered idly, tugging the sheets away from his eyes and opening his eyelids just a crack. The light sent a throbbing pain to his head in the form of an instant migraine, which was shortly followed by a searing pain surging from his neck to his lower back. "Fuck… you're here…"

"Um…" Noé started awkwardly, gesturing to somewhere around his lower regions. "Do you need more, um… more clothes to borrow again?"

Vanitas blinked at him, glanced under the sheets, and then knocked his head back against the headboard. "Fuck, yeah. Sorry."

"I-It's okay…" Noé stammered, trying so hard not to make it extremely awkward for the both of them. "Did you…?"

"Yeah, I shat myself, alright?" Vanitas snapped at him, his words harbouring a bitter edge, which made Noé instinctively take a step back. Slightly more ashamed, Vanitas added to his explanation, rolling over with a visible grimace to redirect his line of vision away from Noé. "I was so damn tired last night, alright? The dope-sick stage of withdrawal has just been replaced with pissing out my ass. I think I puked a little on your floor, as well."

Lovely. Noé glanced down. "No, I… think you're safe. But… why didn't you just call for help?"

"I did," Vanitas spat, pulling his brows together. "You're a heavy sleeper. You didn't wake up."

"Oh…"

"Yeah, exactly. Now help me get out these sheets. I stink of shit."

That's… certainly true… Noé added mentally. "If you're able to stand up, can you just… roll the sheets up? I'll… go and get new clothes."

"Thanks," Vanitas murmured, barely audibly. Once Noé had left the room, obviously.

With what little energy he had left, he peeled the disgusting, soiled sheets away from his lower half, wrapping one of the blankets around himself and sitting back on the floor. His body trembled more than it had yesterday, and every move he made was accompanied by an overwhelming surge of nausea. Cold flashes struck him every other second, but despite that, his pulse was still racing, and sweat still poured out of him in layers, through the blankets, and onto the floor.

It was coming up to 72 hours, which was notoriously the worst stage.

His fingers itched for the heroin, but… he'd already gotten this far, right?

Sure enough, Noé was back in less than a minute, wordlessly handing him a pile of clothes (the same, oversized pyjamas from the first day) before proceeding to the sheets.

"Why are you up so early?" Vanitas asked, his tone sour. It was evident he already knew, which was most likely the reason for his bitterness.

"I… have to go to work," Noé sighed, pulling the detached sheets and blankets into a wad of fabric and hauling them into the wash basket in the bathroom. "But don't worry! I-I have a friend coming over, just to keep an eye on you…"

Vanitas scowled. "What, you don't trust me?"

"Oh no! Not at all!" Noé answered, much more cheerfully than he should've done. "She'll… leave you alone, I suspect."

As Noé continued rushing around the room, Vanitas redressed himself under the blanket, and then clambered back onto the bed. Locking eyes with the cigarette pack, he frowned, laying an arm over his sweat-glistened forehead to numb the ache. As if it would do anything.

"Do you need anything before I go?" Noé asked once he arrived back in the room, hastily doing his tie. "I've put your clothes in the wash. They… should be done in a couple of hours."

"I need a fucking cigarette," Vanitas said under his breath with an irascible 'huff'.

Noé glanced at him with an expression of sympathy. His body had totally disconnected from what he wanted it to do, the fatigue taking over any control he had over himself. Maybe he could just grant him this once…

"You can… smoke in here, if you want," Noé gave in, dragging a hand through his hair, already exhausted; it wasn't even 8am yet. "Just… please don't burn the sheets."

"Got it," Vanitas gave him a little nod, leaning over with great effort to grab the cigarettes. With shaking hands, he was just about capable of lighting up, the first drag burning in his throat, purely because the stomach acid he'd brought up so frequently had worn away at the lining of his oesophagus until it was raw.

A moment of silence later, and the doorbell sounded.

"Ah, that'll be-"

"My babysitter, I know," Vanitas said patronisingly, laying a hand over his stomach.

Noé pretended not to hear that comment, and instead hurried down the stairs.

All Vanitas heard was a female voice, and Noé sounding very flustered, before his eavesdropping was halted by a gag. Hurriedly, he placed the cigarette on the side of a saucer left on the bedside table, and then leant over the bed and hung his head over the bucket.

He didn't throw up anything more than water mixed with bile at this point, but that didn't make it any less grim. Repulsive, even.

It was over soon, fortunately, Vanitas going straight for the cigarette to cleanse his taste buds – despite the fact it exacerbated the nausea. And soon after that, the footsteps began making their way up the stairs, along to corridor, and to his room.

"So, this is where you're keeping your little whore, hm~?" a female voice said, mockingly.

Vanitas already hated her.

"Domi, please play nice," Noé sighed, fully pushing open the door to the guest room.

The woman – Domi; Vanitas recognised her name from Noé's phone call yesterday – had long, black hair, tied back loosely into a high ponytail at the back, the rest of it draping past her shoulders. She wore heeled boots, tight black jeans, and a cream coloured blouse which hardly covered her cleavage. Finally, across her face was a wide grin – a patronising, teasing grin, to be precise.

"Um, Vanitas, this is Domi," Noé introduced, trying to tear Vanitas' disdainful glare from Domi, and Domi's contemptuous glare from Vanitas "Domi, this is… Vanitas. Please be nice."

"Aha~" she chuckled, leaning back against the door frame. With a sidelong glance locked on Vanitas, she dragged a finger down the side of Noé's face, before looking at him dead in the eye. "Noé, my dear. You're late. Leave him to me, alright?"

After one more pleading glance which frankly said "please be nice", Noé spun on his heel, and left, grabbing his coat. Then, both Vanitas and Domi heard the door slam shut, simultaneously returning the same glares to each other.

"I didn't know Noé let scum in his house," she said, the smirk donning her lips widening to accompany the sadistic edge woven into her words. "So what's the real reason Noé is doing this for you?"

"Beats me," Vanitas rolled his eyes. With a groan, his turned over onto the side to keep his head fixed over the bucket, the hand holding the cigarette daggling off the bed.

"He wouldn't want you for sex," Domi pondered aloud, as she took exactly four steps into the room. "I wonder… what could be the reason?"

"My payment is your suffering."

Domi blinked at him. "What?"

"That's what he said to me," Vanitas answered bluntly, sucking deeply on the cigarette.

"Hm." She tapped a finger to her lips, looking confused for a few moments, before sauntering over to Vanitas and plucking the cigarette from his fingers, her smile turning evil. Directing her bitterness at him, she pointedly snuffed the cigarette out in the saucer. Then, she made her way to the door, twirling her hair around with her right forefinger. "My girlfriend is coming over at 1pm. Don't bother me after that. Until then, I'll be downstairs."

"Alr- ngh!" Vanitas couldn't prevent himself from crying out in pain, grabbing his stomach and clenching his fists. The cramps had reached their absolute worse. He hoped, at least.

"Shut up," Domi glared at him, furrowing her eyebrows together and shooting him a threatening glance.

"Tch… o-or what?" Vanitas stuttered, swallowing down the vomit trying to push its way up his throat and suppressing the urge to just scream out in total agony.

Wordlessly, the scowl on her face deepening, Domi walked over to him. With a scornful, disdainful look on her face, she leant down, and delivered a harsh, quick slap to his face.

Why the hell does she wear so many rings?! Vanitas screamed in his head, and mustered up every bit of self-control within him not to start crying, or show any signs of pain. He didn't even flinch.

That seemed to annoy her.

"I hope you've learnt your place, scum," Domi hissed at him, before turning on her heel and leaving without another word.

His stomach rolled around nauseatingly, a sick feeling stirring up once again in the pit of his stomach. It was difficult to ignore, but fortunately, the fatigue was more powerful at this moment in time, and before he knew it, Vanitas once again felt himself being pulled from the surface of consciousness.

Eventually, he drifted off into another comedown-induced sleep.


Tied up.

It hurts-

They're…

It hurts-

taking my… clothes off…

It hurts-

It…

It hurts-

has to be done.

"Mhm… keep at it, boy. Then you'll get the drugs."

The drugs.

The syringe.

Yes, that's… why…

Withdrawals aren't-

It hurts-

"Vanitas? Did you overdose?"

Is that…?

It hurts-

N-

"Noé!"

Vanitas wasn't aware he'd said – screamed – that part out loud.

He wasn't aware of much that was around him, apart from the agonising, unbearable pain concentrated around his back, and his stomach, and his legs, and his head. It was the first time since the withdrawal started he'd had a nightmare, which was a surprise, really, but that didn't make it any better. The images which flashed by his mind in an instant were still fresh in his memories. The pain of everything was still-

The bucket. Where was the bucket?

Abruptly, Vanitas' thoughts and deep, heavy breaths were interrupted by a pained gag. He didn't even have enough time to swallow – all he was able to do was lean over the bed and allow his stomach to itself as well, hopefully into the bucket.

His hand, blindly groping around the bed beside his thighs for a place to stabilise himself from, was numb. But, unfortunately, it wasn't quite numb enough not to sense the dampness of the sheets and his thighs.

Great. His bladder had decided to void itself as well.

Part of him didn't care; this is what Noé signed up for. This was the grim, awful, mortifying truth of opiate withdrawal. Part of him, however, felt overwhelmingly guilty. He should've just left. Would Noé have even called the police? Was it just an empty threat?

Could he have saved both of them from this?

"Crying out for your sugar daddy, are we?"

Vanitas wanted to frown, and glare at her with burning hate. However, that proved to be considerably more difficult than anticipated when your stomach was preoccupied with rejecting its own acid.

"F-Fuck off…" he just about choked out, flicking his hair away from his face. Breathing heavily over the buckets, Vanitas waited for his stomach to settle, before turning the well-earned glare to Domi. However, the glare softened almost immediately, as he averted his gaze to the floor and lowered his head, panting desperately for air. "Can you… please get my clothes…?"

With an exasperated sigh, Domi turned around, opening the door slightly more and yelling at the top of her lungs. "Babe?! Can you get the scumbag's clothes out of the wash? He's pissed himself again!"

Vanitas didn't hear anything from downstairs apart from footsteps, the heels of boots – he presumed – clicking against the wooden floor rhythmically. Shortly after, they proceeded to the stairs.

"Domi, watch what you're saying."

That voice…

It's… familiar…

"Why? It's not like he deserves any better."

The voice got closer, and for once, Vanitas managed to will himself not to throw up for the moment.

"You don't know what he's going th-"

The very second the door cracked open, and Vanitas crossed glances with Domi's supposed "girlfriend", the two froze.

And their blood ran cold.

In the door frame, there stood a young lady, no older than 21, with short blonde hair styled just above her shoulders and neck. She would a sleeveless blouse, low cut to reveal a generous amount of cleavage. Additionally, she wore tight, black skinny jeans, along with slightly heeled ankle boots.

The expression on her face was a picture in itself, one conveying shock. Pure, raw shock. Vanitas was fairly certain his would be the same.

Because this woman - no older than 21, with short blonde hair, the sleeveless blouse, skinny jeans - sent a sickening, nauseating feeling of familiarity through his blood. His heart pounded so hard to the point he could hear it. His eyes doubled in size.

They didn't look away from each other when Domi spoke.

"What the hell is going on here?" she snarled, folding her arms over and slouching against the door.

"Domi, I-I… can you please… leave?" she stuttered; barely. "I… I know who this is…"

Domi, throwing her arms up, spun around, turning towards the corridor and kicking the door open a little more. "Whatever. Shout if you need anything."

The other swallowed thickly, not registering when her girlfriend left and slammed the door shut behind her.

That left them alone.

Awkwardness, a sense of apathy, accumulated between them.

Until Vanitas moved. And suddenly, the endless stare they held was broken.

Tears. Tears built up in his eyes but he absolutely refused to let them fall. Refused to let that emotional barrier he'd held for five fucking years slip away because of…

Her.

His hands trembling. Shakily, he leant over to the bedside table, and picked up the pack of cigarettes, just to retrieve one, and the lighter beside them. Lifting the lighter up to the tip once he'd stuck it between his teeth, Vanitas was barely able to flick the flame on for long enough to light it. The rush of nicotine through his veins after the first inhale was pathetic, but the comforting feeling simply holding the cigarette gave just about enough of a sense of calm for him to not break down right there.

Flitting his eyes up to the ceiling to watch the smoke dissipating, he suddenly heard her voice again; Vanitas jolted, involuntarily.

"Um…" she stammered, shaking. Slowly, she slipped a pack of cigarettes from out her back pocket, and held a singular one out between two fingers. "Can I… borrow y-your, um… lighter, please…?"

Reluctantly, with a dismissive snort, Vanitas lifted his arm up with all the energy he had left, holding the flame on for long enough to allow the other to place the cigarette to her lips and bend down to hijack the flame. He watched her every move, from when she inhaled on the cigarette more desperately than he'd ever seen someone do so, to when the smoke elegantly drifted out from the parted lips, and mingled with the smoke from his own cigarette whilst floating around the ceiling.

"Jeanne."

Her name escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Tears fell down her face like a dripping tap: individually, but clearly. Her eyes, still wide, glistened in the light from the window.

When she spoke, the words were almost indecipherable from the tightness in her throat. "Vani… tas…"

"I'm fine," he spat at her before she could even ask the question.

"N-No…" Jeanne refused, shaking her head frantically as the tears continued streaming down her face. "I-Is this what… you've become? Is this because I-"

"You have nothing to do with this," Vanitas interjected bitterly, denial deeply woven into his words. Woven so deeply into it that Jeanne almost missed it.

Silence befell them once again. Nausea overcame Vanitas, but he refused to acknowledge it, instead sucking on the cigarette and placing a hand over his stomach.

"You're lying…" Jeanne blatantly accused. She sniffed, attempted to brush the tears away from her face, and dragged nervously on the cigarette, all before speaking again. "You… you were never like this!"

The sidelong glances from Vanitas which held nothing but pain and self-hate told her as much.

"What?" He scoffed. "You want me to tell you that it's all your fault? That you caused me to be like this? That you led me down this path?"

Jeanne swallowed thickly, and nodded. "I want you to tell the truth."

"The truth." Vanitas snorted in blunt derision. "Then yes, alright?! This is your fault! All of it! It's your fucking fault! Are you happy now?!"

Speechless. That's what she was left as. Her mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

"That's what I thought," he spat, reverting his focus to the adjacent wall.

Jeanne opened her mouth to speak once more, but choked instead. Partially covering her tear stained face with the hand holding the burning cigarette, she fell back, sliding down the edge of the bed until she landed onto the floor with an audible thump. Her knee, held tightly to her chest, became her next headrest; the next way of shielding herself from that guilt-stirring, disappointed look Vanitas would turn her way every other second.

"Vanitas, I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left…"

Wordlessly, Vanitas leaned over to the bedside table, snuffing out the half-burnt cigarette. Then, he stood up, willing his legs to work just this once as he grabbed the clothes from the side of the room.

He would break soon. Just looking at Jeanne was enough to make those unwanted memories return. The memories he'd gone so damn far to block out.

And now, what was it all for?

The temptation to be inebriated was too strong. Irresistible. He just wanted to be high again, and Noé could go fuck himself if he wanted to stop him.

"You had the right to leave," he said. His back to Jeanne, he hastily got changed out of the soiled clothes, as if he'd only just remembered he was wearing them. Fortunately, she didn't even try to look up at any point. That was good; she didn't need to see all the scars from his endeavours over the past five years. "I can't deny that. But you left without saying anything."

Jeanne remained silence, spare the occasional strained sob escaping her quivering lips.

"What do you have to say to that then?" Vanitas interrogated, his gaze flitting to his open pocket. The wad of cash was visible, and excruciatingly tempting.

"Vanitas I… I'm sorry…" she sniffed. "There were… outstanding circumstances."

Vanitas thinned his lips, and flicked through the cash. He was right from the beginning; this would never last.

"And I'm sorry too," he said, half mockingly, as he proceeded to the window. "Now it's my turn to leave because of outstanding circumstances."

"Please stop!" Jeanne scrambled onto her feet, grabbing at the bedsheets out of panic, dropping the cigarette in her haste. Her gaze was pleading him to stay, but Vanitas had already made his decision. "Please… t-this is my fault… just let me explain! A-And then… I can help you!"

"There's nothing you can do to help me."

Before Jeanne could respond, the gap between them was closed. Acrid, chapped lips were planted on hers, a cigarette tainted tongue sliding into her mouth.

Vanitas' lips felt… warm, though. Nostalgic.

It was a kiss that said 'sorry' – a kiss to convey all the words they couldn't bring themselves to speak.

He parted less than ten seconds later, dragging a finger dexterously along her jawline. Then, spinning on his heel, Vanitas fled to the window.

Jeanne was too frozen in his trance to stop him.

And then she looked up. The window was open, but Vanitas was no longer there, a light breeze brushing through the curtains like the remnants of his presence.

"I heard a crash, what happened?"

Is that… Domi?

"Jeanne? Are you even listening to me?"

"He…" she choked out, tears still falling down her cheeks and dripping into pools on the floorboards "I… it's my fault he's…"

"Hey, babe, it's alright. You couldn't have stopped him going down that path," Domi said, crouching down on one knee beside Jeanne, rubbing a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Her words were laced with a vague sense of bitterness. "Who even was he?"

Jeanne swallowed thickly, and buried the palms of her hands in her eye sockets. "Do you remember… 6 years ago, when I told you that I… was leaving someone behind?"

Domi nodded slowly.

"That's… him. Vanitas is… the person I left."

"Dickhead…" she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "Where did he go?"

Jeanne sniffed, wiping some of the tears away from her cheeks. It hurt so, so much to say these words. "To relapse, I think…"

"Son of a bitch…" Domi hissed, and then sighed, pulling out her phone. "Alright. It's looks like we need to break the news to Noé. And fast."


His body was heavy. Sweat poured down his forehead. His head was throbbing. His muscles ached.

Almost… there…

Vanitas knew it would never last. It was obvious. Inherently so. What was even the point in trying to get clean in the first place?

The moment he'd left Noé's house - going as fast as he possibly could like the police were on his tail (they probably were) - Vanitas had texted Dante. And within a minute of contacting him, he got the much anticipated reply, confirming that he'd be at the usual place in 20 minutes.

And luck was really on his side; the train was dead on time.

Vanitas wasn't sure he'd ever run anywhere quite as fast as he did.

The "normal place" was a small alley off the side of the main road, just down the street from the station. The same place he'd met Dante when he'd first escaped from Noé's.

It was damn-near the place he'd been when Noé originally found him.

I'm… sorry, Noé.

It was too late to go back now.

[From Dante, 14:37]
Im inside your little campout

Ah, yes. Vanitas' make-do home: a deserted building down said alley frequently used by addicts as shelter.

As he strode down the alley, his fingers itching for the drugs he knew awaited him, Vanitas couldn't help but feel comfortable at the site of smashed windows and crumbling building sites.

A broken place made for broken people like him.

That didn't matter right now. He could self-loathe during the comedown of the next high.

"I knew you'd be back soon."

The sound of Dante's voice might have been reassuring, however, Vanitas' nerves wore thinner and thinner with every step closer to the drugs.

In one swift, rash move, he spun around, grabbed Dante's shoulder, and firmly pinned him against one of the cracked walls. Then, with the hand not restraining the other, Vanitas shoved a hand into his coat pocket, pulling out a whole wad of cash.

"Listen to me," he breathed heavily, thrusting the cash into Dante's hand. "You're gonna take my money; I don't give a single shit how much of it you take, and then you're going to give me the strongest heroin you've got."

"Woah, chill," Dante hushed, and rolled his eyes. "In this state, Oxy will do you better."

Vanitas blinked a few times. His thoughts were lagging; it took a few moments for him to comprehend what he'd said, and remember was 'Oxy' was, before he could respond. "Look at me, Dante. Do you think I give a single fuck what opiate you're trying to give me?"

"If you're gonna treat me like this, I don't have to sell to you." Dante folded his arms over pointedly. Vanitas had only just realised he didn't have the usual cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"No," he spat, giving Dante one last shove before retreating, and pacing, pointing accusingly at him as he spun around again. "But you want my money. Am I wrong?"

Dante, throwing his arms up in defeat, saw no point in trying to form a coherent response from the other.

He was an addict, sure, but there was something different about Vanitas. Vanitas was always different, but…

There was just something about him which set him apart from all of Dante's other clients; all the desperate buyers who just wanted to feel…

Normal.

"I'll prepare the shot for ya," he said, before lobbing a small but generously packed bag of cocaine at the other. "On the house. Go nuts."

And so he did. With trembling hands, Vanitas tore open the bag, tipping out some of the white powder and arranging them into 3 lines. The lines were totally disproportionate, but that didn't matter right now.

In a craving-induce haze, he bent over, tilted his head downwards, and snorted all 3 lines in one breath.

The flood of euphoria was blissful, but the unfathomable cravings had yet to be satisfied.

"Vanitas, take it."

Vanitas' neck cracked when he lifted his head up, locking eyes with the syringe. Yes, the syringe: a dusty brown liquid filling the plastic container, painfully tempting.

This was where he belonged, after all.

Diving forward, Vanitas didn't even hesitate when he snatched the drugs from Dante's grip, trying to settle his trembling fingers. He rolled up his sleeve, and readied the needle at an exact 45 degree angle to where he knew there was a vein.

And then he pushed the piston, and let the drugs course through his partially collapsed veins.

The feeling of the high was the best he'd felt in a long, long time. Vanitas felt himself slipping further and further away from the surface of consciousness.

Watching as the other drifted away from reality, Dante took his cue to leave, turning towards the gap which would've been a door.

Just before he left, he spun back around to where Vanitas was slumped against the wall, and delivered his parting words with such genuineness in his words.

Genuine, and slightly manipulative.

"It's good to have you back, Vanitas."


[From Domi, 15:23]

Did u find him yet? xx

[From Domi, 15:23]
Jeanne has gone home now, I'll wait back at yours xx

[From Domi, 15:25]
I'll take that as a no then

Noé didn't bother with replying to her messages. He had one goal, one objective, at the forefront of his mind: finding Vanitas.

Almost straight after he'd supposedly fled his house, Noé had gotten a call from Domi, pleading him to come home. He didn't even question why; the moment Noé heard the other's name, he instantly left work.

Upon arriving back to his house, the biggest indicator that something had happened was Jeanne, in hysterics on his guest room floor.

Admittedly, his gut reaction was to call the police. But Noé couldn't bring himself to do that.

He was so close to being done.

The drive to help him was so much stronger than that tiny, insignificant voice telling him to give up now. So, without hesitation or a second of contemplation, Noé had gotten straight back in his car, and was now borderline speeding around the city in search for Vanitas.

Time would only exacerbate the situation, after all.

Noé knew he'd relapsed by this point. That was inevitable. And if he hadn't, he wouldn't be able to stop him once the opportunity arose.

Despite that, the main cause for concern was just a sickening inkling of doubt in the pit of his stomach, overthinking everything.

What if something had happened to him?

Noé couldn't bear to watch that pan out. Not if he could've stopped it in some way.

Stop it…

Stop…

That's it!

The epiphany hit Noé like a train. Hastily, he slammed on the brakes, the car coming to an abrupt stop by the side of the road.

Of course he's…

The buildings were hauntingly familiar, a painfully nostalgic and memory-stirring aura about the area.

It had only been 3 days ago, after all.

Yes: this was the alley Noé had first found Vanitas in. The place which was – presumably – his home. A torn-down, decrepit building.

Mentally preparing himself for what he was sure to find, Noé plucked up enough courage to actually get out of the car, slamming the door behind him and striding over to the abandoned house. Syringes littered the entrance, and the entire vicinity stank of bleach, cigarettes, and vomit, but that didn't even start to put Noé off.

Then he saw it – blood. Blood and vomit; a line of it, spotting the stairs like a trail. And it was fresh.

This wasn't quite what he'd expected.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Noé abandoned any dread and simply readied himself. Knees shaking, he climbed the stairs, folding his arms over to avoid the rotten and sticky handrails. He was fairly certain he'd stepped in vomit several times, but if his intuition was right and Vanitas was here, that wouldn't exactly be a first.

The very second Noé reached the top of the stairs, he saw it.

Sure enough, Vanitas was here.

Physically.

Unconscious.

And in a puddle of vomit.

The empty syringe on the floor beside him was enough for Noé to know precisely what'd happened.

Once again, the stench of vomit didn't stop him from stomping over to the lifeless corpse – oh for Christ, how he hoped it wasn't that – and bending down onto one knee beside it. With two fingers, Noé hurriedly tried to find a pulse. At his neck, there was virtually nothing. It was only when he found the very faint feeling of blood pumping through his frail wrists that he even knew Vanitas was still alive.

He was almost dead.

"Vanitas? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Alright, you're coming with me!" he said aggressively, despite being fully aware Vanitas couldn't hear him. With one hand, he effortlessly hoisted the motionless body onto his shoulders, ignoring the blood and vomit smeared all over his face, or the nauseating, rhythmic sound of his almost-dead heartbeat.

If Vanitas was awake, he'd probably slap him, and demand to know where they were going before proceeding to sulk about it.

"We're going to the hospital, idiot!" Noé answered to the little voice of Vanitas in his head. "I refuse to let you die! And… and I… I refuse to let all that be for nothing!"