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July 25th, Peace week Monday, A.S. XLV (Pennsic 45)
Eraqus has a new child, that’s what his dad had said to him. Some poor new adoptee to suffer the Wayfinders’ particular brand of crazy. And Vanitas is being dragged by the hair— literally— up the hill to go and meet her. Eraqus has a pretty little daughter, his dad had sung, and something about it made Vanitas’ flesh crawl.
But here he is, fist clutched in Sora’s, walking into House Departure.
Fancy canvas tents and thick floor tarps that crunch underneath his feet. The smoky smell of cooking food over an open flame. Eraqus standing with his two little hanger’s-on.
And there she is.
Willowy. Tall and thin and pale, fingers like thin sticks folded over each other. Pale in her skin, and her eyes, and her hair. Thick eyelashes pointed demurely downwards, at her feet. So tall, for their age, but scrunched in on herself. Shoulders at her ears, like she’s hiding in them.
Aqua’s ill-fitting surcoat in baby blue looks wrong on her, somehow. Boxy in all the wrong ways, only accentuated by the way the hem crawls up over her shins.
“This,” Eraqus says, setting a hand on her shoulder that has her wobbling a paper-thin smile and hunching in on herself further, “is Wendy. The newest member of our family. Wendy, this is Vanitas,” Eraqus swept a hand towards him. “My friend Xehanort’s son.”
Wendy is introduced to Sora, and she makes a valiant effort at a curtsey. And then they were told to “go play,” where Aqua then led them to a little tent off to the side, full of colorful children’s toys and stuffed animals.
Wendy sits abruptly in a corner, pulling a stuffed dog into her lap and setting her chin on it.
“A whole new stray, huh?” Vanitas had asked.
Aqua, “Vanitas, don’t start.”
But Wendy is nodding in sage, calm agreement. “Yes.”
It’s the first word she’s spoken.
Vanitas sneers. “What makes you so special?”
“Nothing,” she says, and her voice is a roll of twine; light and airy and dancing around them like gentle wind. High like bells. A windchime. She smiles, holding up the stuffed dog and says, “Woof, woof.”
He rips it from her hands, tossing it to the side. There’s a scolding clamor behind him, but Vanitas is beyond caring. Her eyes are placid, her expression blank.
“Woof, woof,” Vanitas repeats. She smiles.
What a broken creature.
“Why you?”
“Mister Eraqus is very nice to me,” she says, with the affectation of being rehearsed.
Vanitas grips her ponytail in his fist, and when she shrieks, he throws her. Hard, against the dirt. And then he kicks her, right where her skinny flesh tightens against her ribs; hard. Again and again and again, kick her until she stays down.
She doesn’t say a word. And Vanitas wants her to. What’s this demurity, this placidity? Where is her will? He’ll find it.
And if it doesn’t exist, then he’ll just break her.
…
Ven rolls down the window and presses his temple against the overwarm plastic of the car door. The wind whips at his hair, bringing with it the smell of gasoline and asphalt; the hot July sun beats down on them, a good accompaniment to the rumbling of the car.
Terra’s driving them over the Pennsylvania beltway, with a very particular destination in mind. The radio spills gentle, ambient music; the singer’s crooning wraps around Ven, and he lays there, sleepily.
The feeling comes upon him suddenly; a wash of exhaustion, fast and hard. Exhaustion as a tangible force, lead weight dragging at his limbs and his eyes. And Ven… doesn’t fight it. He just pillows his cheek on the plastic, and allows himself to be pulled into the cool depths of sleep.
He dreams, maybe, of fabric swishing around his thighs, and the hot beating of the sun against sleek metal on his chest. He wakes awhile later, eyes blurry as he pries them open, the wind still cutting against his face.
He knows Aqua’s driving now, because the music has changed to something low and sad, with guitars in the back. They’re not on the beltway anymore, and highway’s been replaced with quaint seventies ranch houses and poststamp lawns. Shops rubbing elbows with each other. And then, a left turn onto a winding rural road, all marked by a very distinctive carpark full of yellow school buses.
“Is he awake?” Comes Terra’s voice, pitched low from the backseat. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m awake,” Ven’s voice comes out a little cracked, croaky. “How long was I asleep?” It’s always hard to tell. He sits up, rolling up the window with one hand and rubbing at his eye with the other.
Aqua sends him a fond look from her spot in the driver’s seat. “About an hour.”
Hmmm. He makes a mental note of that. For right now, he just stretches— popping his joints back into place.
Aqua’s a good driver, but with the trailer hitched to the back of the van, the hilly road leading to the campsite is a little stomach-turning. Ven himself is not trusted with the car— shouldn’t be trusted with any car, obviously, but certainly not a back-heavy van stuffed so full, you can’t see out the back; certainly not one of those that also has a trailer hitched to the back, so chock-full of tent poles and rods and plastic buckets full of canvas tent walls that it took Ven and Terra half an hour just to finagle a tarp over the top.
Ven is only sort of rested; he didn’t sleep much the night before. But anticipation has him waking up, has his heart perking up, pricking its ears. They round another bend, and there it is—
—Ven’s twenty-four years old, and he’s been going to Pennsic for thirteen of those twenty-four years, and still; everytime they turn this corner, and the battlefield comes into view, his heart beats like it’s the first time.
It’s funny, that they call it the battlefield this soon; it doesn’t really look like a battlefield, yet. It’s just a field, with neon tape and spray paint to mark off where you’re supposed to park. In the distance, he can see the tents of the food court and the gate set up already; on the far hill, there’s a giant ‘LI’ marked into the grass.
He hasn’t been to any events in… gosh, maybe not since last Pennsic. Suddenly Ven feels the weight of a powerfully awful year, staining the back of his throat.
But the sun beams down on a thousand parked cars, and the excitement is thick in the air. He’s exactly where he wants to be.
Ven smiles, suddenly very content.
…
Vanitas doesn’t know why he agreed to be Land Agent. Vanitas doesn’t know why he agreed to be Land Agent for Organization XIII, as in, the Barony called Real XIII, you know, home and household of Baron Xehanort.
Not for the first time today, Vanitas curses his progenitor and the host of issues being dumped on his lap in his name. Vanitas is not meant for this kind of responsibility. Vanitas is a highschool dropout on three different antidepressants. Making Vanitas the Land Agent for the camp of Baron Xehanort is a joke. It’s literally a joke.
Vanitas scribbles down his signature using a clunky plastic stylus and ponders the fact that his life is a joke. At least getting in this early means getting through Troll fast— and, truly, they have this shit on lock. When Vanitas was a kid, you signed in on a physical piece of paper that had to be processed. Now they have IPads. The future is beautiful, and also incongruent.
It is pretty funny to see the gate people dressed in garb— tunics and doublets and sashes— holding Apple IPads and card readers. The amusement almost makes him forget that he is about to be in a whole new circle of hell.
Once he’s been given his medallion— a little piece of tin about the size of his palm, thin and shining silver, and stamped with a laurel— the illusion is shattered. One’s medallion is important; it shows that you’ve checked in, and aren’t a trespasser. It lets you get on and offsite. And Vanitas has yet to go grocery shopping for the camp, the reminder of which is making his head throb.
He collects his parking passes, slides his medallion onto the chord they gave him, ties it into a necklace, and tosses it over his head. It’s heavy against his chest; cool metal, even through his shirt. This is the realest part— the moment where it sinks in.
Once he puts his medallion on, he doesn’t take it back off. All war. Half for practical reasons— if he’s walking around without it, he’s going to get the concert wristband of shame— and half because, it’s just. Tangible evidence that he is at Pennsic. A sturdy weight.
The air tastes like dust, and he has to shade his eyes to see much of anything; but already there’s people milling around, dressed in garb. Everything from simple early-Medieval tunics to feathery tricorn hats.
The food court is already in action; steam and smoke rise from fryers, making all manner of awful fair food. There’s the distant sound of lute music being played. Someone in a jingling jester’s hat walks by him and calls, cheerfully, “Welcome home!”
He doesn’t reply, but he does almost smile. He inhales, deeply, and takes it all in.
And then his lovely sire hollers at him about the parking pass, and Vanitas full-body twitches in irritation.
Right. Can't lose focus.
…
Ven sits with Terra underneath the shaded awning of their ad-hoc tent. By ‘ad-hoc tent’ he means that they pulled out the roof of their pavilion, tied the ends to the trailer, and then staked down the other side to the dirt.
Aqua insists she doesn’t want to sleep in the car on Zero Day this year, and so… this is their solution.
Zero Day— the Friday that Pennsic begins— is a day rife with traditions born of the yearly series of bureaucratic inconveniences. Only Land Agents are allowed onto the actual campsite, so plebeians like Terra and Ven are forced to wait outside.
But, you know, they’re here to camp. So they just… camp on the battlefield for the night, and then Troll-in in the morning.
Ven frowns in thought down at the playing cards he’s holding. Game of Fluxx momentarily forgotten, Ven asks, “Why’s it called Troll?”
Troll, meaning, the colloquial term for the people who wait at the gate of the event, collecting payments and handing out medallions and marking off everyone who’s registered as entering the event.
Terra looks up at him in surprise. “Because. You have to get past ‘the troll at the gate’ to get in?”
Ven says, “Awwh, but everyone who works Troll is so nice.”
Terra shakes his head. “That’s the joke.” He sets down a card. “New rule— talk like a pirate.”
“Nooooo,” Ven groans. “Why’s Aqua Land Agent, again?”
Terra says, “Who else would be?”
…
The highlight of Vanitas’ day is that as he’s hiking down to his block, stupid little flags in hand, Aqua Wayfinder is getting into a heated argument with one of her neighbors.
House Departure, also known as one of the personal banes of Vanitas’ existence, are always having to fight like cats and dogs for space. They camp on an ideal block— right next to the bog on shady, relatively flat land— and while seniority gets them automatic dibs on their usual spot, it doesn’t stop their ever-rotating gaggle of neighbors every year from trying to haggle with her over, like, five feet of space.
It brings Vanitas a sense of deep satisfaction, seeing her cheeks go red as she refuses to budge an inch. House Departure is, literally, only nine people. They don’t need that much space. And yet Aqua always gets her way.
She catches his eye as he walks past, and sends him an absolutely putrid glare. Vanitas, who’s actually seen her fairly recently at EK Court, gives a salute that has her expression souring further. Good.
And then he slinks through the treeline, into the bog.
The wave of cool, wet air hits him almost immediately; the air has a hint of the smell of petrichor, down here. The trees climb high above his head, shading him from the sun; and down he goes, his feet finding dirt roads and gravel.
He spares a moment's thought for the lake; already gleaming against the daytime sky.
And then the tote bag of stupid little flags makes itself known, and Vanitas lets out a shuddering groan.
Unlike Aqua, Vanitas is responsible for making sure he’s not getting shortchanged on space for seventeen people.
Because that’s the Land Agent’s job; spend the three months before Pennsic sending pissed off emails back-and-forth with the other Land Agents, draw crude maps using the trackpad on your piece of shit laptop, argue some more, send your maps to the Society to get confirmed, and then—
—show up on Friday with your stupid marker flags, and get ready to argue some more.
…
Aqua comes back around dinner time, loaded up with three red baskets full of delicious-smelling fried food. Ven perks up as soon as he sees her hiking up battlefield hill, and waves excitedly. She doesn’t wave back— her arms are full— but she does laugh.
People are milling about around them; small groups camped next to their cars, just like Ven and Terra. The air has the feeling of excitement and the murmur of many lowered voices.
“I come bearing gifts, my lords,” she says, already affecting a posh SCAdian voice. It’s halfway a joke, and Terra laughs as he takes two of the baskets from her. A burger for him and chicken tenders for Ven; Aqua herself seems to have gotten whatever’s on the menu at Beast & Boar; roast beef, it looks like.
“Well met and many thanks, my lady,” Terra replies.
Ven rolls his eyes at them both, before biting into his chicken. He can talk the talk, he just isn’t about to with Terra and Aqua. Come on.
“How’s landgrab going?” He asks instead.
“Our side of the block is all mapped out,” Aqua says, settling down cross legged on the tarp they’re all sitting on. “Apparently Clan Dunbroch’s Land Agent is stuck in traffic, so the far side hasn’t been done yet. Aurora and I are insisting we wait for him, though the new guy just wants to get it over with.”
“Why do we always get the worst neighbors,” Ven complains.
“I bet they’re saying the same thing about us,” Terra replies, peaceably.
Probably true. Aqua is somewhat notorious, and not for necessarily good reasons. Still, though. Their rotating list of new neighbors every year gets old. Nobody settles down on the block with them, except Clan DunBroch and House Enchanted.
“Oh, and I saw Vanitas,” she says, studiously not looking at Ven.
“He’s Org XIII’s Land Agent?” Ven cries, dropping his chicken tender entirely. It falls harmlessly back into the basket on his lap. “Seriously?”
“Or did the Baron sneak him onsite early again?” Terra asks, dryly. Yeah, that… went down in infamy. Nobody’s going to forget that a Baron snuck his adult son onsite on Zero Day. Especially since it’s only been a year. The chewing out he got from the Brass Hats has everyone sniffing for blood in the water— gossip.
Aqua shrugs. “I didn’t see Baron Xehanort, just Vanitas. He was carrying some marker flags.”
Oh, my god. “How annoyed did he seem?”
Aqua gives him a wary look. “Very.”
“Like, all the way into utterly pissed?”
She nods.
Ven grins, full of ticklish amusement and schadenfreude. “He is their Land Agent.” This is the best news Ven’s heard all day. This is fantastic news. Amazing. What is the logic there? He picks his chicken tender back up, but he doesn’t eat it, because he’s too busy giggling into it.
And then, like speaking of the devil, his voice can be heard, barking-pissed off: “For the love of god, Sora, there’s no point in you coming today.” A pause, and Ven cranes his neck around the flap of their makeshift tent to see him.
It’s Vanitas, alright. It’s not often that Ven sees him in mundanes, and the sleek lines of modern clothes look strange on him. The dark skinny jeans and black tanktop combo is less shocking; he’s even got chains hanging off his belt. Ven snickers into his chicken tender at the sight of him, because his face is twisted into something incandescently stressed. He’s stomping up the hill, marching like he’s going to the gallows. He’s got a red-cased cellphone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, and in one hand he’s white-knuckling a set of car keys; the other? His parking pass.
It’s only been a year, but he looks ages older. There’s deep bags under his eyes, a notch beside the corner of his mouth. His hair is longer than Ven ever remembers seeing it, coarse spikes reaching his jaw. He’s got a new piercing, too; a bar lodged in the center of his bottom lip.
“Tell Dad that his opinion is worthless. He’s just going to bitch about sleeping on the battlefield, and I’m not sneaking anyone onsite. If he suggests that, kill him.” He entirely pauses in his marching to listen to whatever it is Sora, his younger brother, is saying. His entire cadence goes slack. Color drains from his face, as palpable dread visibly crashes over him. “What?”
Ven’s amusement dies at the panic rapidly overtaking Vanitas’ features. Ven stutters to a stand, ready to help; Vanitas lives near Cooper’s Lake, so if something’s wrong with the Baron’s health they can get there pretty fast—
“What do you mean the truck isn’t starting?” Vanitas’ voice is shrill. “What did you do?!”
He hears a wordless, tinny reply; Sora shouting in indignation, no doubt. Vanitas shakes his head, pressing his knuckles to his forehead and groaning, deep and guttural. Ven relaxes by motes; that’s bad, but it’s not… yeah. Anyway.
“Hey,” Ven says.
Vanitas startles like a cat, which is one of Ven’s favorite things about him. His entire body jolts, puffing up in surprise. It always makes something violent flash in his eyes, just for a second, before he gets control of himself; breathing hard, eyes wide. Ven smiles.
“Before you say anything, yes, I was eavesdropping. Talk quieter next time,” Ven says. Then, “Do you need anything? One of us can run you over there if you’re already parked.” Hiking all the way to parking and back is not fun, and Vanitas really isn’t dressed for the heat.
“I’m right there,” he points to a car a few feet away. “It’s fine. It’s just Sora being stupid, as usual.” He replies, clipped and irritated. “I’ll talk quieter when you become a Brass Hat, Ventus.”
Ven glares. Dick. He sends Ven a hot look, before stooping to pick his phone back up. He shakes grass from it, pressing it to his ear. He walks off, talking noticeably quieter. Ven rolls his eyes, ducking back to where Aqua and Terra are giving him matching amused expressions.
“Whaaaat?” He whines. “If they can’t get their truck working, that’s bad.”
…
Vanitas did not expect to spend the second half of Zero Day with his hands buried in the innards of his old man’s piece of shit pickup that’s older than he is. The worst part is that the stupid thing is already packed, because Vanitas and Sora packed it before he left this morning, which means it lists weirdly on its suspension when he puts too much weight on it.
Sora rushes out of their front door, tripping over his oversized, untied sneakers. He rights himself, blinking, clutching at Vanitas’ car keys. He adjusts the backpack tossed over his shoulder; it’s got a hard copy of the agreed-on map for the camp divisions on their block, plus some flags, plus a can of spray paint. Land Agent stuff.
“It should be fine,” Vanitas says. “I already marked our camp. But Brain was giving me shit about the back, arguing that since he has more people than he expected, he needs more space.” Vanitas glares down at the sparkplug he’s fishing out. “So if the camp isn’t exactly how I marked it on the map, kill him.”
“Okay, got it,” Sora says, affecting seriousness, nodding sagely. It’s comical on him. “Did you already call about making me your proxy?”
“Obviously. My phone’s on, just call me when you get there.”
Sora nods. And then he grins, slow and toothy. “Sooooo…” he rolls back on his heels, tone leading. “Does this mean I get to stay?”
Vanitas yanks the sparkplug out, tosses it at the ground hard enough it shatters, and says, “Fine.”
Sora throws his arms up, cheering. He throws his arms around Vanitas’ shoulders in a painful, bodily hug. “Yes! Thanks, Vanitas!” He hops away, jogging towards Vanitas’ stupid hummer.
He calls, “Make sure the camp is right! Sit on Brain if you have to! Be mean!”
Sora waves a hand dismissively, before diving into the driver’s seat. He pulls out of their driveway with all the speedy reckless abandon he always drives with, and Vanitas spares a brief prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in for his car’s safety.
He returns his attention to the truck, rubbing at the bridge of his nose despite the motor-oil he’s inevitably smearing all over. He needs to focus; it’s only a matter of time before the old man gets impatient, and comes hobbling outside to “see Vanitas’ progress”. See: code for yelling at him that he’s an idiot doing everything wrong, and to hurry up, they don’t have all day.
“I just need you to drive two hours to Butler,” he mutters, to the truck. “That’s all.”
He yanks a wrench out of the toolbox and practically climbs inside.
…
Ven wakes to the distinct rattle-y-rumbling of a rusty old pickup truck. It’s late; late enough that the dew has dropped, making the air the heavy and moist. Ven takes a deep breath of it, before sitting up in his sleeping bag.
Curious and suddenly very awake, Ven crawls over Terra to the edge of their makeshift tent. Ven drags his sleeping bag with him, wrapping it around his shoulders as he pokes his head outside.
Oh, that’s totally Xehanort’s truck. Ven recognizes it easily; one of its headlights is perpetually dimmer than the other, and Vanitas used to shove Ven into the dark blindspot when they mudwrestled in it’s light as teenagers.
It parks next to them, before turning abruptly off. The back is stuffed; so full it looks like some kind of hulking beast in the darkness. Tied down with ratchet straps and, like, three tarps. There’s still wooden tent poles sticking out the back.
Ven wraps his sleeping bag around his shoulders, and leans back against the wheel-well of Terra’s van. He scoots further onto the dewey grass, letting the tent flap swing shut.
Vanitas slides out of the driver’s seat, looking utterly weary. He slams the door shut with such a vengeance, the whole truck tilts on its suspension. He gives a ragged, irritated sigh, before he pulls out his phone.
It lights up his face in an uncanny blue glow. He squints down at it, a beam of light in the cool darkness.
Ven doesn’t startle Vanitas; he looks up and they happen to lock eyes. For a moment, they just look at each other, impassive. Two beings in the dark, sharing air and gaze. Vanitas clicks his phone off and slides it into his back pocket.
“Why are you stalking me?”
“You parked next to us,” Ven cries, exasperated.
“It’s the only open parking spot for ages,” Vanitas replies. Ven can’t make out his expression in the dark, but he hears the smugness in his voice when he says, “Why’s that? Is Duke Eraqus’ favorite child biting the heads off of everyone who comes her way?”
“Maybe they’re all just giving you a wide berth.”
“Ooh, what a comeback,” Vanitas sings. “I’m so hurt.”
“Right, I forgot,” Ven says, sarcastically. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“That’s right,” Vanitas says, and he hears the soft footfalls of his boots in the grass. His shadowy silhouette grows bigger as he approaches; the headlights of distant cars backlights his spiky hair. “Not all of us can be bastions of cheerful friendliness like you, Ventus.”
He crouches, until they’re within each other's sight. Ven looks long into his bright eyes. The way the light makes him eerie, shadowed.
“Awwh, thanks,” he mimes, wiping a tear from his eye. “You do care.”
“Believe me, it was an insult,” Vanitas says, tilting his head a little. He moves like a cat, or maybe a bird; every movement utterly controlled, almost robotic.
“That’s not very chivalrous of you,” Ven says, grinning. “Squire Vanitas.”
Vanitas’ expression twists in irritation, and Ven is happy, because that’s one of his favorite of Vanitas’ expressions.
“I’m plenty chivalrous,” Vanitas sticks his nose in the air. “Just not to you.”
Sort of true. “Hey, is it true that you’re Org XIII’s Land Agent this year?”
Unlike the irritation of before, dread-peaked rage flashes over Vanitas’ expression for a full few seconds. That’s how Ven knows it’s true; Vanitas never wants to do anything at Pennsic except fight, and practice fighting, and annoy Ven. He snickers.
“Yes, and I’m sure you’re sitting pretty making everyone else do everything for you?” Vanitas hisses. “Swaddled and coddled as always.”
Ven’s mirth drains from him, replaced with an overwarm hurt, low in his chest. Vanitas doesn’t know, can’t know; Ven’s been in Mundania since last Pennsic, and Aqua and Terra and their dad aren’t going to tell him the sordid details of Ven’s medical problems.
Ven leans the back of his head against the cool metal of the car and says, “Something like that.”
Vanitas pauses, visibly surprised. He blinks, rapidly, at Ven.
“I see you got your truck working.”
Vanitas tilts his head; he won’t forget that. But instead of pressing, he allows the conversation topic to change. Vanitas complains, at length, about how hot it was and how stupid the problem was and how he had to run to the hardware store twice to fix it. And it’s familiar, listening to Vanitas bitch about his dad and his brother and the world; so familiar, that between one breath and the next, Ven is asleep.
…
“I’ll unload the truck, you go pick up the old man,” Vanitas is saying.
It's early morning. The sunlight is light and the air is still cool and moist. Vanitas has one arm braced on the truckbed, arms crossed as he talks to Sora. He woke up twenty minutes ago, grabbed coffee from Beast & Boar, and then drove the truck onto their block.
With Saturday morning comes the influx of people; already their block is chock-full of cars stuffed full of Medieval camping supplies, and people running around, unloading said cars.
Sora, who spent the night in the backseat of Vanitas’ hummer, looks positively cheery. Somehow. He beams. “Okay!” Then, less cheery, “He’ll be upset it isn’t you, though.”
“And he’ll be upset if the car isn’t unloaded.” Vanitas replies. “If you’re too scared to deal with him, I’ll go.”
“No, it’s okay.” Sora says, looking listlessly off to the side.
But see, now Vanitas’ spidey-senses are tingling. Maybe he should just cut out the middle man, actually, and call them what they are: Xehanort-senses.
“Did he give you an earful yesterday, about the car?”
Sora shrugs, not looking at him.
“Okay, so he gave you an earful and it wasn’t about the car.” Vanitas deduces. “What’s his damage?”
Sora rubs at the back of his head and scuffs the toe of his sneaker to the ground. Vanitas sighs, irritated with himself; he should have seen that Sora was obviously trying to give the old man the slip.
Sora hesitates, visibly warring with himself; debating whether or not to tell Vanitas.
“Is it about me?” He guesses, and knows he’s right when Sora blows out a defeated breath. “Fuck’s sake, Sora, just tell me.”
“It’s— ugh, Dad just was talking about how I’m lazy, making you do all the work.”
Given that, actually, what’s happening is that a lifetime of expected responsibilities that were once Baron Xehanort’s are now suddenly Vanitas’, that’s a patently absurd thing to accuse Sora of. But the old man’s never been known for being rational, so he rubs at the bridge of his nose and thinks.
He doesn’t really want to leave his eighteen year old brother to unload the entire truck by himself, even though he knows Sora’s more than capable. He also wants to keep Sora and the old man separate for a while, at least until Sora’s hurt feelings fade a little. He’s never had Vanitas’ thick skin.
“Alright,” Vanitas comes to his decision. “We’re gonna marathon through unloading the car together, right now. Then I’m going to go get Dad while you take a break. If you don’t, I will know, so actually take one. I am not above walking your ass over to House Departure to force their insatiable hospitality on you.”
Sora breaks into a relieved smile, and Vanitas feels like god’s worst brother ever. Still, Sora nods seriously, and then happily starts at the ratchet straps holding the load down. “Alright! Let’s go, then!”
Vanitas catches the side of the strap when Sora gets it undone, tossing it his way. Together they get the straps undone, and pull the tarps off the top; it’s as Vanitas is undoing the tailgate and climbing into the bed that Sora asks, “When you were talking to Ven yesterday, did he say when the rest of House Departure was coming down?”
“I didn’t talk to Ventus yesterday,” Vanitas lies.
Sora’s head pokes around the back of the trailer, sending him a flat look.
Point taken. “I did not ask about your little friends, no. Just text them yourself.”
Sora sighs, ragged and irritated. He disappears around the other side of the trailer, and then a ratchet strap is getting lobbed at Vanitas’ head. He catches it, but not without a few choice words for Sora.
…
By the time Dad’s driving in, Ven, Terra and Aqua have the car unloaded and two tents set up; Ven’s and Aqua’s. Ven and Aqua share an a-frame, while Terra sleeps in his own pavilion. Ven and Aqua are standing the tent poles for Terra’s little tent when they see the car coming down the hill; Terra is digging out a spot for the firepit, swinging at the ground with the rusty pickaxe that’s seen better days.
The three of them cheer when he pulls up, and drop what they’re doing— literally, in the case of the tent poles— to go swarm the car.
Dad is smiling at them, chuckling as he unbuckles his seatbelt. It takes him a second to get out, and he has to take Aqua’s hand to steady himself; Terra takes the liberty of pulling his cane from the backseat and handing it to him.
And then he wraps the three of them up in a hug, squeezing them by the necks. Ven laughs, still the shortest, getting squished between them.
It’s been a few weeks since he’s seen his dad, so he wraps his arms around him tight and squeezes. He smells like childhood and woodsmoke, and Ven breathes him in. “Welcome home,” he greets.
“Thank you, Ven,” he says.
The moment is interrupted by the squealing of brakes. Curious, the three of them break their hug to face the road, where—
Xehanort’s truck is idling on the side of the road, windows down, and its occupants are screaming at each other. Wide-eyed, Ven spots Vanitas in the driver’s seat, gesturing with his hands in a way Ven can only describe as aggressive.
“I am tired of hearing about your sordid mistakes the moment you turn your back!” He slams the heel of his palm against the top of the steering wheel, hard enough that the car jerks. “I could have left you at the house! I did not have to drive you here! And if you’re going to make this more impossible than it needs to be, I can undo the kindness!”
“Ungrateful.” Comes the trembling, thin reply from the shadowed figure in the passenger seat. And then there’s the distinct smack of skin against skin. Vanitas’ head cracks to the side. “Children do not get to tell their fathers how to act, not when they’re misbehaving.”
“I guess I should get on my hands and knees and thank you? Oh, Daddy, I’m so glad you brought me into existence! Even if it was an accident.” Vanitas fake swoons.
“Xehanort!” Dad calls, taking a warning step towards the car.
Like clockwork, all noise ceases. Dad hobbles over, careful of the terrain, leaning hard on his cane. He leans against the car door on Baron Xehanort’s side, smiling placidly. “Hello, old friend.”
“Eraqus,” the Baron grunts.
“How was your journey here?”
Ven approaches at his dad’s shoulder, ignoring the smalltalk he’s dragging the unwilling Baron into. He peers around Xehanort to see Vanitas, teeth clenched. He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, panting for breath. He’s clearly irate, seething; his cheek is red.
“Hey, Vani!” Ven beams.
“How many times have I told you not to call me that, Ventus?” Vanitas hisses, from between his teeth.
“Too many to count!” Ven can’t help but chirp. “Hey, I was wondering if you could help us out? I wanna go on an ice run, but you guys have that cool fancy new cart.”
Vanitas, who undoubtedly knows exactly what Ven is doing, presses his forehead to the steering wheel. “You have a car, don’t you?”
Ven pouts. “Aw, but we aren’t done unloading yet.”
Vanitas looks up at him, twisted and miserable. “Fine. I’ll save you and your pathetic little twig arms.” The insult lacks its usual bite.
Ven claps his hands. “Yay! Thanks, Vani.”
Vanitas puts the car back into gear and pulls away, cutting Dad off mid-sentence. They crack down the street, slightly faster than is probably safe. Ven frowns after them.
…
“Do you want me to apologize? Get on my hands and knees and beg for your forgiveness?” Vanitas drawls, low in his throat. “For the fact that Dad slapped me?”
Ansem looks at him impassively, tapping his cigarette on the plastic foldy table that Vanitas has yet to cover with a period tablecloth. He leans back in the fabric bucket chair, stinking up the air with the smell of nicotine. He gestures with the cigarette, and Vanitas’ eyes are glued to it when ash flakes from the lit end, onto his foldy table.
“It was very public,” Ansem replies, smoke accompanying the words. “The Duke won’t invite a scandal, not one he’s so close to; but what about his little son? The one who’s so…” he pauses, for dramatic effect. Ansem loves to pause for dramatic effect. “...fond of you.”
“Ventus hates my guts,” Vanitas replies, dry as a desert. “I broke three of his ribs when we were eleven.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” another drag, long and slow. “I was the one who drove you both to the ER, lest you forget.”
“I’m making a point,” Vanitas clenches his fists. “He won’t snitch. It’s fine.”
Around them, cicadas buzz. Ansem looks at him inscrutably, dark eyes shadowed by his douchey sunglasses. He takes a drag; sets the cigarette between his teeth and inhales quick: one, two, three times, blowing smoke like a chimney.
“I’ll talk to him,” he finally relents, through his teeth.
With that, he pokes around the mess that is their half set-up camp, looking for the ice cart. House Departure doesn’t have one, because making a cart that’s both functional for human beings to use and period is an exercise in insanity, but Vanitas’ family is nothing if not insane.
It’s made entirely of wood and canvas, and it comes apart using wooden bolts so that it packs flat. He finds it beside the stake bucket, and he spends a few minutes putting it together; he pauses briefly to give Sora shit, when he asks where the old man’s tent walls are.
With the cart finally together, he drags the cart up Brewer’s road, trusting that Ansem and Xemnas will be able to entertain their stupid dad in his absence. He passes other camps, all working through the midday heat. Tents going up, cars driving around, camps being organized. It’s a controlled chaos, because everyone’s within their little square of plotted land, yelling at each other.
There’s something soothing about it; something soothing about how much everyone else is in the exact same boat— the chaos of setup, everywhere you look. So by the time Vanitas drags the cart up to the front of House Departure, he’s almost in a good mood.
Right up until Ventus’ smiling face is poking around the side of his car. There’s something ageless about Ventus; everytime he sees him, it's exactly how his mind imagines him looking. But then he looks at old photos, and he sees all the puppyfat lost, the way his smile twists differently, now. He still beams at Vanitas in exactly the same, utterly infuriating, way.
He’s already dressed in garb, because of course he is. A ratty old tunic in a forest green color swishes around his knees, and he picks his way across the controlled chaos of his own camp to join Vanitas at the edge of the road.
He’s got a smear of dirt on one of his cheeks, and Vanitas’ eyes land on it and stay there. Something about it is making his chest feel like it’s on fire. He wants to wipe it off Ventus’ face; maybe also punch him.
He does neither. Instead, he jerks his chin towards the hill, and then they’re walking.
“Fancy yourself my knight in shining armor, Ventus?” Vanitas says, because he can’t leave well-enough alone. “Should I give you my favor?”
Ventus rolls his eyes, sending Vanitas an irritated glance. “Yeah, screw me for trying to help you.”
I don’t need your help. His head throbs. “Hmmm,” is what he says aloud. “A beltloop with my heraldry? Maybe a ribbon? I could always be cliché, and get you a necklace. That way you could ride glorious into battle, and everyone would know that you were fighting for Vanitas Caelum’s honor.”
Ventus huffs, hard enough that his cheeks puff up. Exactly like when he was eleven, they redden in frustrated anger. He tosses his head, turning away from Vanitas entirely. “You’re not subtle at all.” He mutters, petulant and childish.
“Who ever said sarcasm was subtle?”
Ventus fixes him with a flat look. “Be a dick all you want. You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Vanitas’ smile twists with anger, wide and toothy. Fine, be that way.
“Besides,” Ventus says, airily. “I can’t fight for anyone’s honor this year.” His tone is cheerful, but it’s not honest; Vanitas stops dead, right there at the top of the hill, to stare at him.
No way. What?
“…because…?”
“Because I won’t be fighting at all,” he says, tiredly. “I can’t fight.”
Vanitas knows he’s just standing there, gaping, but… it’s insane. There’s no way. Vanitas and Ventus met in preparation for a children’s fighter practice when they were eleven. Vanitas took one look at his awful smile and broke three of his ribs. Ventus knocked his two front teeth out. There was blood. They went to the hospital. It was memorable.
And they continued to be in fighter practice together, every year after that. He comes from a fighter house, for god’s sake. His father was King of the East. Twice. Didn’t Aqua just get Master of Defense?
They were welcomed as squires the same year. Years ago now; Ventus cried, as Eraqus gave him his belt. Red-rosy cheeked and shoulders shuddering. Vanitas had watched him cry, rapt.
They’d fought in battles, both together and against each other; they’d dueled in tourneys; they’d sparred and practiced and tasted each other’s blood.
And now he was saying he couldn’t fight?
“Why not?” Vanitas demands. “Are they not letting you? Coddling you—?”
“No!” Ventus cries, exasperated. Calmer, “No, I made the decision. It’s not…” he scuffs his bare foot against the asphalt. “It’s not safe.” He looks up, full of tentative embarrassment; finally, he says, “I could pass out on the battlefield.”
Vanitas blinks at him. Ventus was always falling asleep at seemingly random times, from midday to the evening, but it never…
“I caught the flu,” he says, quietly. “After last Pennsic. And then I wasn’t, uh. I wasn’t the same.”
“You caught the flu,” Vanitas says, beside himself. “And it gave you narcolepsy?”
He flushes. “It’s— that’s actually a common cause of…” at whatever expression is on Vanitas’ face, he trails off. Angrier, “Yes, Vanitas, I caught the flu, and now I pass out about three or four times a day. Uncontrollably. Which means,” he flicks a hand out, “I can’t fight.”
Vanitas doesn’t know what to do with this information. It just doesn’t make sense, doesn’t jive in his mind. But… it certainly explains why Ventus was awake at three am last night.
And why… yes. It explains many, many things. About last Pennsic.
He sighs, hard, through his nose and says, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t know what else you expect me to say,” he turns around, once again dragging the cart behind him.
He hears the soft footfalls of Ventus walking beside him.
It’s stupid. Even now, words are building behind Vanitas’ teeth; spilling vitriol about how Ventus should just fight anyway, how bad can it be, is it more important than fighting? But even Vanitas knows better than to say any of that out loud.
The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Ventus has been a sad, wilted flower every time he’s seen him; sitting on the ground, awake at three am. The only time he’s been his infuriating self was when he was lying to get Vanitas away from his dad.
And then all his anger drains, a bubble popped.
So Vanitas says, “My brother thinks you have a crush on me.”
Ventus chokes. Like fully descends into a coughing fit, as they pass East Kingdom Royal’s camp. He beats his fist against his chest, hacking up a lung. Vanitas watches this with great amusement.
When he finally collects himself, cheeks rosy, he glares at Vanitas and says, “You?” His lip curls in disgust, and he presses, “Which brother?”
“Ansem,”
“The one who drove me to the ER?”
“I was there too,” Vanitas says, mildly. “Bleeding profusely.”
Ventus has no right to look this goddamn smug about that. He doesn’t know why Ventus is so liked; he’s just as much of a little troglodyte as Vanitas. He’s just subtler about it. Or maybe Vanitas just brings out the worst in him. A side of him no one else sees. The thought should be disquieting; instead, it makes something in Vanitas purr in satisfaction.
He doesn’t have time to contemplate it, though, because they’re walking up to the barn. The ice cooler has a line, and so they drag the cart up the wooden ramp and wait a few minutes.
Ventus runs into someone he knows, whom he chats with cheerfully. Vanitas himself gets a few distant calls of “Welcome home!” from his dad’s court acquaintances. Vanitas has to actively yank Ventus— by his arm— to get him to come pay for his half of the ice, because no way is Vanitas paying for House Departure’s ice.
Together they toss the bags into the cart. It takes both of them to get it back over the hill. Ventus pulling, and Vanitas pushing. It’s stuffed full, and they’re rushing a little; it’s like eighty and humid, and neither of them want the ice to melt.
So Ventus hefts and Vanitas pushes, and Vanitas tries not to think about the fact that he won’t get to see Ventus on the battlefield, this year.
…
Ven wakes from a nap he doesn’t remember taking on the ground. He can’t have been out long, because he hasn’t been moved or anything; clearly he just passed out on the grass out behind his and Aqua’s tent.
He sits up, swaying in place when he’s dizzy. He blinks at his surroundings; the sun’s starting to dip a little lower, so it must be close to dinnertime. He sighs, wiping sweat from his forehead. Apparently he’d been sorting the tent ropes.
He gets to his feet, making for the water cooler; hydrate or die-drate. He collects a flask and fills it, sitting down in his favorite chair— a fancy wooden foldy chair from the Basket Man— and observing Aqua and Terra setting up the dining table.
It’s a huge, heavy thing; made to seat twelve. Made of thick oak wood with shields carved into the sides. Hefting that thing is a nightmare, so Ven just sips his water.
Roxas and Xion arrived earlier; bringing with them foodstuffs and about twenty gallons of drinking water. It still won’t be enough, but that’s for next weekend; now, the two of them are setting up their tent together.
It’s Xion’s first time camping with House Departure rather than Org XIII. Ventus actually isn’t super sure what the custodial… legal… parentage situation is there, but she’s eighteen, and therefore can register with whatever camp she wants, and she chose Departure.
Roxas’ been giddy for months at the prospect of camping with her. They both shyly agreed to share a tent. It’s all very sweet to watch.
And… he checks his phone. Riku and Kairi are supposed to be here around dinnertime. Ven sighs in utter contentment, sliding down a little in his chair.
He’s here, and nothing’s changed. It’s all exactly the same…
…except for him.
He frowns into his water, wondering… not really wondering. He’s just remembering what it felt like, to be given his red belt. To be acknowledged for his skills; recognized as a fighter. Mentored by seasoned warriors in stances and strategy and chivalry. The smile on his father’s face, as he guided him to use a sword.
All of that is gone now. And it aches, like a jagged stone lodged in his heart; it aches like grief does. Raw and pulsing. Ven isn’t who he used to be; Ven is changing.
Seeing Vanitas’ dumbstruck face— and the barely contained furious disappointment— was a bit of a knife to the gut. He was even nice about the whole thing, despite that. Or, as nice as Vanitas gets, anyway.
They were meant to stand alongside each other, Ven thinks. They weren’t made to be apart.
What is Ven even good at, if not fighting? If not moving his body, making it work? Who is Ven if he’s not sweating, working, moving towards something?
He’s sipping cold water in his camp chair. He’s sleepy.
Deciding that this sucks, he sets his flask down and steps out of camp. He makes for the porta-johns down the street; also-known-as the worst part of Pennsic. No plumbing.
The air is smoky, has the tang of nicotine. Ven wrinkles his nose, but the sensation is admittedly familiar, so he just ducks into the next open john to do his business. It stinks and is overwarm— and oddly dark— so he moves fast.
Once he’s done, stepping back out onto the soft grass, he investigates the source of the nicotine smell. It’s just— curiosity. No way it’s—
It’s Vanitas. Because of course it’s Vanitas. Leaned against House Enchanted’s gate, cigarette held to his lips. He’s finally dressed in garb, Ven notes with relief; a black tunic and a red sash, red pants to match. Org XIII’s dress code is unofficial, yet— all encompassing.
“Subjecting the innocents around us to your habit, I see.”
Vanitas rolls his eyes with a groan, turning to send Ventus a mean look. “Unlike some people in my worthless family,” he flicks ash off the end, “I’m not interested in smoking around Sora.”
Something in Ven softens. “How out of character of you! That’s almost nice. Would probably be better if you, y’know, quit. But still almost nice.”
His smile is all teeth. “For your information, Ventus, I did quit. For six months. This is what we in the business call,” he raises the cigarette, taking an exaggerated drag. When he speaks the word, he makes sure to breathe cigarette smoke onto Ven’s face. “Relapsing.”
Ven coughs, all sympathy dying on impact as he inhales rancid nicotine into his lungs. He waves a hand to ineffectually clear the air, and Vanitas is grinning at him.
“You make it,” Ven breathes, “impossible to like you.”
“Good thing I don’t pine and ache for the approval of random people,” he flicks away more ash. “Ansem loves to chainsmoke. It’s like a sport to him,” Vanitas sends his eyes skyward. “And I give it less than twenty four hours before my old man is chainsmoking again, too.”
“Again?”
“I’d just worn him down to two a day,” Vanitas says, utterly sour.
Ven almost wants to laugh at him; somewhere between mudwrestling in Xehanort’s headlights and now, Vanitas ended up becoming a mother hen. It doesn’t suit him; Ven giggles.
Vanitas glares; with the smoke curling from his nose, he looks like a dragon out of a fairytale. Dark hair, dark eyes and sunkissed, all sharp lines. Jagged boy, full of anger.
“And what are you going to waste your time doing this War?” Vanitas takes another drag, clearly trying to annoy Ven. “Doing arts and crafts?”
Ven rolls his eyes. And then he sighs, drooping; he feels burdened, suddenly. “I don’t really know,” he admits, quietly. He rubs at his arm, bereft; he aches to put on his armor, to pick up his sword. He aches to be in the middle of the exquisite chaos, the wild insanity of a battle.
Vanitas is looking at him, long and contemplative. Long enough to take another drag. Ven feels his eyes like a tangible weight; like their gaze is curling over his skin, touching every exposed inch.
“When’s the Beginner’s Ball?”
Ven balks at him. “You want me to dance?”
Vanitas shrugs, dismissive. “Well, you always did like rapier. Seems like the most logical conclusion.”
“I could pass out just as easily on a dancefloor as I could on the battlefield,” he points out, very reasonably.
“Right… but in 16th century linedancing, you’re gonna be in the direct line of sight of like eight people at any given time. It’s not like you’ll get trampled.” Somehow, the way he turns to blow smoke— away from Ven’s face this time— is equally as dismissive as his tone. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I could get a concussion?”
“Coward,” Vanitas says, without missing a beat.
Ven scowls at him. Fine. He’ll do it, see if he won’t— except. Ohhh. A smile curls over Ven’s face; he just got an idea.
Vanitas is eyeing him warily when he says, “Sure, I’ll go to the Beginner’s Ball. If…” he jabs his fingers in Vanitas’ chest. “You come with me.”
For a moment, Vanitas’ expression is a little confused.
And then he’s laughing in Ven’s face, loud and mocking. It’s a sharp sound, as jagged as Vanitas himself is. Ven reflects that he used to dread this jeering; used to have nightmares about how small it made him feel, how tiny he is in the face of Vanitas’ scorn.
“You want me?” He grins, catching his breath. “To dance?”
Ven says, “Yep.”
“No!” He barks, flat and mockingly amused.
Perfect; that’s what Ven knew he was gonna say. He smiles, and reaches a hand up to tug on his hair. “Well, y’know… I shouldn’t go alone.”
Vanitas tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s gonna say something mean; but Ven just interjects with: “I need an escort. And who better than the fighter I grew up alongside?” He presses a hand to his chest, as if swooning. “So what say you, Squire Vanitas?”
And Ven sees it; the exact moment that the realization hits Vanitas over the head like a ton of bricks. His eyes go wide, and color drains from his cheeks until they’re ashen. He sits there and stares, in dawning horror, as he considers that, if Ven isn’t a fighter anymore, and may never be again—
—then Squire Vanitas is bound by the chains of chivalric duty.
“Oh, this is not happening,” he says.
And it’s too much; Ven laughs at him. It bubbles up his throat and spills from his mouth, almost exactly as jeering as Vanitas’ laugh is, in his memory. He doubles over with it, arms wrapped tight around his middle as he cackles, tears burning his eyes.
“No,” Vanitas says, harshly. “You’re a squire, too. Don’t try to say you aren’t. You still have the red belt.”
Ven’s chest hurts. His stomach aches. He presses a hand to his face as he loses himself in the laughter.
Vanitas jerks a hand out, so quick it blurs; suddenly there’s a tug on Ven’s head, and then he’s getting yanked upright by his bangs. Vanitas meets his eye, gleaming and wild, fist clenched in the strands.
It’s probably meant to be scary; too bad Ven hasn’t been scared of Vanitas since he was twelve. He just stands there, awkwardly suspended by his head, and giggles.
“No more of that, little Ventus,” Vanitas hisses, shaking him back-and-forth by his head.
Ven giggles: “Don’t let,” a ragged gasp, short of breath from laughter, “anyone see. You might get your belt revoked—”
“You are still a squire from now until the end of time, Ventus.” Vanitas snaps. “Since when have you been so tricky, hm? Don’t let little-miss Pelican wannabe see. She might just cry.”
“Little-miss Pelican wannabe,” comes the positively icy voice of Aqua, “thinks that you should perhaps unhand Ven?”
They turn as one, to where Aqua’s standing in front of the porta-johns, eyes sharp and expression twisted in cold rage.
“How very scary of you, Master Aqua,” Vanitas says, utterly flat. “I’m shaking in my boots.” Still, Vanitas releases Ven; who giggles listlessly into his hands. He’s sorry, alright, it’s just— so funny.
“Come on, Ven,” Aqua says, sharp.
As Ven jogs over to her, he calls, over his shoulder: “First practice is tomorrow at eleven!”
“I am not doing this!” He calls.
…
Ten-thirty AM, Sunday morning. Vanitas is standing at the edge of House Departure.
They’re all already awake, for some reason; Terra is filling their traditional firepit with gravel. Aqua is helping the Duke cook. Riku and Kairi are setting up a tent, a way’s away. Vanitas says, “Hail the camp,” and there’s a murmur of replies. “I’m looking for Ventus.” His eyes meet Aqua’s, and he grins with his teeth. “If I’m allowed.”
Aqua says, “I have half a mind to say you shouldn’t be.”
“Come on, Aqua. They’re friends…” Terra mumbles.
Vanitas doesn’t believe that he really thinks that, but whatever. And that’s when Ventus appears at his shoulder, grinning.
“I knew you’d come!”
He has a bag slung over his shoulder, which Vanitas groans at. He takes it, throws it over his own shoulder, bites out, “Don’t bask in it,” grabs him hard by the wrist and drags him up the hill.
Aqua calls, “Be careful, Ven!” And Eraqus calls, “Hurry home!” And Terra calls, “Have fun!”
Ventus laughs, waving goodbye to his family exuberantly. He allows Vanitas to tug him up and down the other side of Brewer’s, making for the dance tent. There’s a theater practice going on at the Amphitheater, so Vanitas and Ven skirt around it. Up another hill they go, until they’re at the blue-and-gold plastic pavilion that is the dance tent.
There’s a stage set up inside, and a gaggle of what are definitely about three straight couples, chatting amiably amongst each other. And a couple of parents with their grinning kids.
When the teacher shows up— a Baroness of the arts, he guises— she directs them to stand in a circle around the stage, holding hands. Vanitas has Ventus on one arm and a short-cropped bland straight man who can’t look him in the eyes on the other, and he hates all things on planet Earth.
They begin hopping in, until their feet are close, and then back out to the wide circle. In and out, and when they reach the apex of the circle, they link arms with the person on their left and twirl around once.
Ventus’ arm is warm against his skin, and he grins wide and happy at him, and maybe Vanitas doesn’t hate all things on planet Earth. It’s so fleeting, the touch; they’ve skipped away from each other before it can linger.
He shudders in disgust at how sappy that was and doesn’t meet Ventus’ eye. It’s all the same, because he’s spat out on Ventus' other side and then he’s in and out and then he has to lock arms with the Baroness and— ugh. Ugh.
They make a full revolution of the circle before they’re put out of their misery and the Baroness mercifully allows them to stop. Vanitas’ official ranking on How Much He Hated Dancing With People Who Aren’t Ventus is as follows:
1. The children. Innocent and unwitting to the horrors of life. 2. The parents. Too exhausted to care about him. 3. The straight women. Slightly awkward about it. 4. The Baroness. She kept trying to make smalltalk. And 5. The straight men. Who touched Vanitas like he burned, as straight men are wont to do.
When he links arms with Ventus again, he’s grinning knowingly at him. And suddenly Vanitas gets the urge to press his face into the dirt.
“Are you having fun?” He lilts. When they stop, he keeps their arms locked.
Vanitas gets the impression that he’s ensuring Vanitas doesn’t try to escape. “Do I seem like I’m having fun?”
Ventus giggles like that was funnier than it was. They’re directed to stand in two lines opposite from one another, and Vanitas breathes a sigh of relief; he hates dancing with Ventus, but he would frankly rather die than dance with anybody but Ventus, so.
Linedancing is something he’s more familiar with; he used to get dragged to the court balls when he was a child. Except instead of standing across from Xemnas or Sora, it’s just— Ventus.
He locks arms and twirls with Ventus more times than he cares to count. Ventus takes his hand and he walks them in a circle— and they don’t have to discuss which of them does the women’s dances— or he spins him or they lockstep in time or or or and and and.
Medieval dancing is unlike modern dancing in that you aren’t really meant to touch your partner. Something about chastity and virginity under God, social propriety, et cetera.
So every fleeting meeting of skin against skin is— irritating. It’s irritating. Ventus slides his hand against Vanitas’, and his palm is soft. Sword calluses already gone. Vanitas squeezes his hand hard enough it probably hurts.
He touches Ventus’ shoulder and briefly— for a breath of a second— his waist, and his hands feel huge on his waist. Gigantic.
And then, just as soon as they touch, they’re skipping off to their lines; further and further away from each other. And it’s because he’s staring at Ventus’ waist— at how the belt he has on makes it look— that he sees him stumble.
His head dips and his balance lists to one side; he presses a hand to his forehead, the other held out in front of himself like he’s about to fall. His eyes are blinking hard and fast, as if pulled down, down—
He says, slurred, “V— Vanitas—”
Vanitas is across the room in a flash, swift steps one-two-three. When someone else presses a hand to Ventus’ arm, he shoves them off just in time for Ventus to pitch forward directly into Vanitas’ chest.
Vanitas catches him, arms locking around his shoulders. He braces his stance against Ventus’ deadweight. He weakly moves his head against Vanitas’ chest— not quite asleep, but mostly there.
“He’s fine,” he snaps, when he realizes there’s about a thousand eyes on them. All looking anywhere from concerned to vaguely horrified; of course Ventus managed to charm the entire class. “He has a condition.”
The Baroness still insists on having them both sit and drink some water. Vanitas doesn’t know why he needs to be babied, but someone has to be Ventus’ pillow. He only just manages to convince her that they don’t need to go to Chiurgeons.
In— in hindsight it really. The he has a condition excuse used to be a lie? Or, they thought it was. The easiest way to keep tempers calm while relying on social propriety to keep people from asking too many questions. But now it’s. Not.
Ventus wakes slowly, as he always does. Cheek pillowed on Vanitas’ shoulder, sweat-sticky; He’s wearing a tunic that doesn’t have sleeves, which— isn’t period, but fuck you, it’s hot. Ventus heaves a sigh through his nose, rubbing it idly against Vanitas. He makes a tiny little hum sound, a noise low in his throat that Vanitas doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
He feels his eyelashes flutter open, and then he lets out an irritated groan. He turns to press his face into Vanitas’ neck. “How long?”
“Like ten minutes,” Vanitas says. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Across from them, people dance. Ventus smiles. With a sigh, “That’s a relief.”
…
Sunday was full of setting up and sweating and running to the food court to grab dinner for everyone and more setting up. And he thought of the dance, as he drove tent stakes into the ground and suspended canvas by ropes. He thought of it constantly.
Constantly, and constantly, until…
Giving his camp the slip had been a whole thing. Careful, prim, I’m heading to bed! Stuffing his mattress with his pillow and then sneaking out the back. Don’t be alone at night, what if you fall, we wouldn’t know where to find you, et cetera. Never mind that he has his phone location on as a precaution.
He breathes in the nighttime air; it’s always a little eerie, in the bog. The trees block out the moon and the lake makes the air heavy. He can hear voices, distant and muffled; rhythmic drumming; a guitar; and the crackling of distant bonfires.
He isn’t wearing shoes, and the muddy gravel road is digging jagged into his toes. So he skirts around the side of Camp Org XIII, tromping through the trees. He ducks through the side of their camp, past a black tent with purple flourishes, embellished with Baron Xehanort’s heraldry.
He dodges the Baron’s tent, searching for— well, he isn’t sure, exactly, but. Vanitas said he had a tent to himself this year, so he supposes he’s just looking for something sufficiently “Vanitas” that could fit one person. But, he recognizes all these tents; a sea of period pavilions and yurts in black canvas.
He pokes around, trying to be quiet and subtle. He won’t get thrown out if he’s caught, but it’s liable to be— embarrassing.
And then he spots a screaming red mundane tent. A screaming red mundane tent that is maybe seven-by-three. It’s tucked between an a-frame and a pavilion to hide it from the street, and— ugh.
Ven steps up the zipped door and says, “Vanitas.”
There’s shuffling, the distinct rubbery sound of an air-mattress shifting, and then the door unzips exactly enough for half of Vanitas’ face to appear, lit by distant bonfires.
“Ventus,” he says, and he always says Ven’s name in such a particular way; a snake’s hiss of the syllables, curling over his tongue like he’s tasting it.
He unzips the flap fully, and Ven takes that for the invitation it is. He clambers inside, landing directly on Vanitas’ air mattress. It seems like the whole tent is taken up by his bed; except for the very end, which has a plastic bucket, covered in jewelry and socks. Presumably it’s got his garb in it.
Ven zips the flap closed behind him. Vanitas’ sheets are definitely meant to be period, which is a little funny; so is the wool bedspread in black and red. He’s laying on his stomach, turned toward the 3DS he has braced against his pillow.
Rock-electronica drifts from the tinny speakers; Ven thinks he might be playing Shin Megami Tensei, judging from the malformed beast on his screen.
“They have you in a pup tent?” Ven lays on his stomach next to him, careful not to touch.
“I told the old man I didn’t want to bunk with him,” he gestures with the 3DS, “he told me I’d have to pay for my own tent. And he still wants to sleep in the goddamn ten-by-twenty Pavillion, by himself, which is an ardent waste of space that offends me on an intrinsic level. So.” He splays a hand. “It’s space-efficient.”
“Space-efficient,” Ven echoes. Vanitas has been banished to a mundane pup tent and he’s calling it space efficient.
Vanitas rolls his eyes. “We can’t all afford nice period canvas. Though the Duke would have you thinking otherwise.”
“He likes to be authentic,” Ven defends.
“To the point of neurosis,” Vanitas lilts.
“I like to be authentic!”
“To the point of neurosis.”
Ven huffs, offended, but— well. He squishes his cheek against Vanitas’ shoulder, pressing his weight against his. He watches Vanitas play his game for a few minutes; less the game and more the way his lithe fingers move over the controls, the animated sounds of exaggerated death filling the quiet air.
But, well, he gets bored pretty fast. So he turns his head and eyes Vanitas’ profile; the calm expression on his face, his eyes lit up gold by the eerie light of the game.
“Shin Megami Tensei?” He asks.
“A spinoff. Devil Summoner,” he confirms.
His hair bleeds into the shadows. Like he and Ven are floating in nothing but darkness, and the only tangible thing is the light of the console. Fuzzy, like a dream.
I missed you, it’s something he isn’t sure how to say. He doesn’t know how to tell him that he thought about just— picking up his phone and calling him, at least once a week, telling him everything, and for— for what?
He leans closer, leans his weight more fully into him. Pay attention to me, he’s saying, petulant and needy.
Vanitas’ eyes never leave his game.
He slides a hand up Vanitas’ back, settling on his shoulder. He holds it, using it as leverage to hook his chin over.
The side of Vanitas’ mouth twitches.
Ven leans his temple against Vanitas’ head, before he turns; noses at the coarse black strands, inhaling deeply. Vanitas smells like sweat and himself, and Ven grins against his skin, getting just a taste.
Vanitas stills.
With victory, he dives for Vanitas’ face; presses his mouth to where his neck meets his jawline and nibbles at it with his teeth. He nips at the skin, mouthing at his jaw. Give me attention, he demands, with his lips and his teeth.
Vanitas pauses the game with deft fingers, and Ven hears his breathing hitch. That’s all the warning he gets before he’s getting grabbed and shoved, hard, against the air mattress. Vanitas is crawling over him, blending into the shadows, looming like some kind of wraith.
“Do you want something, Ventus?” He clicks the 3DS shut, tossing it to the side.
When Ven tries to sit up, a hand is harshly shoving him back down. Ven’s grinning. “Who, me? Never.”
“Hmm?” He tilts his head, and one of his eyes catches the shine of distant light filtering in through the tent wall. “I can leave, then.”
The fact that they’re in Vanitas’ tent doesn’t even matter; Ven grabs him by the front of his tunic anyway, rooting him in place.
“Use your big boy words, I know you’re capable.”
Ven sits up. A weight settles over his waist, thighs straddling him tight, tight; heavy against him, rooting him down. He splays his hands over Vanitas’ chest, leaning close; close until he can feel his body heat, the buzzing of his skin.
He can feel Vanitas’ will crumbling in the way he’s breathing fast and hard. And Ven doesn’t use his big boy words; but he does use his mouth…
…
…Ven wakes to the shimmery early-morning sunlight dimly lingering through the plastic tent walls. It all kind of smells like plastic; he much prefers canvas.
He’s also not super used to sleeping on air-mattresses; his bed back at Departure is period, which means it’s stuffed with straw and feathers, and the air-mattress feels, uh… soft by comparison?
Maybe that’s just the body wrapped around his. Vanitas clings in his sleep, which was something Ven made fun of him for a lot when they were seventeen. Vanitas’ arms are a vice-grip, tight enough around his waist to be uncomfortable; bending his ribs enough to ache.
He can feel Vanitas’ breaths, loose and even with sleep, on the back of his head. He has a leg thrown over Ven’s, locked around him.
And he’s all— ugh. He’s all crusty. Bits of— ugh— are flaking off of his skin, peeling painfully to his chest and stomach and groin. Why is Vanitas so gross?
Ven’s neck and collar stings, which is— making him smile. He runs his hand over the wounds, pressing his thumb against them. He runs his fingernails over the ache, scratches them just a little, until it oozes and bleeds. When his fingers come away scarlet, his tongue darts out to taste it.
“If you’re reopening the bitemarks to taste your own blood again, I’m going to kill you.”
“You’re not allowed to threaten to kill me anymore, remember?” Ven says, tongue swiping at the blood on his fingertips.
Vanitas is silent, clearly thinking that was undeserving of a reply; instead, Ven feels the wet warmth of Vanitas’ tongue darting out to sooth the wounds.
He rubs at his eye, frowning. It’s morning, and— he snuck out last night. Oh god. He paws around the mattress for a second, a mad-dash for his phone; Vanitas, the asshole, locks his grip so he can’t get far.
He does eventually locate his belt, and— his phone is still in his pouch. He pulls it out, surprised to find it— off. Is it dead?
When he clicks the power button, it lights up after a second, booting.
“Why is my phone off?” Ven asks.
“It kept ringing,” Vanitas replies, in lieu of direct answer.
Right, ringing with panicked calls from his loved ones wondering where he was when he was supposedly in his bed. Ven presses the cool glass to his skin and groans. Vanitas, entirely unconcerned, continues to lick at the bleeding bitemarks.
It’s actually extremely distracting, which— probably meant to be, but. When his phone turns on, it buzzes angrily. A veritable flood of notifications cascade over his homescreen, growing progressively more and more concerned.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Ven mutters.
“You don’t think I tried?” Vanitas drawls, audibly irritated, setting his chin on Ven’s bicep. “You may as well have been dead. Thus, I had two options. One, carry you back to Departure in the middle of the night, covered in wounds, passed out. Two, go to sleep.” His voice is airy and sarcastic, and Ven rolls his eyes. “I chose the option that ends up with me not being chased by Master Aqua with a sword for tainting her perfect little brother.”
“Shut up,” he says, but it’s mostly a reflex. “I hadn’t realized I’d had a sleep attack?” He mumbles.
“Well,” a smile curls his voice. “You’d been awake for a while.”
Ven blindly swats at him. He ends up ineffectually smacking Vanitas in the ear, who rumbles a laugh. He scrolls through his notifications, feeling dread heavy in his stomach at the: 7 missed calls from Terra, fifteen from Aqua, a net of about fifty texts, most from Terra, and five missed calls from his dad.
He chooses the coward’s way out and calls Terra. It takes two— count ‘em, two— rings for Terra to pick up, sounding utterly relieved when he says, “Ven!”
“Sorry, Terra, I’m fine,” he answers the question before it’s asked. Vanitas mouths at a bitemark with his teeth, and Ven only just doesn’t inhale sharply. “I had a sleep attack at Camp Org XIII and slept through the night— they let me crash.”
“At Org XIII?” Terra sounds surprised, but he’s definitely calming. “What were you doing there?”
Ven doesn’t see a convenient way out of this. “…catching up with Vanitas.”
“Catching up,” he mimics, chuckling. Ven swats blindly at him, again; this time he clips him on the forehead.
“Vanitas let you crash there?”
“Yeah, he didn’t seem to mind…”
Given that Ven’s naked in his bed, that’s the understatement of the century. Given that Vanitas is definitely trying to turn him on, that’s twofold the understatement of the century.
There’s a shuffle, some muffled conversation on Terra’s end. “Dad wants you straight back here. He seems a little upset.”
“Tell him I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” It’s even true.
“Next time, tell us when you leave camp, yeah?”
“Right. Sorry,” Ven sighs tiredly, and then he hangs up the call. Miserably, he sets his phone down, screen down; he buries his face in Vanitas’ pillow and groans.
“I’ve been banished to a pup tent, and you aren’t allowed to leave home without daddy’s permission.” Vanitas sounds genuinely, warmly, amused. “Amazing.”
“I could pass out anywhere,” Ven defends, weakly.
“They coddled you long before that was a concern,” Vanitas says.
Ven sighs, sitting up. He should probably go deal with that. Vanitas holds him until the angle is truly awkward, and only then does he allow Ven to go free. Ven paws through the pile of his clothes on the edge of his bed, locating first his boxers.
Vanitas radiates stubborn non-defeat, which Ven ignores. He holds up his tunic, and then—
He realizes that it’s low-cut. Low cut enough that it shows off his collarbones and like half of his shoulders when he wears it. Which are, currently, covered in Vanitas’ teeth marks.
He bunches the fabric and presses his face to it, groaning.
“Truly a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, Ventus.” Vanitas sings.
Ven raises his head to glare at him, hot and angry. “Shut up. Let me borrow one of yours. You have a shirt with a high collar, don’t you?”
“I have feastwear somewhere in there that’s high-cut, yes,” he’s laying on his stomach, chin balanced on his palm, smirking. “Do you really think that’s going to help your case?”
Ven’s cheeks pink. “Sharing clothes doesn’t necessarily mean we’re sleeping together, you just let me borrow something because I fell asleep.”
Vanitas says, flatly, “How utterly out of character of me.” When he tilts his head, a lock of his hair falls into his eyes. “I don’t know why you insist on hiding it. Our lives would be easier if you didn’t.”
“The fallout would be— annoying.”
“Right,” he drawls. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that your helicopter father scares away everyone you date?”
“We’re not dating,” Ven says, petulant.
“Right,” Vanitas says, sarcastically. “That’s why you leveraged your new status as a squishy civilian to get me to dance with you.”
Ven’s cheeks are burning. “I’ve actually dated people, you know. Like, in the mundane world?”
“And yet,” he splays his fingers, wiggling them. “Everytime we cross paths, you’re single.” He clicks his tongue. “Funny how that works out.”
Ven wraps his arms around his middle and snaps, shrill, “Shut up and help me with this stupid tunic!”
“You should’ve thought of that before you snuck into my camp, pouting big pathetic eyes at me, practically begging to get roughed up.” Vanitas snips, but he crawls over to sort through his bucket anyway. Ven mercifully doesn’t point out how that says a lot more about Vanitas than it does him.
When he emerges with the shirt, he tilts his head at Ven. Rakes his eyes across Ven’s form, drinking him in. He sets the shirt down, completely distracted. His gaze goes hazy, and Ven watches when his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
And then he goes still; gaze intent. Full of a quiet, dripping promise that has Ven’s stomach twisting.
“Vanitas. Come on, I need to go ho—”
The wind and words are knocked out of him when Vanitas launches himself at him. Ven’s tackled down onto the pillows with a wheeze and a shriek, the heavy weight of a body over him that has his heart beating fast in his chest. Vanitas captures his mouth in a kiss, which he— returns with fervor, even though he really shouldn’t.
When Vanitas pauses to mouth again at his neck, he shivers at the sensation, but manages to spit out— “S— seriously, they’re expecting…”
And then all words die, because Vanitas is sliding his hand over Ven’s throat and squeezing hard enough to cut off all air. And Ven— melts, at the bite of his sword calluses, and the demanding hold, the way he’s pinned, pinned by his neck. He turns to putty, giddy and breathless, just a liquid collection of something-that-might-be-Ven against the air mattress. And then, well. He doesn’t really do much thinking at all, for a long while…
…
…until Vanitas smacks a hand to his mouth, hard enough to hurt, and presses a hand to Ven’s shoulder, ceasing all movement. And there’s a pretty distinct difference between when Vanitas smothers him because he wants to get him off, and when he needs him to shut up for a second. And this is decidedly the second, so Ven sets his hands on Vanitas’ sweat slick neck and stills.
He’s uncomfortably full and utterly turned on and yet awkwardly still, and the air is stuffy and hot. His stomach roils, and most of his stubborn brain just, so desperately wants to roll his hips and keep chasing that high. But it’s solidly mid-morning, and the hot sun makes the plastic heat fast. He’s panting hard through his nose, blinking sweaty exertion from his eyes.
Vanitas sends him a glance that very clearly says stop breathing so loud, and Ven sends one back that, hopefully, says: you try to not breathe so loud when there’s a dick inside you. Maybe it worked, because Vanitas rolls his eyes.
But Ven catches his breath, valiantly resisting the urge to move. Vanitas wouldn’t let him, anyway; despite being spread on his lap, riding him, Vanitas’ other arm has migrated to his waist, keeping it still. He’s got his eyes narrowed towards the door of the tent, and— is he seriously trying to pretend like they’re not having sex? Because tent walls are thin. Ven’ll bet money that everyone in Org XIII is aware that Ven’s here, if not that he’s currently getting railed. There’s a reason he always sneaks to Org XIII, and not the other way around.
Wondering what the fuck has got Vanitas so tense, Ven listens. He can hear— distant talking that he can’t really make out, the echoing metal sound of the hammering of tent stakes, and— oh, footsteps?
Someone walks up to the tent door, casting a long shadow. They’re tall, but— sort of hunched, and that’s what makes Ven’s stomach drop in dread.
“Are you not awake yet, son?” Comes the slithering voice of the Baron, and Ven’s pretty sure he stops breathing entirely. “It’s too early in the War for your lazy self to be hungover. Up. Up, worthless boy,” the tent wall shudders, as Xehanort kicks at it with the end of his cane.
“You act like you’re starving to death, it’s barely ten in the morning!” Vanitas’ face twists in uncharacteristic fury. “I am kind of busy! You’re a grown man, aren’t you? Or do you need a nanny to spoonfeed you?” He snarls, hard enough that he shifts a little, and— Ven tries not to gasp around the feeling, the movement. He really does try, but. He doesn’t succeed.
Vanitas’ eyes squeeze shut in defeat, as whatever tirade the Baron was building towards abruptly dies. Xehanort’s shadow against the tent wall goes still, and Ven stares at it in nervous anticipation. Is he gonna—?
The Baron laughs, warm and low in his chest. Ven is unsettled by the way it sounds like Vanitas’ laugh, sharp and darkly amused. He ducks his head, visibly taps his cane to the ground a few times. “Oh, my,” he says, a little breathless. “Vanitas, do finish deflowering the Duke’s son quickly, hmm? Fighter practice is at noon.”
And with that, he drifts away, chuckling all the while.
Ven and Vanitas meet eyes for a moment, utterly miserable. Ven is stinging with mortification, and Vanitas looks like he wants to go out there and murder his father, but then—
But then Ven chokes out, “Deflowering?”
And Vanitas barks a laugh, and Ven is laughing too, because deflowered?
“Am I a blushing maiden?” Ven can barely breathe, “are you taking my honor?”
Vanitas hums, pressing his mouth against where his throat meets his jaw. “Tainting your chastity? You’re so virginal, Ventus. So ripe for the taking.”
Ven groans, but he’s still giggling. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Vanitas grins as he flips Ven onto his bed, bracing his hands against Ven’s stomach. He does them both the favor of moving some more, and Ven’s eyes flutter shut in bliss and relief.
“Not recently.” He mumbles, brain function being wispily lost to Vanitas’ ministrations.
The look in Vanitas’ eyes is brightly amused, and that’s maybe the last coherent thought Ven has.
…
Vanitas did walk Ventus back to House Departure, because fuck you he is a squire, and, truly, the knowing look his entire family had sent him as he walked out, Ventus in tow, was just simply unnecessary. It’s not like it’s a secret.
When he returns, Ansem and Xemnas are smoking over their coffee, chuckling. The old man’s apparently been fed; there’s a plate of eggs in front of his miserable face. Sora’s standing, shoveling eggs into his mouth, rushing around camp.
Their camp, when set up, is an exercise in showing off. Period chairs surround a period table in the frontmost dining tent, but nobody actually sits in that one; instead, they’re all sat in fabric bucket chairs underneath what’s ostensibly the kitchen tent, playing cards on a plastic foldy table. The grill, recently used, needs to be cleaned.
Sora’s attempting to scoop up his belt while eating, and Vanitas takes pity on him; he yoinks the paper plate of eggs from his hand, effectively freeing him to put on his belt unimpeded. He takes the eggs back, chirps thanks! And bustles off in the direction of his tent.
“Always wearing… long tunics, that one.” The old man says, voice full of meaning.
“All his tunics used to be mine, so you can stuff whatever vitriol is about to come out of your mouth,” Vanitas snaps, making for the coffee pot between his worthless brothers.
“He looks… girlish in them.”
“Is there cotton in your ears? Can you not hear me when I speak? Keep it to yourself,” he hisses. Nothing the old man ever says is helpful. About literally anything.
“So snappy,” Ansem observes, flicking ash into the tray.
“One would think that his morning activities would have relaxed him, hm?” Xemnas lilts, his rumbling voice spilling from his chest. He quirks a smile over the lip of his coffee mug.
Ansem and Xemnas; the old man’s first children, a set of twins around twelve years Vanitas’ senior. They both look exactly like his father, from the silver hair to the brown eyes to the dark skin. They truly are little mini-Xehanorts, with his nose and jawline and eyes. They’re both dressed in uproariously stupid fifteenth-century Spanish menswear, because neither of them know how to relax.
It’s a stark contrast to Vanitas and Sora, the old man’s mistake-children with a woman Vanitas has never met, who inherited his complexion and nothing else. Ansem and Xemnas were meant to be his heirs, both in mundania and in the SCA, except for the fact that both of them just waste their time buying expensive cars and ignoring Vanitas’ calls.
“You all just bring out the best in me.” Vanitas replies.
Ansem laughs uproariously, flapping a hand. “Positively icy. Truly, is the boy not a good lay?”
Vanitas is baring his teeth, hissing, “What?”
“You just seem…” he takes a long drag, goddamn dramatic pauses. “Frustrated.”
Vanitas slams his palm onto the table, hard enough to make it shudder and its contents clatter. Hot rage makes him a livewire; ready to grab Ansem by his hair and throw him, as hard as he can. “No, go ahead. Keep speculating on Ventus’ sexual prowess, that’s only going to end well for you.”
“Terrifying. The tiny kitten is threatening to bite my ankles,” Ansem says, flatly. Vanitas chews on a fantasy of kicking him down a hill, and watching him roll down, making pained noises all the while.
Xemnas leans back in his chair. “This one’s always been violent. It almost makes me question our father’s glorious parenting.” His eyes curl. “And maybe poor Ventus’ wellbeing. You are taking good care of that one, hmm? I hesitate to imagine the fallout if you weren’t.”
Vanitas reaches over, pulls Xemnas’ cigarette from his mouth, and drops it into his coffee cup. It dies with a pathetic sizzle, disappearing into the thick black liquid. Despite both his cig and his coffee now being ruined, Xemnas chuckles like this is so amusing.
“Your anger betrays yourself, Vanitas.” He continues, unperturbed. “Very fitting for your persona, truly. Chasing after a maiden who’s attentions are consistently elsewhere?”
“Maiden?” He is beyond irritation and anger, now. The disrespect is utterly blatant, and there will be no more of it. Vanitas meets Xemnas’ eye, expression utterly flat, and says, very carefully, “You know better than to talk about him like that.”
And something of the genuine danger must show on Vanitas’ face, because Xemnas breaks eye-contact to clear his throat. “Well,” he recuperates. “It must bother you. That he returns to mundania to flutter off and divert his attentions. You aren’t but a,” finger flick, “yearly summer fling.”
Vanitas laughs at him. It’s a sharp, condescending laugh, he knows; he knows because he feels sharp, and condescending. How can he expect Xemnas, of all people, to understand?
“I’m not the fling.” Vanitas grins, with his teeth and his cheeks, wide. “It doesn’t matter what distracts him. He always comes back to me,” he sweeps a hand out. “And he always will. Ventus and I,” he taps a finger against his cheek, searching for the words,
“We’re inevitable.”
Ansem and Xemnas both guffaw at him, but Vanitas is beyond caring. His heart is settled, reminded of a truth about his life; and it’s not long, now. Ventus will give in by the end of the War; Vanitas is sure of it.
Sora bursts into the kitchen in a flurry of movement, cutting all tension and dispelling it into the air in one sweep of Vanitas’ old oversized tunic. It is more of a dress on him— he’s shorter than Vanitas ever was— but… who cares?
“I’m gonna go hang out with Riku and Kairi!” He announces.
“Do you have your phone?”
“Yes, mom!” Sora calls back, and he’s already ducking past the camp gate and onto the street. Their camp gate— a series of wood panels cut and painted to look like a giant, two-toned heart, adorned with a painted sign that says Organization XIII on the top— sways when Sora reaches his fingertips up to tap the swinging sign.
The old man gives a gusty, beleaguered sigh, and laments, “Four sons, and they’re all homosexual.”
“You’re homosexual,” Ansem points out, gesturing with his cigarette.
“You famously had a civil union with a man.” Xemnas agrees.
“Yeah, I think, genetically, that might be your fault, old man.” Vanitas says.
And then comes the usual, utterly archaic complaint: “One of you could at least bed a woman and give me an heir. It’s not as if it’s hard. Certainly one of you is capable. Vanitas, if none of the rest of you.”
Anger makes his tongue lash, “I swear to god, don’t say it—”
And then it’s usual follow up, “Vanitas, if your transsexual ever gets the urge—”
Vanitas kicks the old man’s chair, because he would honestly rather get screamed at for his disrespect and insolence than listen to his dad call Ventus a transsexual.
…
“I’m sorry, Dad. Really, I am.” Ven says, for maybe the fifth time. He’s trailing behind his father on the road to the food court, who is utterly radiating dissatisfaction.
I’m not mad, just disappointed is a cliché until your father is leveling it at you, before telling you how worried everyone was for your safety.
“I was just with Vanitas” wasn’t… a super reassuring response, either. Which was nice. Ven wouldn’t change anything about Vanitas, not really; but one does wonder how much easier their lives would be if he was moderately less of an asshole.
Then again, that’s the fun, isn’t it? Vanitas is mean, and he always has been, and somewhere in there it stopped making Ven cry and started making his heart race.
Christ, it sounds like he has Stockholm Syndrome.
So he buys lunch for himself and his dad as a half-assed apology that he only sort of means— he does feel bad for making them worry, but he doesn’t regret Vanitas; he could never regret Vanitas— and then sits with him in awkward silence.
Ven just munches on his fries and watches people go by; a sea of color and interesting garb. Barbarians and knights on full-plate armor; Brass Hats in crowns and complex regalia; fezzes and feathery tricorns and berets. Doublets and dresses and skimpy leather ensembles. Ladies with parasols and fighters with their helmets under their arms.
Which is why he sees it, when Vanitas is walking up Beggar’s Row. Or— what used to be Beggar’s Row, before they killed the fun. Whatever it’s called now.
Vanitas is armored; shiny cuirass over his red wool underlayer. The front is emblazoned with Vanitas’— not the Baron’s— heraldry, a black heart that twists over itself, sharp and pointed. It’s done sloppily, in thick, globby black paint; Vanitas did it himself, back four or five Pennsics ago. Painted it to look rough, dried it in the sun, and then roughed it up with sharpie and steel wool.
Ven remembers it well, ‘cause, well… they’d begged off on normal fighter practice with their groups, to instead duel endlessly on Runestone Hill. Ven had given Vanitas a huge welt with his rapier, because he wasn’t wearing his cuirass. He bit that bruise, later.
Now, Vanitas has his helmet off, and he’s fighting with his gauntlets while also trying to drag a cart behind him. It’s not uncommon for fighters to consolidate their armor into big carts, so they don’t have to wear it all while they walk to the battlefield. Except—
While there is armor in the cart, mostly what’s in the cart is Sora, who’s also yanking his gauntlets off. Sora’s talking about something that Vanitas doesn’t appear to be replying to; instead grabbing the cart by the lever and dodging an errant child that ducks into their way. Their longswords stick dangerously out the back of the cart.
But they aren’t really dangerous, and aren’t really longswords. They’re giant pieces of wood, covered with foam and duct tape. They can pack a punch— and do some damage, if you’re not careful— but right now they’re just soft sticks, and the child bats at them as he passes with a laugh.
Practicing in full-plate again, because Vanitas is insane. Sora, too, but it’s not Sora’s fault.
Vanitas turns up the way and drags the cart right into the center of the action. The food court is always the busiest place in the open-air market; picnic tables full of smiling friends, tents full of food vendors calling out orders; always a little hot, even all the way here in the dining tent. Fryer grease and cooking food will do that.
Ven watches, idly, as he parks the cart— and Sora— at a picnic table in the center, before he drifts off in the direction of Delights of Cathay. His favorite food stall.
“Ven,” Eraqus says, with the slightly exasperated cadence that tells Ven that his name’s been said a few times. Ven turns to his dad with a hum. “I was simply asking what your plans for the fall were?”
“Dad,” Ven complains, a little awkward. He runs his fingernail over the splintery wood. “It’s Pennsic.”
“Being on vacation does not make one's responsibilities disappear,” his Dad chides, gently.
Ven squirms, feeling overwarm under the collar. He kind of wants to crawl out of his skin; or maybe just, leave and never have this conversation.
“I’m job-hunting, that’s all.” He sadly dips a fry into his ketchup. “There’s a lab right around the city… like a half hour drive from the house.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs. “And how far from Terra and Aqua’s apartment?”
Miserable. Miserable conversation. “…around an hour…”
Dad sighs. “And how do you intend to get there?”
The bus. “Come on, Dad, it’s not that far, just—”
“You know I would drive you?” He says, like always, this is so exactly just like always. “If you were home, I would drive you.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter, because I don’t live with you,” he mutters, ducking his head.
“I’ve said my piece on this subject, many times.” He heaves a beleaguered sigh. “You can’t expect your brother and sister to support you all the time. Being home would be better for you. You need to rest, recover.”
“Recover from what?” Ven snaps. At the thunderous expression on his Dad’s face, he rubs at his face with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’m not sick, I just—”
“I shouldn’t have to explain to you why driving is an unwise idea.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t! I’m just saying—”
“Ventus,” he says, and Ven goes silent. “Just remember that my home is always open to you. Always.” He reaches over the table to take Ven’s hand, squeezing it gently. Ven feels like his jaw’s been wired shut; like speaking is beyond the purview of what he’s allowed to do. “I just worry for you. I love you, son.”
“Love you too,” Ven says, sounding and feeling like a sulky child.
They drift again into silence, this one particularly tense. When Ven returns his attention to the center thoroughfare, Vanitas is sitting on the picnic bench next to Sora, both of their hands raised, fingers splayed. Vanitas taps two fingers against Sora’s three splayed fingers, and he groans and makes a fist.
They’re playing the finger game, and it seems Vanitas is winning. Except— when Sora goes to attack, Vanitas dodges, jerking his hands back. Ven wonders if he’s just cheating, but Sora dodges the next turn, too.
Vanitas’ expression is utterly placid, blank; Sora is giggling as he leans back comically to avoid Vanitas’ hands. It seems they can’t drop the game positions, but they can move; Vanitas looks stupid, as he leans over, reaching towards Sora’s fingers.
When Vanitas wins with a well-timed jerk forward, he jeers meanly as Sora pouts. Ven spends a long time staring at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes light up with stupid, mean, childish glee…
“Wendy,” his father says, loudly enough that people turn to look, and Ven startles as he turns around, smile frozen to his face. Utterly frozen ice.
Bland and spat, “Sorry! What’s up?”
He sighs. “Walk me to my class? I’m in Classroom Nine.”
He didn’t even notice.
“Oh, right! I forgot that was today!” Ven stands up, rounding on the picnic table to take his father’s arm as he stands. Once Eraqus has his cane under him, Ven begins gingerly walking him out. “The samurai class, right?”
As they drift through the thoroughfare, he feels eyes on him. And when he turns to look, Vanitas’ gaze is piercing. It makes Ven feel overwarm, and he hastily looks away.
He walks Dad to the classroom, sits him down and helps him organize his materials; he only leaves when he’s shooed off, and even then he stresses to call him if he needs anything, alright? Including a walk home.
Ven then is released off into the rushing streets of Pennsic, with… utterly and entirely nothing to do.
Fighting is an all-encompassing affair. At least, for them it is. In your free time, you fight; and you block out hours and afternoons to hang out with friends and go shopping and go to classes, because the rest of it is for making your body bruise and ache, testing your skills and honing yourself.
Aqua and Terra are practicing right now; after their lunch, Vanitas and Sora will probably do the same. And Ven is… he’s always been aware that there were people in the SCA who don’t spend every waking moment trying to live the life of a medieval knight, he just didn’t realize he’d be one of them.
So he walks home, seized by choice. The roads are already busy, the asphalt hot, the grass worn soft by the tread of many feet. Canvas tents line the roads, a sea of them that fan out as far as the eye can see; round ones and square ones and tall ones and colorful ones, sometimes.
He ducks by House Departure’s waving flag, and finds Roxas and Xion poking at the fire pit with a stick. Xion’s holding a lighter. Roxas has a crumpled up newspaper in his hand.
“Make sure there’s fuel already in the pit, or the kindling will just burn out,” Ven says, causing both teenagers to startle. Xion drops the lighter like she was doing something wrong. “Hi!” He adds.
Roxas says, “…hi.”
“Is there a reason you’re lighting a fire in the middle of the day?”
Xion looks away, like she’s done something wrong. Ven frowns. Roxas says, “We wanted Firecakes for lunch.”
Ven shakes his head, endeared. “Here, let’s go grab some wood from the stash, and then we’ll get it going. Xion, can you grab the lighter?” He asks, softly and kindly. She stoops to pick it back up, a little sheepish.
So Ven helps them light the fire, digs around in the food chest for the flour, ducks into Dad’s tent to look for the skillet, and sets to making them Firecakes. It’s hot enough that being near the fire is uncomfortable, so he spares Roxas and Xion the effort; he ends up putting on one of his less period linen tunics.
He makes them both eat one with some protein in it, which they roll their eyes about. It’s as he’s making one for himself that there’s a familiar, booming voice going, “Hail the camp!”
Ven whips around so fast he almost drops the skillet, grinning. “Zack!”
Zack’s a knight, but calling him sir will get him pouting and complaining. He practically skips inside, and Ven scrambles to set the skillet down before he’s getting glomped. He falls back, laughing, arms full of overexcited knight.
“You’re here!” He cries. “Welcome home!”
“Welcome home,” Ven dutifully replies. Only then does Zack release him, sitting back on his haunches. Ven chuckles, waving at the gaggle of fighters Zack brought with him. “Come in! Are you guys hungry? I’m making Firecakes!”
Which is how Ven finds himself spending the next hour making Firecakes for: Zack Fair, beloved knight of the East; Cloud Strife, knight-hopeful of the Middle; Tifa Lockhart, master-hopeful of the Middle; and Squall Leonhart, unconcerned-with-titles fighter of the East.
He knows them all well. Ven met Zack when they were teenagers, after a particularly nasty scuffle with Vanitas left Ven bleeding from a broken nose. Zack had helped him patch it up and brought him home to his camp, and now, well—
“We’ve missed you,” Tifa says, kindly. “It’s not the same without you.”
Ven smiles around the twinge in his chest. He hands her the Firecake he’s making, which she takes with a grateful smile. “It’s not the same not being there!” He admits, though he laughs despite himself. “But it’s not so bad. More time I’ll get to spend with my brother!” He throws his voice: “Right, Roxas?”
Roxas, who’s sitting in a plastic camp chair about twenty feet away, eyes on his phone, rolls his eyes. “As long as your boyfriend doesn’t come around!” Oh, shut up, Ven got a squeezy hug on Saturday, there’s no point in posturing.
Ven huffs a laugh, endeared. “Anyway, he’s busy practicing, so I think you’re safe for now.”
Zack leans forward, crying out, “Boyfriend?” Both Cloud and Leon echo this sentiment, although quieter.
Ven flushes; he paws awkwardly at the back of his head. Too fast, he says, “No!” He clears his throat. “Not actually. He just means Vanitas, haha.”
Cloud and Leon send each other a significant look, but— Zack just says, “Ooooh, such a little brother moment,” and then laughs.
It’s nice catching up. He hasn’t seen anyone in a year, though he’s heard a lot of the latest news from Aqua and Terra. It’s still nice to hear it from the source— and to get to congratulate Zack on being knighted personally.
He makes them food and listens, letting it all wash over him. It’s calm, soothing in a way nothing else is; the still feeling of being in good company, eating good food. Peace makes his hands steady, which is why it’s surprising when the sleep takes him, fast and sudden.
He wakes splayed on one of the camp chairs, Roxas curled next to him. He’s playing on Ven’s old DSI, and he smiles a little when Ven surfaces.
“An hour or so,” Roxas informs him. “They cleared out a while ago; said they were gonna go practice some more.”
Ven hums. “It was nice to see them.” Then he sets his cheek on his little brother’s shoulder, and watches him play Trauma Center. And it’s nice; it’s quiet, unlike much of their youth. Cuddled up next to each other, nothing to disturb them. This is the kind of thing Ven cherishes.
The fire’s still going, so when Aqua and Terra get home he makes Firecakes for them, too. Then he gets a call from Dad, and he hikes up to Pennsic University to help him clean up and walk him home.
He makes a stew for dinner, and everyone sits together while they eat. There’s laughing and ribbing and jokes that have Ven gasping for breath. It’s easy, and simple, and…
Afterwards, he finds himself walking towards Camp Organization XIII. Well, actually, first he did the dishes, and then he found his listless, restless feet making the walk down into the Bog.
He questions why the entire trek there, and doesn’t have an answer by the time he’s at their gate and murmuring, “Hail the camp?”
He’s not usually this, uh, early? Blatant? But he’s hailing the camp and Sora waves wildly at him where he’s sitting on a cushion on the ground, chirping, “Hi, Ven! Come in!”
He’s got a book open on his lap, but he closes it when Ven walks up. “Vanitas is in the kitchen—” Sora points towards a square tent with its walls hung up, full of messy shelves and a grill. There’s a table, and Vanitas is sitting at it with his other brothers; they’re each holding a hand of cards.
Ansem drops a card into the center and says, easily, “Six of Hearts.”
Vanitas replies, immediately, “Bullshit.”
Ansem’s cheek twitches as he takes the discard pile, incorporating it into his hand.
But then Xemnas looks over, and a smile curls over his mouth. “Ohh, look who it is. It’s Vanitas’ cute little pet.”
Vanitas whips around in horror, saying, “Ventus?”
Ven… isn’t sure if he should be offended or not?
“Like a deer in the headlights. Come here, child, I promise Xemnas and I don’t bite.” Ansem says, tilting his head with a smirk. “I can’t make the same promise of Vanitas, but I suppose you enjoy that, don’t you?”
“Absolutely not.” Vanitas sets his cards down, making to stand.
Xemnas drops a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into his seat. Vanitas hisses. Deciding Ven should do something before this devolves into, like, a fight or something, he makes his way over. Vanitas stares at him as he gingerly takes the seat next to him, and then—
An arm around his shoulders, getting yanked flush to Vanitas’s chest. It’s warm and heavy, a comforting weight. He can smell Vanitas through his dark tunic. He blinks a little, in surprise; when he looks up, Vanitas is glaring sourly at his brothers.
“Protective,” Ansem observes.
“Possessive,” Xemnas corrects, raising an amused brow.
“Stop manhandling the boy and deal him in,” Ansem says, setting the discard pile back down. He shuffles it a few times, before beginning to deal cards on the table in front of Ven. “You know the rules, don’t you?”
Vanitas growls at him, squeezing Ven tighter by the neck. Ignoring them both, Ven takes the cards and holds them close to his chest. Vanitas can probably cheat from this angle, but, uh. He doesn’t want to move, so.
Ansem takes the rest of the discard pile, Xemnas plays a Seven of Hearts, Vanitas finds creative ways to play with one hand, calling out an Eight of Hearts. Ven knows it’s not, but he likes Vanitas, so he doesn’t call bullshit. Instead he plays a Nine of Hearts, and when Xemnas calls bullshit, Ven slides the discard pile at him.
And then, well— and then it’s a game.
“I must say, it’s nice to see the face attached to the voice. It’s been a while, no?” Xemnas says, flicking a card towards the center. “Ten of Hearts.”
“Truly. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding us.” Ansem agrees, slapping a card down. “Jack of Hearts.”
“Bullshit,” Ven calls. Ansem grins as he takes the discard pile. “And, come on. You saw me this morning!” He beams.
Talking to Vanitas’ brothers— sans Sora, who’s in a whole other stratosphere— is like talking to Vanitas, if Vanitas was about three times as crazy and wanted to cut him open with knives. Vanitas, with all the rough edges sanded off, replaced with— something that, while smoother, is a lot worse.
Ven plays a Queen of Hearts.
Vanitas, visibly sulking, drops a card on top of Ven’s and announces it as a King of Hearts.
“Yes, but you left in quite the hurry,” Xemnas’ smile curls. “Trouble with the Duke?”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Vanitas snaps.
Xemnas simpers, playing a card. The Ace of Spades, supposedly.
“I’m more interested as to what’s brought the boy back to us so soon,” Ansem cuts in, winking. “Simply couldn’t stay away?”
Ven’s actually fairly sure that Ansem did play the Two of Spades; Ven doesn’t have it, and his glances at Vanitas’ hand when he isn’t paying attention have told him that he doesn’t either. He’s in a really prime spot to cheat off of him.
“Well, Vanitas is one of my best friends,” Ven answers, playing the Jack of Diamonds.
Both Ansem and Xemnas guffaw, a thrall of jeering cackles that remind Ven vividly of Vanitas. They’re laughing too hard to hear him call out that he played the Three of Spades. Ansem smacks his hand against the table, giving Ven a glimpse of his cards; the only Spade he catches is a face card.
“I’m more interested in where this fascination is coming from,” Vanitas interjects, finally finding his feet. He pulls his arm from Ven’s shoulders to better play the game with; he sets a card down with a finality. “You’re acting like Ventus is a piece of roadkill I brought home.”
“You practically are a stray cat, brother,” Xemnas plays with a quirked smirk. “Dragging in whatever plaything catches your fancy. Five of Spades.”
“It would be less funny if you hadn’t chosen such a soft little specimen,” Ansem goes on. “Truly, be careful with this one. I fear you’ll break him.”
Ven says, “Bullshit,” as soon as the card is down. Ven flutters his eyelashes when he smiles. “I’m not as breakable as I look.”
Ansem takes the discard pile with something like respect in his eyes. Ven plays a card, meeting his gaze. No one says a word; until Vanitas goes next, saying, “I don’t make uninformed choices.” A sneer in Ansem’s direction. “Eight of Spades.”
Ansem calls bullshit, and Vanitas’ expression sours further as he takes the cards.
Mildly, Xemnas says, “You can’t blame us for being curious, brother. It’s undeniable that this pet of yours has made you… soft. Truly, dancing? How… unlike you.”
Vanitas rolls his eyes as Xemnas plays the ‘Nine of Spades’, scoffing, “Please.”
“It’s less ‘soft’ and more obsessed,” Ansem jeers, grinning wickedly at Ven. “It reminds me of that toy he had as a child— the stuffed dragon. He dragged it everywhere with him; he’d scream bloody murder if you took it away. Until it tore, and all the stuffing fell out.” When Vanitas snarls, he drops a card on the tabletop. “A drooling hound on the scent.”
“You’re practically all he talks about, little pet. Like a schoolgirl with a crush.” Xemnas adds.
Vanitas slaps the table hard enough it shakes and says, “Bullshit.” He says it before Ven can, which is nice.
Ansem grins as he takes back the cards, eyes half-moons of superior mirth.
But Ven smiles, too, when he plays the Two of Hearts and says, “Did you know that I was the one who tore the stuffie? Or did nobody ever tell you that?” At their surprised glances, he laughs airily. “I’d stolen some real steel from Aqua, and I snuck into the Baron’s tent and ripped it up.” Absolutely destroyed it, tore it to shreds. And it felt good.
Ansem and Xemnas look at each other, and then back at Ven. He sets his elbow on the table and sets his chin in his palm, beaming, giggling just a little. Assholes.
It was a memorable day. Ven doesn’t even remember what Vanitas had said to make him so mad; he remembers getting pushed into the mud on the battlefield. He remembers looking up through his bangs at Vanitas, backlit by the steaming sun, hands on his hips, laughing. Laughing like Ven was nothing and no one.
And he remembers stealing the leather-bound knife from Aqua’s belt later, and sneaking into Org XIII. It was the first of many, many times he would do so; he’d stumbled over himself, confused as to which tent was the Baron’s. But when he found it, he saw Vanitas’ stuffie, and, well.
At kid’s fighting class the next day, Vanitas had tackled him to the ground, and beat his soft head into the mud.
In the present, Vanitas tosses a card out and says, “Queen of Spades. It’s why I beat him stupid.”
“Ah, yes, because our dear brother is doomed to be a little clone of our father.” Xemnas is looking at Ven shrewdly, eyes gleaming. “Maybe that’s why he chose something so… fragile? Perhaps he enjoys breaking things. It’s something the old man would’ve taught him.”
Ven’s jaw drops in powerful disbelief. Vanitas doesn’t say anything; his expression doesn’t reveal anything, his eyes are trained forward, mouth a thin line. But there’s a tick in his jaw. He’s breathing very carefully, deliberately even.
Xemnas used his own tactic against him; Ven’s smile feels frozen to his face. He doesn’t know Xemnas’ tells enough to see if he’s lying or not; his expression is entirely placid, eyes boring into Ven.
Ansem cackles. “A little far, don’t you think, Xemnas?” Cruelty shines in his gaze. “Or, maybe not. It is quite like the old man; Xehanort’s son, and the Duke’s son? They’re practically living history.”
“Bullshit,” Ven hisses, seeing the tiny glance Ansem sent to the left. Ven brushes Vanitas’ hair to the side, and he startles a little; when Ansem jeers, Ven just points to the scar on his jaw, gnarled and pale. “Of all the scars I’ve given Vanitas, this one’s my favorite.”
With that, he slaps his final card onto the table, with more violence than necessary.
It seems Xemnas hasn’t figured out Ven’s tells yet either, because when he calls bullshit, Ven smiles placidly as he flips the foretold Two of Diamonds over.
“I believe this is yours, my lord Pelican,” Ven simpers, flicking the card at him. He didn’t like being called Vanitas’ pet. Not like that. Not by him.
Vanitas laughs uproariously as Xemnas catches the card. Xemnas smiles as he pulls the deck into his hand.
Xemnas wins in the end, but Ven doesn’t mind; he got what he wanted. They’re talking about playing another round, and the sun is setting; casting it all orange. Someone flicks on a lantern, but—
Ven is squishing his cheek against Vanitas, listening to the beating of his heart. He noses against it, seized with the inexplicable urge to press closer; to lay down next to that sound, and…
…Ven wakes to the sound of a kettle screaming.
He’s laying on a lounge chair, a painful crick in his neck. He blinks bleary eyes at the darkened ceiling of the tent, canvas gently flapping in the nighttime breeze. With a sigh, he pulls himself up, rubbing at his itchy nose.
He’s freezing. Dried sweat is making him shiver, exposed arms covered in gooseflesh. He rubs listlessly at his skin, ineffectually trying to warm himself.
Someone’s in the kitchen, pulling the boiling kettle off the grill. It’s dark, and so is the person, but Ven has a pretty good idea. Especially when he walks over, a mug full of tea in hand.
Vanitas hands it to him, frowning. “You were overheated,” he says.
“It was just a sleep attack.” Ven replies. It’s not as if he passed out.
“Unrelated to the sleep attack, you were overheated.” He corrects, rolling his eyes. He sits on the end of the lounge chair, reaching over to cuff Ven across the back of the head. “Idiot. What, did you cook all day?”
“Yes?” He mutters, warming his face against the mug. “I had like five sweaty fighters in my camp.”
“Stupid.” Vanitas repeats. “Drink your tea.”
Ven rolls his eyes, but drinks his tea. It’s good; something vaguely fruity. Peach, maybe? More importantly, it’s warm; steaming against his nose and face. “Someone had to.”
“Yes, far be it from you to let anyone figure anything out on their own.”
“They need me,” Ven says, easily.
“They need you, yet they coddle you?” Vanitas says, raising an eyebrow. “The machinations of House Departure continue to vex me.”
Ven flashes his teeth at him, which just makes him grin. Asshole.
“What time is it?”
“Half past ten,” Vanitas replies.
Ven miserably sips at his tea. Org XIII is empty; Peace Week nighttime is quiet, save for the drumming and singing in the distance. The camp is dark, loungechairs empty, walls lowered. The only light is a single lantern on the table next to where Ven and Vanitas are sitting.
Vanitas is observing him, eyes gleaming in the low light. Like a hound pointed at a bird. Maybe Ansem’s comparison had some merit, but Vanitas would never drool. He just… points with his nose, all senses aimed, hackles raised high.
So Ven smiles against the mug and murmurs, “Do you want something, Vanitas?”
And then the mug is being pulled, gently, from his hands and set on the table. Another beat. Then, the painful crash of lips against his.
Vanitas kisses him with all the fervency of wild music, open-mouthed and forceful. With his tongue and his teeth. He weaves his fingers through Ven’s hair, tugging hard on it; yanking Ven’s head back. Ven moves with a groan at the spark of pain, and then there’s a mouth all along his jaw.
“What’s the occasion?” Ven hums. He thinks he has an idea.
Vanitas bites down on Ven’s shoulder admonishingly; shut up. He returns to his ministrations, scraping his teeth across the scabbed over bitemarks with just enough force to have Ven groaning.
“Needy,” Vanitas accuses. “Just walking in the front door like you own the place?”
Ven grins. That’s the fun, isn’t it?
…
August 1st, A.S. LIV (Three Pennsics ago, 5 years ago.)
“I’m just saying,” a very drunk Noctis Lucis Caelum slurs. “What’s a Brass Hat worth?”
Ignis replies, blandly, “The existence of our organization?”
Bog-hopping with a bunch of clowns was not on Vanitas’ Pennsic bingo card. Bog-hopping with these clowns is never on his bingo card, and yet here they always are, because Wendy always wants to come and thinking about her being out here by herself makes Vanitas want to grind his teeth to dust.
Or, not Wendy. She’s going by her latest in a long line of persona names that never last more than a year; Ventus. She’d spent an hour chattering on about how cool it’s going to be to be called Sir Ventus.
When Vanitas had pointed out that it isn’t a name, it’s a butchering of the Latin word for wind, she’d decked him across the nose. It fits better than her last choice, at least; Daine. Ugh.
Fits better than Wendy does, too.
“They do kinda run things,” Prompto adds.
“They’re a hazard,” Noctis counters. “We have a bad rep and it’s because they’re all a bunch of fucking snobs.”
It’s dark. The camp they’re in isn’t one Vanitas recognizes; someone’s playing the drums, someone else the flute. There’s a crowd of people snake-dancing across the way; a barrel full of moonshine on the other side. Candles and torches light the night, giving the boozy, noisy air a smoky tang.
Wen— Ventus is supposed to be here with them, but she always finds a way to disappear off at every party they walk into, charming herself into booze she’s too young to drink. Vanitas has told her a thousand times that that’s stupid, but off she skips anyway; Vanitas scans the crowd for her for the third time in as many minutes, grinding his teeth.
“It’s just in-group out-group stuff,” Noctis continues. “Ew normal people, but sometimes the ‘normies’ are SCAdians.”
“We get it, you got bitched out by the king,” Vanitas snaps. “Are you gonna admit that you were being stupid enough to justify it, or are we gonna listen to you whine all night?”
“Am I wrong?” Noctis asks, eyes steely. Dressed in something black. And Spanish.
“The organization dedicated to preserving European history,” Vanitas emphasizes this by flicking Noctis’ doublet, “has a problem with the out-group. Shocking.”
“Well—” comes the tiny, defensive voice of Prompto. “It’s not like there’s any rules against anything like that…”
“I’m sure your ancestors would be very proud of that cursory defense, Snow White.”
Prompto flushes with shame.
Noctis ignores this exchange, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like you want a peerage either.”
“I’m uninterested in climbing the ranks of a fake western-European monarchy, yes.” Vanitas mutters, again scanning the crowd for Wendy. Fuck. Ventus.
“But your girlfriend does, huh?” Noctis continues, taking a sip from his stein. “Talking all the time about how she’s gonna be the next great knight.”
He cocks a brow. “I don’t dictate what Ventus does or doesn’t do.” Most of the time.
And then, as if called by his wanting, she appears. The crowd parts like water around her, and then all Vanitas sees is that; eyes hazy, cheeks flushed. Dressed in a flattering bliaut, golden hair collecting at her shoulders.
She stumbles directly into him. Like, truly and fully collided with him, hands flying out wildly to catch her balance. He wraps an arm around her waist to keep her from falling, though her fingers are clutched in his tunic like claws.
“Ventus?” He blinks down at her. She’s deadweight, leaning hard against him. She shakes her head, a mute motion that almost makes her trip.
She was— tipsy, not whatever this is. No way she downed four shots in the twenty minutes she’s been gone.
“Shit,” she slurs, her voice thick and wet and thoughtless. “Don’t let him—”
There’s a guy coming up this way, moving through the part in the sea that she left in her wake. Dressed in a nondescript early period Viking tunic, eyes searching the crowd; and then stopping on We— Ventus, and then on Vanitas.
Oh.
Vanitas’ voice is a whip crack that has all the noise in their general vicinity ceasing; fizzling out like someone stomped on it. Because what he says is: “Did you do something to her?”
Suddenly Wendy is being swarmed, a thousand worried party-goers rushing to her defense. Asking how she feels and if she needs anything, and she just shakes her head, wildly. Presses her face into Vanitas’ collar.
“I’on’t like him,” she manages. “Not… you.”
And that spins in the air for a moment, spins and spins there. Like a spider spinning its web, twisting and curling and knotting until those words settle in Vanitas’ chest, heavy and cloying.
It hurts.
“Did you put something in her drink?” He continues.
At the collective hiss the crowd gives, the guy holds up his hands, peace. “Don’t get so worked up, alright?” He simpers. “She just drank a little too much, I was worried about her.”
Someone’s pulling W— Ventus from Vanitas’ hold, murmuring, “Come here, honey, let’s have a look at you.”
And Vanitas lets her go simply so he can stalk forward, knock his fist back, and punch this guy in the teeth. His head snaps to the side, bone cutting into his flesh. Split knuckles is worth the way that scarlet explodes from his mouth and nose, and when he staggers, Vanitas hits him again.
He feels the nose break, underneath his fists, and it feels good.
The guy goes down with a cry, sputtering something pathetic and bloody about Vanitas’ bitch not being hot enough for him anyway, and Vanitas kicks him in the ribs.
There’s a crowd around them now, shouting and clamoring. Chaos and screaming, but Vanitas puts his boot on the guy’s throat.
“You think you’re subtle?” He hisses, though he feels electric. “Think you’re strong? I suppose you know that you aren’t. Because if you were strong, you wouldn’t need drugs to make anyone pliant, now would you? Rest assured,
“If I ever see you on the battlefield, well.” He grins with a thousand teeth, thinking about the way Ventus pitched full-on into his stomach. “I’m not a white-belt. I don’t have anything to lose.”
Someone’s yanking on the collar of his tunic, hard enough that he staggers. But when he whirls around…
It’s Ventus.
It’s a stark realization, one that strikes him dumb. An instinct, a feeling; not things Vanitas is prone to, but there it is anyway.
Eyes blazing, shoulders straight, white-knuckle gripping the back of Vanitas’ tunic. Jaw set; an image of sharp, narrowed justice. Like crackling glass, sharp and brutal and unrelenting. New in its stalwart existence, so bright his eyes almost hurt.
This is Ventus.
For the very first time, Vanitas can see him.
“Enough,” she says, her voice tight and low and demanding.
The first time Vanitas met Wendy, he broke three of her ribs. The first time Vanitas meets Ventus…
He lifts his boot off the would-be attacker’s neck.
Which is of course when Ventus promptly leans over and throws up. It’s all the same, because Vanitas has to shoot over to catch her. She upchucks over the arm of his tunic, and then sways there for a moment, gagging.
“Take me home,” Ventus asks, on a sigh.
So Vanitas hooks his arms underneath Ventus’ legs, and carries her home.
…
Ven takes a sip of his slushie, a burst of neon artificial cherry and lemon exploding over his tongue. He watches Vanitas study the freezers with almost grim seriousness, singularly focused on examining the ice cream flavors as if it were a math problem.
“Just get the mint chocolate chip,” Ven complains. They’ve been here long enough for Ven to be a quarter through his slush.
The Penn Mart, the only modern store on the campground, is a barn that was converted into some kind of convenience-store-camping-supply-outlet lovechild, and it does indeed have quite the collection of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. The floors are concrete, the walls are dark and high, and it’s stuffily hot, save for the gigantic fan positioned at the entrance, and Ven has half a mind to ditch him to go stand in front of it.
“Chocolate is an operative word in that sentence, Ventus.” He says, irritably.
“Eat around them,” he says, without sympathy. “Or give them to me.”
“Right, because you eat like a child.”
“Not my fault you hate anything sweeter than Raisin Bran.”
Vanitas eventually chooses just plain vanilla, though he does so with a beleaguered sigh. He pays, grabs a spoon from the front, and then off they go, into the market proper.
The merchants at Pennsic coke from all over to peddle their wares; everything from lovingly handmade pieces of art to mass market tchotchkes being resold for markups. Pennsic has it all, all in a winding road dotted with canvas tents and colorful wooden signs.
“Are we, like, meeting Sora, or?”
They’d come right after dance class, which Ven is kinda baffled Vanitas has continued to attend, but— not like Ven is gonna look a gift horse in the mouth, so.
“No.” Vanitas says. Together they weave through the thoroughfare, ducking past all kinds of people to head towards Medieval Miscellaneous.
“You said you were getting a belt for him, though.”
“He made a litany of harried excuses about why he couldn’t come shopping with me for this belt at all, at any point, during this War.”
Ven frowns. “Why’s he avoiding going shopping?”
“Who knows what goes on in the minds of the idiotic?” A flash of his eye, though the intimidation factor is kind of ruined by the way he’s jabbing a spoon into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. “Though I suppose you would know.”
Ven rolls his eyes. “You’re a huge asshole, you know that?”
Simperingly sweet, “No, I had no idea.”
Ven points out a row of belts towards the back of the shop they’re in, and Vanitas ducks inside. Ven is subjected to holding Vanitas’ ice cream for him as he grimly inspects each belt, eyes narrowed to ascertain every single detail of its make and quality.
All because Sora lost some weight, and doesn’t fit into the smallest hole in his old one. But Vanitas doesn’t do anything by half measures; maybe that’s why Sora weaseled his way out of it.
“Have you wondered at all why it is that Sora keeps losing weight?” Ven asks, after Vanitas has thoroughly decided that all these belts are shit, and they need to look somewhere else.
“If my father has given my brother an eating disorder on top of everything else, I might finally just jump off a building like I’ve always dreamed—”
Annoyed, Ven presses his cold slushie to the side of Vanitas’ neck, mid-rant, and he lets out an undignified squawk that, truly, sounds like an injured bird, startling with his entire body.
“Shut up,” Ven says, flatly.
Completely expectedly, Vanitas jerks violently forward and grips Ven by the jaw, a tight-locked grip; he manhandles Ven’s face up until they’re nose to nose, staring at each other. His grip is hard enough to hurt, turning his cheeks bloodless; nails digging into his skin.
“Y’know,” his voice comes out slurred and muffled, “vhis is why people fink y’ur abusive.”
He takes a pointed sip of his slushie.
Vanitas lets out a wordless noise of irritated disgust, and then shoves himself out of Ven’s space, leaving Ven staggering for balance. He laughs as he follows Vanitas’ swift and sudden retreat.
…
Vanitas is still wearing his cuirass when he goes looking for Ventus. Wandering around in a lifetime’s worth of sweat, because no, he’s not going to sacrifice period accuracy for wearing a lighter tunic, and Sora should stop suggesting it.
As far as they know, 14th century knights wore wool underneath their armor, so wool is what he will wear. Regardless of the fact that it’s eighty-five degrees and sunny. He has principles. The fact that the spare shortsword on his belt isn’t helping is irrelevant. His longsword makes for a good walking stick regardless.
He sees Ventus where he’d passed him earlier, as he’s approaching House Departure. He’s sitting on the ground outside their communal tent with his head bowed; Master Aqua is rubbing what appears to be sunscreen onto the back of his neck and shoulders, with the brisk effort of the matron she is not. His shoulders are a tense line of effort, his neck flexing with stress.
Departure’s living pavilion is an Asian-style tent in red and black that betrays that they bought it from the Great Dark Horde about ten years ago, though Ventus and Aqua spent painstaking mundane hours sewing Departure’s heraldry onto it. The walls are tied up, letting the breeze through; Vanitas can see both Ventus’ little clone and Org XIII’s local traitor playing some kind of card game on an oaken, carved table clearly meant for grander things.
Ventus has done nothing but stress the art of subtlety about their relationship for years, but if he’s going to walk in the front gate and say hello to Vanitas’ brother, then Vanitas can— and will— do the same. Now is the time to push; to challenge.
Which is why Vanitas walks up behind them both and says, “Ventus.”
Aqua is saying something, which Vanitas is ignoring. He doesn’t care about Aqua, only insofar as he dislikes her, for being a somewhat constant obstacle.
“Ventus.”
She’s talking about court, of all things, and Ventus is putting on a valiant show of caring about Society politics; or, caring about them to only the extent that they don’t stress him out, which they do.
“Ventus,”
“Sorry Aqua,” Ventus says, cheerful sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “I actually can’t hear you over the clingy bog man who’s stalking me.”
“If I was going to stalk you, I certainly wouldn’t walk directly up to you.”
“Vanitas,” Aqua says, with utter poison that sucks all the camaraderie out of the air. “Is there something you need?”
“I need to talk to Ventus,” he says. Is it not obvious? Do people walk up, and say someone’s name repeatedly, for other reasons?
He needs Ventus to stop being so tense.
“Ven is not at your beck-and-call,” venomous, truly. Hissed between her teeth.
“C’mon, Aqua, it’s not like that.” Ventus says, brushing her hands away. “Lemme up, it’s fine.”
“Ven—”
“Seriously,” he says, harsher. Surprise flits across her face, as he stands. He stoops to pick up his tunic, which he throws over his head. Aqua is staring at him, and then whips around to glare at Vanitas, like this is all his fault.
Ventus grabs his wrist and drags him away from the furious Aqua, who seems more adept than ever at seeing only what she wants to see. Up the hill they do, Vanitas’ arm a boneless weight between them.
“What do you want?”
Vanitas grabs Ventus’ wrist, tight enough that he can’t escape, and begins tugging him down the hill, towards the food court. He drags Ventus, who’s a pliant weight behind him, past the merchants, until they’re feet find the edge of the battlefield.
A huge expanse of grass that’s stubbornly holding onto life; dotted with tents and pavilions in various kingdom-themed colors. With a wooden structure in the distance, cut and painted to look like the ramparts of a castle. Colloquially called the Fort. It’s empty save for various fighting classes going on, units dotted around, practicing.
Peace Week means there’s no fighting, means there’s plenty of open space for Vanitas to turn deftly around and shove Ventus, hard, by the shoulders.
But apparently Ventus hasn’t lost all his skills in his year on the bench, because he braces the blow and says, “What the fuck?”
“Fight me,” Vanitas demands, before pulling the shortsword he has hooked on his Squire’s belt and holding it, hilt first, towards Ventus.
As with any sport, there are rules to the SCA’s particular interpretation of medieval combat. First is that their weapons are made of wood. Second is that you telegraph your intentions.
Vanitas had to be taught and re-taught the second rule, by Ventus himself.
“You’re insane,” he says. “I’m not wearing any armor.”
“Take my cuirass.”
“Vanitas,” Ventus says, on a haggard sigh. “That’s not the point. I can’t.”
“Sorry?” Vanitas lilts. He splays his gauntlets, gesturing towards the battlefield before them. “I didn't realize we were in the middle of a battle right now. I didn’t realize that we were being overrun by knights of the middle, holding giant sticks covered in duct tape. Stupid of me.”
“How different is this from that, really? What’re the odds I get sick again?”
His voice wavers on that word, again. Going tense and pale, a hand curling over his bicep. Again, he says. This is not then. Today is not yesterday; this year is not last year. There is one Pennsic a year, and it’s coming is a pin in the calendar; a marker squeaked in red marker. The realest part of the year, absolute reality heaving their lungs.
Soft, the bird cries. Vanitas is so tired of waiting.
“You are directly in the eyeline of about a hundred-odd people,” he points at the various classes and fighter practices in the distance. “And I’m hardly going to hit you while you’re down.”
“None of that is the point,” Ventus says, poisonous stubbornness making his eyes shine. Stalwart and determined; unmoving, like stone.
Fine. So a change of tactic it is, then.
“So ickle Ventus is scared, I see.” His meanest smile paints over his lips, wide in exactly the way he knows Ventus hates. “Terrified, like a trembling dog. Too much of a bitch to do something he could do in his sleep.”
And right on cue, the outraged, sparking fire that Vanitas remembers from their childhood finds it’s way onto Ventus’ face, just exactly the way he remembers; green eyes smoldering like smoky jade, cheeks reddening, jaw sharp and set.
“Little Venty-Wenty, so coddled he believes it when the people tell him he’s weak.”
Ventus snaps; grabs the sword by the wooden hilt and whirls around to swing, right for Vanitas’ head. That’s rule number three, brazenly broken right there; you only go for the head if your opponent is wearing their helmet.
Vanitas grins as he ducks a dodge, raising his longsword in a hasty block. No shields, Ventus not even wearing armor, but it’s a duel anyway; Ventus pins his sword over his head, getting in close. In place of a shield, he holds the longsword still with his forearm. Jerks the shortsword down in a painful thwack against Vanitas’ thigh.
Vanitas has now lost a limb. He drops to his knees, but swipes up with his longsword. He slams it hard enough into Ventus’ bicep that he gasps in pain. Barely stopped, Ventus drops his off-arm like a dead weight, eyes flashing with sparkling anger. Defiant rage that makes Vanitas’ veins feel like livewires, electricity making him swing his longsword.
Ventus blocks with the shortsword, and then it’s a battle of strength. Wooden blade against wooden blade. Ventus presses his advantage, bearing down on Vanitas from above, and Vanitas’ mouth tastes like ten years of battles at Ventus’ side, duels against him, just like this one. Looking up at fire that wants to swallow him whole, Vanitas grins.
And then he uses his sword to sweep Ventus’ legs out from underneath him, and he goes down with a yelp. Loud enough that he sees some heads turn their way, but who cares? Vanitas throws his longsword onto the dirt and crawls over Ventus, sitting on his hips to keep him down.
Ventus swings his shortsword wildly, clipping Vanitas in the chest, side, shoulders, neck. Vanitas ignores him, fumbling for the straps of his cuirass. A buckle, two, three, four. It comes undone with a rush of air to his lungs and cool breeze on his sweat-soaked chest.
Ventus catches the heavy metal, lifting it above Vanitas’ head for him. Tossed to the ground, Vanitas dives for Ventus’ mouth.
Kissing Ventus is an indulgence Vanitas only gets a few times a year, gasping for air into his lips like he hasn’t been able to breathe in months. He hasn’t. Ventus, for his part, pliantly makes a low little sound that has Vanitas sliding their tongues together. A hand on Ventus’ hip, keeping him still; another in his hair, as soft and feathery as he’d wondered it would be, when he first saw him.
He’d still been a girl then, with his wavy hair pulled into a thick, severe ponytail at the back of his head. Swooping side-parted bangs cut like Ventus had done them himself; hunched over his bathroom sink with dull kitchen scissors, a picture of Gerard Way open on his phone. Dressed in Aqua’s hand-me-down dress and surcoat, his sharpie-stained converse poking out from the hem.
Standing quiet and dutiful at Eraqus’ shoulder, but Vanitas hadn’t been able to stop looking at him.
Sunlight against his hair, green in his eyes, flush in his cheeks. Thick eyelashes pointed so demurely downwards. Vanitas saw him and wanted to break him. Wanted to make him bleed. To wreck him.
Which is why, as soon as the kids had been let loose to “go play”, he’d pushed him into the ground and kicked him in the ribs until they snapped. And that had been— sheer exhilaration, because that gentle demurity was gone, replaced by a wild boy with flame in his eyes.
Ventus wasn’t nearly as skilled with his fists as Vanitas was, but he broke Vanitas’ nose anyway.
Now, Vanitas bites his bottom lip until the sweet taste of iron fills his mouth, murky and thick. Ventus’ tongue darts out to swipe away the blood between them, shifting to press their heartbeats together.
And then he grips a hand in Vanitas’ hair, yanks hard enough to startle him, and flips them over.
Vanitas is getting punched before he has time to process the rapid change in tone. Vanitas surges up, scrabbling for purchase, but Ventus digs his knee into his stomach and wraps his arms around Vanitas’ head; a headlock, one that has his neck cricked to a painful angle.
“Call me your bitch again, and I will personally ensure your dick will never work again,” a leg near it, as if in example of this.
His bitch. Hah.
“But, Ventus,” he says. “You love my dick.”
Another punch, one that he nearly dodges; it glances off the bell of his cheek. “And stop trying to fix me,” he hisses, through his teeth. “You can’t Pretty Woman me into being a fighter again.
“Don’t bother Aqua, don’t bitch me out, don’t try to trick me,”
Ventus is cut off when Vanitas begins bucking in earnest, getting a handhold in Ventus’ belt. Again, the hold is reversed; Ventus is tossed against the ground with an oof, and Vanitas bears down on him with his full weight, armor and all. Ventus groans, shoving hard at his shoulders, but Vanitas is unmoved.
“I will not coddle you,” Vanitas hisses, raising his head to meet Ventus’ eye directly. When he looks away, Vanitas gets a hand on his chin, forcing his head unmoving. “Fight or don’t, Ventus, I’m not your mother. But it was just me. I would not have let you fall.”
The words are spat like bile, something ashy and honest on his tongue, but Ventus deflates immediately. Going gooey soft and pliant, the fight whispering out of his eyes until all that’s left is embers. With a sigh through his nose, he thumps his head against the grass, staring unseeingly up at the sky.
“My dad called me Wendy the other day,” he says, a soft little exhale that puffs past his lips and fans over Vanitas’ cheeks.
“I can make sure he can’t even think that name ever again without wincing,” Vanitas suggests.
Ventus laughs like that was a joke, which it was not. But Vanitas lets the moment pass to instead study the smile that curls over his mouth, wide and amused; the kind of smile that crinkles his eyes. He moves the hand from his chin to brush a gauntlet-ed finger over Ventus’ brow.
Mine, Vanitas thinks, helpless to the feeling. The choking feeling, the ache, that’s lived inside of him all these years. The ungentle burn, the one that has him studying the blot of clotting blood on his bottom lip.
Vanitas leans down and bites not the crook of Ventus’ neck, but the bell of his cheek. Takes a chunk of overwarm flesh between his teeth, hard enough that Ventus’ laugh turns to a breathy gasp. He bites and gnaws until that gasp becomes a moan, and only then does he release Ventus’ face.
Red and bruising, the indents of Vanitas’ teeth stand out against his skin. Sweaty and flushed and ruined, just as wrecked as Vanitas always wants him.
It takes Ventus a moment to catch his breath, and when he does, he says, “How am I supposed to hide that?”
“You aren’t,” Vanitas announces.
I’m done waiting.
…
“You need to stand up for yourself more,” Aqua says, late that night. She’s tending the fire, a stormy contemplation in her eyes. Late on Peace Week Thursday, there’s the song of crickets in the air; distant drumming that thrums in his veins. Everyone else has gone to bed; the camp is fed and dishes are done, and he and Aqua are sitting with their legs folded on the cool, wet ground.
The fire casts the world in an orange glow, warms his skin. Crackles high into the sky, a shimmering vision of the past painted on the darkness in creamy neons. Ven doesn’t look at her; the bandage on his face speaks for itself.
She’d taken one look at him, sighed, and bustled him into camp. Sat him down in the nearest comfy bag chair, and went about gently disinfecting the wound Vanitas left him with. And he swallowed down a lot of things, as she did that. A lot of— protests.
“He’s disgusting,” Aqua mutters, glaring darkly down at the flame. “Challenges you to a duel, leaves you with a bite?”
“He didn’t mean it like t—”
“Then how did he mean it?” Aqua’s eyes smolder. And something must show on Ven’s face, because she softens. Sighs gently, and brushes a hand over his shoulder. Sets the poker down. “I don’t understand why you make excuses for him.”
It wasn’t… like that. It wasn’t cruel, it was just…
Vanitas. Just Vanitas being himself.
Ven’s fingertips brush the bandage almost idly, and when the swelling mark twinges, he inhales a little. Remembers how it felt to be pinned underneath him, armor and all, and… marked.
Claimed.
That’s what it was, wasn’t it? A claim. A symbol of possession, absolute and unobjectionable. Real and visceral, dug into his skin and printed there. Ven imagines the claim burrowing down into his chest, curling up behind his beating heart. Making a home in his squishy sinew.
“I truly don’t understand why he was—” Aqua cuts herself off abruptly, staring hard into the fire. “He is the opposite of chivalrous.”
“That’s not true at all,” Ven argues, and she turns to gape at him. God, they’re getting more and more obvious, aren’t they? Kissing on the battlefield. Waltzing into Org XIII. A bitemark on his face. “He may not do it like you or Terra, but he has chivalry.” Defending Vanitas.
Something’s… changing, isn’t it? Something’s changing. In Vanitas. In Ven.
“Name me an example.”
And Ven— doesn’t.
Because the fact that she can’t think of one? Is amazing. Because Vanitas does a thousand tiny things that are flashing through Ven’s mind; things he hasn’t thought about before, things that he’s taken for granted. All cascading over him in a deluge that’s making him breathless. Vanitas walking him home, going to dance classes with him, take my cuirass.
Vanitas dragging Sora along the marketplace in a cart. Vanitas smoking outside his camp so that Sora won’t be around it.
I wouldn’t let you fall.
“Last Pennsic,” Ven says, and God, shouldn’t that speak for itself? He squeezes his hands on his knees remembering it; the stars exploding, the air going fuzzy, the betrayal of body and flesh. And through it all, gold eyes swimming in his vision, the snapped words, focus on me, Ventus, look at me.
Aqua melts, expression going slack into open sympathy. And this isn’t what he meant at all, but she wraps an arm around his neck and pulls him close. Presses her nose into his hair. “He was doing what any decent person would have.”
“But he was there,” Ven breathes. “Doesn’t that mean something, Aqua? Nobody else was there.”
Aqua is silent.
“He stayed with me.” Ven implores. “Don’t you see it? He’s always there.”
Even when Ven’s just… not in the mood to talk about court, there he is.
Aqua breathes, tense. Remembering, too. Quietly, she disentangles herself from Ven, before murmuring, I’ll be right back. She ducks away from the fire, out towards the tent she and Ven share. He watches her undo the ties on the heavy canvas, revealing the slit of the door; inside she goes, and then Ven is left alone with the crackling fire.
When she returns, she has something held tight in a clenched fist, against her chest. He tries to get a glimpse, but all he sees is a flash in the firelight. A sparkle, almost.
“I’ve been wondering what to do about this, but…” she sighs as she sits down, tucking her surcoat under her knees as she sits.
In her hand, it’s— it’s a chain.
Gorgeous brass that gives off a gleaming sheen in the low light, revealing a set of hammered-and-shaped leaves, with individually raised veins. Divots carved in, to mimic imperfections. A set of autumn leaves, hooked together in a loop, sitting innocently in Aqua’s calloused palms.
“I had this commissioned,” she swallows, dryly, audibly, “when you became our father’s squire.”
A chain, for a knight. A chain, to symbolize being inducted into the Order of the Chivalry. Commissioned— by Aqua, when he was only a kid, in the… in the event of a future knighting. One that she was so sure was going to happen, she had a chain made for him. A nice one, handmade in cast bronze.
A knighting that will never, ever happen now.
He feels like he’s being punched, as she hands it to him. Gently pushes it into his hands, gently closes his fingers around it. It’s cool against his palms; soft and red-raw, from fighting Vanitas that afternoon. Because of course the claim hadn’t been the end of it; they’d fought until the weapons became irrelevant, and then it was their fists and arms and then it was their mouths, again.
Vanitas beat him every time.
He clenches a fist around the chain.
“It’s yours.” Aqua murmurs. “Maybe not in the way I originally planned, but… it’s yours.”
He doesn’t put it on.
…
The thoroughfare outside the Penn Market is always bustling, even now at the hottest part of the day. Mostly, it’s people shopping. The jangling of keys and belts as people wear their lightest garb, hefting baskets and dragging carts around the many, many merchants.
Vanitas and Sora are sharing their patch of slightly-shaded-grass with some of the watch carts, and in the distance are two Brass Hats locked in deep discussion.
The sun beats hot on the asphalt, and Vanitas is an anonymous nothing in a sea of people dressed in silly historical garb, and there is peace in that. A sea of people who don’t look at him twice. Girdles and doublet and blioues and tunics.
Sora munches on the gummy bears Vanitas bought him, chin resting on his knees. Vanitas is sipping at a rapidly condescensating bottle of water.
Why the Brass Hats were so serious becomes rapidly obvious; with a distant drumming, flagbearers in yellow-and-purple tunics appear from the direction of Brewer’s Hill, marching in lockstep.
The East Kingdom’s royal procession appears, two lines moving in perfect parallel. Behind the flagbearers are the drummers, beating a rhythm that they’re marching to. Next are the various royal attendants, in their coronets, and then what must be the prince and princess, because he doesn’t recognize them. And behind them is the two idiots themselves, done up in regalia they both clearly hate.
The only comfort in a year without Ventus has been seeing Noctis stuffed into stuffy doublets and paraded around like Gladiolus’ prize chicken. Better yet is the visible and palpable disdain on his face that he’s only just now getting adept at hiding.
Vanitas tries to read his expression from a distance; unfortunately, between his dark hair and his crown, a silver thing with gleaming blue gems on the points, it’s hard to see.
Once the procession is close enough that he can feel the drumming in his teeth, though. Then he can see the putrid scowl on Noctis’ face, even as his arm is folded into his worthless boyfriend’s. They’re dressed very Roman today, in-keeping with their actual personas, which would be nice if it weren’t hilarious to see Noctis with brass accessories jangling as he walks.
“What’re they even doing?” Sora asks, nibbling on a gummy bear. “Opening Ceremonies aren’t ‘till Saturday.”
“Showing off,” Vanitas replies. “Peace week court, probably.”
“Maybe they just came from the war room,” Sora suggests. “Have you heard from His Majesty this war?”
“Why would I have?”
“Oh… I guess I thought you and Consort Noctis were friends.”
“Hardly.”
They drift into silence, watching Mister Nepotism and his poor choices pass them by. At their back is a contingent of fighters in the East’s colors, all carrying spears on their shoulders. Ventus’ little friends, most of them. Vanitas spares a glare for the impetuous puppy.
He snickers at Noctis’ back, and the tense line of his shoulders. He really hates this, doesn’t he? Oh, Vanitas hopes he becomes a Rose. It’d be something to laugh about at the worst of times.
…
Vanitas is tying Sora’s belt for him, listening to Ansem bitch them out for something-or-other, when he hears a distinct, floaty voice warble, “Hail the camp…”
Maleficent Pfeifferin, Duchess von Northshield. Happily sporting her own heraldry and her maiden name. Because she loves to be petty. He supposes she has a right to be; she’s not his mother. Speaking of which, she eyes him with a palpable venom in her poisonous green eyes.
She’s a tall woman, towering over them all except Xemnas; long and lithe, with fingers like spindle-spiders, always curled around her staff. Yew painted a purplish black, curling to a swirled tip with a gem inside, the same one he recalls connecting with his skull, once.
She’s utterly pale, wearing dichotomous dark colors, hair up and veiled. She looks vicious; sharp and pointed, like a snake. Like she’s here for a fight. She usually is.
Vanitas guides Sora until he’s behind him, ducking into his older brother’s only slightly superior height.
She smiles, simperingly. “Oh, don’t be like that, boys. I bear no ill-will towards you, such innocent little creatures.”
Wow, she isn’t even trying to be convincing, is she?
Sensing Vanitas’ disbelief, she waves a graceful, dismissive hand. “Regardless, I’m here in an official capacity. In fact,” she beats her staff against the ground, a thump-thump like that of a heartbeat, and cries, “Hail the camp!”
Sora cringes, Vanitas glares at her, and Ansem emerges, ruffled, from his tent; clearly having just taken a nap. Whatever smattering of Org XIII happen to be in camp; Axel, who was definitely also napping, Xigbar, nursing a drink, and Saix, holding a notebook and looking very annoyed at being interrupted.
And then comes the old man himself, hobbling out; weight shakily braced on his cane.
Ansem says, surprised: “Mother?”
Xehanort says, with disdain, “What do you want, you absolute harpy?”
With the affection of paegentry, her voice booms over the small crowd: “Their royal Majesties King Gladiolus Amicitia and Consort Noctis Lucis Caelum humbly call the group called Organization XIII to their court in the East Kingdom’s royal encampment at E06 for six PM this evening.”
Vanitas gapes at her.
“To repeat: East Kingdom Royal, at E06, six PM this evening.” Her eyes sweep the group, landing witheringly on Vanitas. “Be there.”
And then she whirls around, he skirts swishing behind her as she makes as put-upon an exit as she did entrance. As amusing as her palpable hatred for them is, he isn’t amused.
Especially not when Demyx blurts, “Oh shit, we’re doin’ that now?”
Axel punches him in the gut and hisses shut up? Saix sighs like his underlings are just so stupid.
Oh, fuck. Secrecy is not a good sign.
“What is this about?” He says, deadly calm, to Demyx. He cringes away from Vanitas’ gaze, turning to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.
“Hehhh, nothin’… not a thing.”
Vanitas turns his gaze to Axel, who’s grimacing. “Not a clue.”
Saix says, “Don’t look so suspicious.”
There’s a clap of hands that gets their attention, and Ansem is saying, “Well, we can hardly refuse a summon by the King and Queen,” a mean smile as he says that, queen. “Clear your schedules, because it seems like we’re dining with the royals!”
…
When Noctis and his brainless bulk approach them, the camp forms a loose circle and bows by their necks. They aren’t meeting them on their thrones; it’s not court, not in any official sense, but it is some kind of writ, Vanitas decides.
The old man takes a wobbling step forward and asks, “To what do we owe the pleasure, your Majesties?”
Kings and Queens— or Sovereigns and Consorts— hold a simple, simple position in the SCA: they symbolize the top of the hierarchy. Unlike a real monarchy, the SCA’s hierarchy is merit based— and socially based. You climb the ranks when you walk the walk, and talk the talk, and people like you. That’s all.
Knights recommend who they think should be the newest knights, and the crown decides if their contributions to the Society are enough to merit the accolades. It’s all arbitrary; peerages are gifted to those who are liked, and not those who are not. That’s why, had circumstances been different… Ventus absolutely would’ve been given the accolades he so craved; would’ve become Sir Ventus, sometime down the line.
And while Kings and Queens don’t have any real power in the organization, more than anyone else given a peerage— it’s all run by the Pelicans and the other Brass Hats— they do have ceremonial power. And something they can and will and have done is banish people.
Can’t kick someone out of the Society entirely unless the Pelicans get involved, but they can barr people from events they’re attending. And kick them off.
Vanitas stares at Noctis and is absolutely sure he’s going to be driving home tonight.
They’re dressed like Vikings today, in early period cotton tunics adorned with a matching trim; golden thread stitched to look like what Vanitas thinks is meant to be Odin, king of the Norse gods. Gladiolus’ Knight’s chain gleams a matching gold, chainmail rope with his medallion hanging from it.
Noctis has his arms folded, a pair of only debatably period bone earrings flashing from his ears, smiles when he sees Vanitas. A snake’s smile.
He is absolutely about to be banished from their reign.
V— Ventus. He clenches his fists and doesn’t think of Ventus. Pretends he doesn’t feel it all slipping away, drifting from his fingers like wet sand.
“There are few groups as prolific on the battlefield as Organization XIII,” Gladiolus begins, and all eyes snap to him. It sounds nothing like him. Playing The Game really does a number, doesn’t it? “And definitely none as old as yours.” That is more him, a wide and sharp smile. “Baron, you truly have a way with whipping soldiers into shape.”
Oh, and there’s something mean in that sentence. Maybe this isn’t about Vanitas at all? Maybe his old man is finally going to get banned from the Society for good?
Too little too fucking late.
“It’s amazing to see what you can do to people,” Gladiolus goes on, radiating amusement. “Your camp is a huge asset to our kingdom, and we called you here today in recognition of that.”
He nods to Noctis, who steps forward. Hands folded in front of himself, back straight, looking for his part every bit the prince he is not. Dowager of a kingdom that doesn’t exist, looking down his eyelashes at them all.
“Something His Majesty told me when he won the day at the Crown Tourney a year ago, is that recognition is how our organization thrives.” He says, and the words are curt, sharp, rehearsed. Then, “Vanitas.”
He still could be getting a banishment.
Right?
“A year ago, I saw a side of you that I didn’t recognize. It was a moment that… I don’t need to detail, to make my point, now do I? I saw a new side of you, and I was surprised. But the more I thought about it…” Noctis’ face is inscrutable, unreadable, a blank mask of glass.
No. No. No.
Fuck.
Vanitas deserves nothing for whatever it was Noctis saw in him last Pennsic. Because it wasn’t for Noctis. It wasn’t for the kingdom.
“...the more I realized that I had seen that side of you before. I’d just never let myself understand what it was that I was seeing.” Noctis continues, and his eyes sweep over the group, not settling on Vanitas. “I believe that there are a few people who do know this side of you. And they have, correctly, seen that it is something… special. Almost, sacred. And as such, they’ve cherished it in secret.”
Now Vanitas is pinned by a pair of ghastly blue eyes, crystal clear in the late afternoon light.
“But I don’t agree with that. I don’t believe in it. As we aren’t a real monarchy,” here, he smiles a little; a wry little grin, “our world is volunteer based. And ignoring the merits of our members would leave us bereft of members to acknowledge, I think. It’s a symbiotic relationship. That’s what His Majesty told me,” he tips his head to Gladiolus. “So that’s why I want to pay his sentiment forward.”
He’s dreaming? Yes, he must be. There is no way this is really happening.
“Sorry for this,” Noctis says, but he doesn’t seem sorry at all. And then he nods to their herald— Scientia.
Scientia, who barks in the cacophonous, autocratic voice only a herald can have: “His Majesties call the Order of the Chivalry into their court!”
He must be dreaming; lying on a hospital bed somewhere, finally being put out of misery, because there is no universe in which Vanitas is standing in EK Royal, and every knight in attendance is respectfully falling to their knees. Grinning, on their knees in the soft grass. Even the old man is carefully, slowly, bending to one knee, hands braced on his cane.
And then Vanitas is alone, because those who aren’t knights have stepped back, formed a wide circle; and then Vanitas is alone, in a sea of kneeling bodies; alone, save for his king. Disarmed and an empty totem, standing tall in a stormy sea.
He asks himself why, but that isn’t the question at all, is it? Why has a simple, objective answer. Why is written in Noctis’ eye, the amused curl of his lips, sorry for this. He’s been waiting for this. He’s enjoying this.
So the question isn’t why, it’s how.
Contrary to how it may seem to Vanitas, these are not the kinds of things that happen spontaneously. There is no surprise, not to anyone except Vanitas himself; no shock, save for the quickening of Vanitas’ heart. These things take planning— months of it— and the close involvement in his campmates. How did he now know? How did he not see? How did he not read between the lines, and anticipate—
—because this isn’t right. Isn’t… correct. Isn’t earned. It isn’t many things, because Vanitas is many things, and a knight is not one of them. An accolade given to him for a gesture that wasn’t meant for anyone except Ventus.
Because this isn’t his accolade, is it? It’s Ventus’.
And Vanitas remembers— Ventus’ earnest dream, spoken out in whispers between them a thousand times over a thousand different lives lived in the span of two weeks. Ventus’ place at this table was all but assured, once; and now it’s spilling out into broken glass at Vanitas’ feet. Crunching underneath his boots.
“We have a question for you,” Noctis says.
Vanitas inhales, and hears the broken glass crack.
“Consider the question carefully,” he says, and this is rehearsed. “Hear from your elders and your betters; those who’ve been asked this question and accepted. Hear them, and bring us your response at court, Monday; the battlefield, at five PM.” And then there’s something genuine, something human in his eye: “Vanitas. The answer can be no.”
Vanitas sneers at him. Get me into this mess, he doesn’t say, and offer me kindness? What is your kindness worth, when this is Ventus’ knighthood?
And then Ignis barks: “His Majesties invite you to a vigil for Vanitas and the question before him, for an hour’s hence at Organization XIII! Block E23! One hour’s hence!”
And then:
“For Vanitas and the question before him—!”
The sound is cacophonous. A herald, a sea of voices, deep and shouted; emotion pulled from the depth of breasts and screamed out, in a warbling cry of respect:
Vivat!
Sora bounds into the circle and hugs him, hard, around the middle. Looks up at him, smiling tearfully, and says something he can’t hear over the next shout:
Vivat!
Noctis’ eyes dance with amusement, as he waves a hand all around them; this is your problem now, too. But Noctis doesn’t understand; he doesn’t understand the broken glass.
Vivat!
He can say no.
…
With the slow end to Peace Week comes the Beginner's Ball, starting at a rapidly darkening eight PM. Aqua gets halfway through suggesting he wear a dress before her sense returns to her, and Ven ignores her to dress himself in a doublet instead.
“You looked so pretty in that—” she lowers the turquoise gown clutched in her hand. “Just, when you were younger.”
“I was,” he forces a smile, tying up his vest. “Thanks, but I’ll wear this, okay?”
“No, I know, I was just,” she frowns, then sets the gown on her air mattress. “Sorry, Ven.”
“It’s fine,” the words dance off his tongue, and then he sits on the old rug they use as a makeshift floor, yanking on his boots.
Their tent is definitely— well, Pennsic is less camping and more glamping. It’s a tall pavilion that’s about twenty years old, made by an old company called Panther. Aqua’s bed is made of collapsible wood, and it’s set to one side; Ven sleeps on a cot on the ground, beside her.
The rugs are patterned in soft blues and greens, and there’s a tapestry of a printed knight wielding a sword is hung between their beds. Aqua leans against the end of her’s, watching him dress, quietly.
“Will you be alright by yourself?”
“Aqua…” he sighs, pausing in his lacing of his boots.
“Because I can go with. I will, I think—”
“It’s a mixer, Aqua.” He takes her hand. “My phone’s in my pouch, and it’s charged. I’ll text you if I need anything, okay?”
She relents with a gentle sigh and a small smile, nodding. She loves him so much, and he loves her so much. And that’s the important part, isn’t it? Bolstered, he squeezes her hand, and drops it.
He says goodbye to Terra and Roxas, briefly thanks fate that his dad is already in bed, and makes off. Luckily, the barn isn’t far from where they camp, so he doesn’t have to walk much. He just follows the familiar paths, listening to the baying of distant drums; the sound of bagpipes, echoing strangely across the sky.
The setting sun casts the world in grays and purples, clouds thick and dark. He inhales deeply, tasting the thick, moist air. Heavy on his tongue, sticking to his clothes. The wind tugs at the hem of his shirt, the collar. He misses, briefly, the feeling of a dress over his ankles, fabric flapping, caught in the wind.
It’s not worth the concession it would mean, not in the world’s eyes. But he can dream of it, as he did when he was young. In the privacy of his own mind, he can dream of anything; like Vanitas’ hands on him, leading Ven in a dance that only matters to them.
There’s light spilling from the open doors of the barn, and the sound of loud music and stomping feet and laughter. He’s a little late; there’s a dance already happening, a huge circle as big as the barn of people, all their hands linked.
He ducks inside, smiling politely at the people he passes. There’s people against the walls, not dancing; talking amongst each other, holding drinks, sampling something from the table of snacks to one side. On the other is the band, pipes and drums and flutes playing a song that the dancers skip in to, and then out. In a circle, they turn; a sea of multicolored bliauts and tunics skipping along to the beat.
He scans the crowd for a familiar head of black hair; and while he makes accidental eye-contact with a few random men, he doesn’t see him.
Again, he scans the crowd. Just once, he scans the dancers. Again, the crowd. Again and again, until his vision is blurring with a headache. Ven drifts to the table, picking up a glass of something he deduces is actually mead, when he sips it. A courier is staring at him, and he chuckles. He pulls out his wallet, lets them inspect his ID.
Then, again, his eyes drift. Not to the crowd, but to the doors, where people step in and out; he watches, and he watches, and he watches, and he does not find what he’s looking for.
It… it’s not like they talked about coming to the ball itself. But that’s the point of the classes; you practice for a week, and then you go to the actual ball, and put your newfound skills to use. He’d… assumed. That if Vanitas was appearing at his camp at 10 am sharp, consistently, then they’d be going to the ball…
But he never appeared at Departure, and he’s not here, and the longer Ven watches the entrances, the more he realizes that…
It makes sense, really. He hated the whole thing; hissed at the teacher when she corrected, glared at anyone he was forced to touch that wasn’t Ven. Glared harder at anyone Ven danced with. He emanated an aura of palpable disdain with every moment spent at the classes, and…
But this had been… the goal. Ven asked him to go to those classes because he wanted to dance with him at this ball.
He’s so stupid, isn’t he? Why would Vanitas want to come to a ball with him? Why would Vanitas ever want to come to a ball with him?
There are so many people, in this building. They are laughing and they are talking and they are dancing. Mouths stretched into smiles and heads bowed together and hands held in hands. A sea of bodies, moving like water; a whirlpool on the concrete floor, the music beating in Ven’s chest.
And Ven is a breath, a wisp. A gentle wind, one that ruffles their hair and doesn’t move them. Something to smile at and brush passed. Something cute, very cute, to pet the head of, and say, wouldn’t you look pretty in a dress? Ven is a dream, or perhaps he’s in one, his body and bones a testament to the palpable aloneness, in this room.
Vanitas isn’t coming. No one is.
Because Ven’s existence is singular. As a human, he is only himself. He lives inside of his own mind. He will never be anyone else.
Ven sets the cup down and rushes from the room, making a beeline for the door. And by the time the cool, moist air hits his cheeks, is about when the hot tears start burning his mouth; closing up his throat, making him ache.
He gets about ten paces away from the barn before he sits on his haunches and bites back sudden and overwhelming tears. His face burns, overwarm and bursting at the seams. He hates being alone. God, Ven hates being alone.
His shaking hands come up to press into his eyes, feeling the trickling deluge of tears he can’t stop. Wetting his fingers and drifting between them.
Because that’s how he is, right?
He’s not alone. He beats the heel of his palm against his forehead, a punishment. You’re loved. God, he is so. So loved. He is so loved and that’s more than many can say, so why does Ven selfishly crave to be understood?
He takes them for granted. Takes everyone for granted. He needs to be better. He needs to do better. He can’t be crying because he, stupidly, wrongly, feels abandoned.
Why isn’t it enough? Why isn’t anything enough? Why does he always want more? Why—
“Oh my god, hey,” comes the smooth voice of Zack, and then there’s a body sitting next to Ven on the grass. A hand on his shoulder, one that he flinches away from. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?”
Ven doesn’t want to talk to Zack.
He inhales shakily, biting down sobs; wipes at his face, rough enough that it hurts. Pulls himself together, like he’s a bunch of pieces of errant driftwood floating all along the surface of a stormy ocean.
When he turns to look at him, he feels like scum. Skin stretched too thin over his bones; he’s sure his face is blotchy, wide-eyed, red, ugly; absolutely painted with the evidence of his stupid crying.
“What’re you doing here?” Ven’s voice cracks.
“I always come to this ball—” Zack shakes his head. “Ven, what’s wrong?”
He smiles a shaky smile, exhaling deeply. “Nothing. Nothing at all, okay?”
“Hey, now,” a hand closes around his bicep, large and calloused and rooting him in place. “No lying to Sir Zack, alright? I can tell something’s wrong.”
Ven hates him, for a moment. Ardently and passionately.
“It’s—” Ven chokes on his words. “Stupid. It’s stupid.” He tries to free himself, but Zacl just frowns; frowns that same stupid frown that everybody does. The one that says, why are you like this, Ven, I’m worried about you. I’m worried about you. Always-worried-and-never—
“I just expected Vanitas to come, that’s all.”
He squeezes his eyes shut because he shouldn’t have said that. Way to give Vanitas a worse reputation than he already has, huh? And tears prick at his eyes because his name is so heavy in his mouth, heavy and sharp, and Ven doesn’t want to be talking to Zack he wants to be talking to—
“Oh, hun. Vanitas was called into EK Royal earlier.”
Ven blinks his eyes open.
“He didn’t stand you up, Wen. He’s probably still there.”
Wen.
Ven digs a hand in his bangs and smiles a smile he does not feel.
“Why?”
Zack blinks. “You don’t know—?”
“No, Zack, I don’t know.”
“Oh, well, uh. Me neither.” Zack admits. “Sorry, Wendy.”
“Zack,” it comes out sharp, fast; before he can stop it, or swallow it down. “What’s my name?”
He watches the realization hit him, his eyes widening. “Ven. Ven— oh, I’m so sorry! Oh my god. I can’t believe I’m such an idiot!” He waves his hands, cheeks reddening.
“No, I get it,” Ven snaps. “You find me crying outside a party about being stood up by a boy and you—” he cuts himself off. “Sorry,” he hastens to correct, pressing his hands to his face. “Sorry, it’s fine, Zack, it’s fine—”
There’s gentle fingers encircling his wrist, pulling his hands away from his face. And he yanks his arms until they’re free of Zack, because he’s tired of being touched like he’s something gentle and precious and cute.
He’s tired of being glass.
“I’m sorry,” he meets Ven’s eye, studiously and seriously. “That was stupid of me.”
And he means it, and the fact that he means it wavers in the air between them.
“It's okay,” Ven mutters, regardless of whether it is or not. “You think Vanitas is gonna be late?”
“Pretty… late probably, yeah. I mean, since it’s Noctis.”
They look at each other for another minute, before Zack pulls himself from Ven’s space. Then, he offers, “Wanna come to my camp and get wasted? Tifa made booze.”
“Yes,” Ven breathes, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. “Yeah, that sounds awesome.”
…
February 27th, East Kingdom War practice, A.S. LVIII
“My one hope is that whoever’s Prince next isn’t annoying,” Gladiolus remarks, referring to who’s signed up for this year’s Crown Tourney. Vanitas had been armoring up, by himself, when Caelum’s little hanger’s on brick wall cosplaying as a human approached him to make, god save him, smalltalk.
They’re in the gym of a school that isn’t currently in session, with the plastic bleachers covered in banners in purple-and-gold. The current king and the war general are talking about strategies, formations to practice; Vanitas is collapsed on the slippery wooden floor, futzing with his boots.
“And what constitutes ‘annoying’?” Vanitas asks, though he’d much rather be pulling his boots on in silence, thanks.
“Everything that Noct hates in a Brass Hat.” Gladiolus says, with a sheepish sort of smile.
“So, all of them?”
Gladiolus laughs, like that was a joke. It was not, but remiss would Vanitas be to correct him. “Except me,” he winks.
Gross.
“You know,” Vanitas says, a slithering snake’s smile finding its way to his mouth. “The easiest way to make sure none of them are ‘annoying’,” whatever that means, “would be to compete.”
His mouth falls open.
“You don’t seriously think I’d win?”
Gladiolus is only in his mid-thirties; he’d be going up against men and women some ten years his senior. Of course he wouldn’t fucking win. Still, Vanitas says, “Why not? Unless you’re nervous?” He lets a touch of something mocking lace his voice. “Understandably so.”
“What’s your angle here, man?” He leans in close, exaggerated suspicion on his face. Truly, does he think they’re friends, or something? “Why don’t you compete?”
“Why would I?” Vanitas replies. “I have nothing to gain from accolades, or a peerage. You, however,” Vanitas flaps a hand. “Are here to play the game. So I’m suggesting. That you play the game.”
The fact that it would give stupid little Caelum the panic attack of the century is certainly not relevant to his reasons. Not at all. He smiles.
“Perhaps you’d all hate the Brass Hats a little less if you, too, ran the organization.”
It’s childish, he thinks. Childish rebellion against whatever authority is in the nearest vicinity. None of this exists without the people who make it exist. Resenting them for that is… a snake eating its own tail.
Gladiolus looks thoughtful, which is good; because Vanitas walks off to go find Sora.
He knows his ploy has worked, though, when he’s sitting on the ground after the drills, panting his way through a water bottle, when none other than Noctis Lucis Caelum comes stomping up to him.
“Just because your boyfriend is on sabbatical doesn’t mean you get to fuck with mine.” He hisses.
“I assure you that I have no sexual intentions towards Gladiolus.” Vanitas says, flatly.
Sora chokes.
“Not that!” Noctis snaps, kicking him lightly in the leg. “You got him to compete for the fucking Crown?”
“I also don’t control what Gladiolus does and does not do.” Vanitas replies. “He’s a big boy, yes? Certainly not to be persuaded by the son of a Baron.”
Again, Sora only just doesn’t laugh.
“You are so insufferable when Ven isn’t around.” He announces.
“Relax,” Vanitas says. “It’s not as if he’s going to win. Let him have his fun. Perhaps it will teach you a thing or two? About playing the game?”
Noctis makes a feh sound.
“He’ll win,” he says, with absolute conviction. “And when he does? When I become consort? I am going to make your life hell.”
“Consort?” Vanitas says, lightly. “My, my, Sora. Look at that. He’s already picking out which title he’d use.”
“Not queen?” Sora says, innocently. Frowning. “What’s wrong with queen?”
“Queen or not,” Noctis levels. “Watch your back.”
So he’ll get banished. Oh, the humanity.
…
His father’s tent has been turned into a receiving room. Two chairs sit in it; plush, made of smooth, dark wood. Sitting across from each other on a plank. There’s a table with a bottle of wine beside the chair that’s, presumably, meant to be Vanitas’.
He moves swiftly, sitting on the chair.
Their camp was in disarray; the kind of disarray that comes from party preparations. Torches were lit, chairs pulled out, ad-hoc charcuterie boards made. Wine and booze served. Everyone scrambling around to clean up, to decorate, to bring out food and cook and hang up the tent walls and and and and.
There’s going to be a party. Because Vanitas is having a vigil.
He sets his head into his hands.
…
You’re not allowed to sell booze at Pennsic, unless you have a liquor license; so most people make their own stuff, and give it away. Tifa is no exception, though it’s a little more exclusive. Seventh Heaven isn’t having a party, per say, but all Ven’s fighter friends are here to drink themselves stupid.
Zack sits him down on a plush beanbag chair in a dimly lit living-room-tent, returns with someone dark and strong. Ven downs it, tasting the bitter woodiness only a little.
Gotta have at least one wild party a year, right?
…
“You’ll accept, of course.” Xehanort announces, leathery hands braced on his cane.
Vanitas’ father always looks very… correct, in garb. Dressed like a patriarch of a family desperately clawing its way to power in a world that doesn’t want them to. Vanitas hates it.
“Isn’t that up to me?”
“No.” His father says. “You’ll accept, of course.”
There are plenty of things his father could do to him, if he doesn’t.
…
Everyone’s really happy to see him; he’s met with exclamations and hugs and hair ruffling. It’s like a round robin; someone walks through the Seventh Heaven gate, talks with Tifa, sees Ven, and screeches: there you are, you little shit!
A proper Pennsic welcome, everytime. And the more he drinks the more he stumbles when he goes to stand and hug them.
…
“It will be… untold. Fantastic for us.” Xemnas says, backlit by the setting sun leaking in through the cracks in the tent door. “It’s not often families like ours get peerages.”
“Don’t play that card,” Vanitas says, rubbing at his forehead. “It’s not worth it.”
“But it is true.”
“I resent that.”
“I don’t see why the idea is so intolerable to you.” Xemnas snaps. “You are being elevated. It’s an award; a recognition of your skills. Is that such a bad thing?”
“It’s not for me.” Vanitas says. “It’s Ventus’ knighthood, coming to the next-best reject in line.”
Xemnas laughs at him.
“And? So the girl got sick. Life goes on.”
Vanitas smacks his hand against the arm of his chair, making to stand. Xemnas takes a step back, splays his hands, peace. “I forgot,” his voice drips with sarcasm.
“I don’t understand any of you.” Vanitas snarls, and he whips an arm out wide, gesturing to— everything. “You can accept that this is real. Medieval tents and stupid costumes and hitting each other with sticks; all of that is real, these awards are real, the meaning they have is real.
Real because we make it real. And you understand that. So why doesn’t the same principle ever apply to him?”
Xemnas doesn’t say anything. Not a word.
…
Seventh Heaven is a really nice camp; one of those camps decorated with pretty rugs and warm-colored tapestries hung all over the walls. Golden fairy lights glitter and gleam, hung along the roofline; a fire crackles about twenty feet to his left, and someone’s pulled out a guitar.
The soft orange light makes Ven feel like he’s dreaming. He’s stopped tasting the liquor.
…
“It’s the natural order of things, honestly. You fight, you get good at fighting, you get a peerage.” Ansem happily informs him, crossing his arms and cocking his hip.
“It’s obvious nepotism.” Vanitas says, bland. “I’m twenty-four.”
Most people don’t get knighted until their late twenties or early thirties at the earliest.
“And you’re good at it!” He cries.
“It isn’t about being good! Do you think I’m an idiot?” Vanitas snaps. “I can see what’s happening here. All anyone sees is how good this looks, for our house, our fucking barony. Me walking around with a white belt, and it’ll fix our reputation.”
“Well,” Ansem shrugs, delicately. “Our reputation needs fixing.”
…
“Why do you like him so much?” Zack asks.
“Someone’s gonna think you’re jealous,” Ven laughs, his ass hurting from where he’s sitting on the plush rug against the grass and attempting to pay literally any attention to the game of Cards Against Humanity that he’s playing.
“It’s a fair question!” Aerith, Zack’s girlfriend, says. “I don’t even wanna remember how many times we had to patch you up.”
“I liked it,” Ven mumbles, tossing down the first white card he gets his fingers on. “I like it.”
…
“I guess it’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?” Sora murmurs, quiet enough that not even dedicated eavesdroppers could hear him. He’s sitting in the grass, with his back against the leg of Vanitas’ chair; not looking at him, just… tugging at the blades of grass, idle and contemplative.
”If I do it, it has to be real.” He has to embody the ideal.
“I know you love Ven, but… he’d want you to say yes.”
Vanitas can’t breathe.
“I think it’d make him really happy, if you said yes.”
He’s right.
“Love Ventus?” Vanitas echoes, airily.
Sora hunches. “Don’t lie. I know you do. Anyone can see that you do.”
“Maybe little kids,” Vanitas snarls, “should keep their noses where they belong, lest they get ripped off.”
Sora says nothing, for a long moment. He just doesn’t breathe. Frozen and tense, not breathing.
“Sometimes,” he’s choked up, “you talk just like Dad.”
…
“He’s pretty,”
Leon nods solemnly. “He is.”
Ven smushes his face against his shoulder. “Am I crazy?”
Leon nods solemnly. “You are.”
“Oh.”
“I know I’m… nobody chooses me.” Ven is slurring his words. The world is just… color. Red and white and black and blue and a thousand colors, watery and real and alive, all around him. “I know that.”
Leon says, “Except him.”
Oh.
…
“Sorry, but is Vanitas around?” Ven asks, very deliberately even. The pounding headache is making… everything difficult. Should’ve drunk more water, last night. He would’ve, if Vanitas had been there to nag him, like he always does.
Sora blinks, lips parted in surprise that’s confusing Ven. Then, he abruptly shakes his head and says, “Oh! Um, yeah, let me go get him.”
He leaves Ven at Org XIII’s gate, rather than letting him inside; which is wise, maybe, because it seems like the whole camp is crawling around, hard at work at various… cleaning tasks? Did they have a party last night?
Bog camps be bog-ing, he supposes. Ven would definitely rather not encounter Xemnas or Ansem or Xehanort in the post-party malaise. He shudders at the thought.
He’s saved from thinking about it by the appearance of Vanitas, who looks… haggard. Pale and wan, dark bags underneath his eyes, shoulders bowed. He’s dressed in something nondescript, his red belt wrapped prominently around his waist.
For a moment, he stands at the gate of Org XIII and stares at Ven like he’s never seen him before.
“Party hard?” Ven passes off the fret as an idle question, and something electric and familiar passes over Vanitas’ face.
“Funny.” He says.
And then there’s another moment where Ven searches his eyes for the answers, while the wind tugs at his hair.
“What… did their Majesties want?”
“Nothing important,” Vanitas dismisses.
And. That’s a lie. It must be, right? Vanitas isn’t very good at lying. He can see it in the twitch in his mouth, the way he’s studiously staring at Ven’s face, deliberate, forced.
Ven isn’t sure Vanitas has ever lied to him before.
It must be something bad, then. Something so bad that he can’t look Ven in the eyes and admit what it was. He must be in trouble.
Ven jerks a hand out, wraps his fingers around his wrist, and says, “Come to the Blue Feather Ball with me tonight.”
He blinks.
“Why should I?” But the argument lacks bite. Everything, this whole discussion, lacks his usual bite, his usual life.
“Because you missed the Beginner’s Ball last night,” Ven pouts. “I was there all alone. So come with me tonight to make up for it.”
Vanitas says, “Okay.”
That’s it. Okay. That’s all.
Ven says, “You’ll hate it.”
Vanitas says, “I know.”
Ven says, “But I’ll be lonely without you.”
Vanitas says, “I know.”
And then Vanitas reaches a hand out and gently, so uncharacteristically gently, softly, gently, like he isn’t even Vanitas at all, brushes his fingertips over the bandage on Ven’s cheek.
Quietly, he repeats, “I know.”
…
Clan Blue Feather has decorated the barn as lavishly as always, banners hung around the ceiling; tables covered in shimmering blue table cloths; people in all kinds of intense regalia, all in various shades of blue. With some green and purple in there.
Ven peers at the raffle tables, curious as to what’s being offered up; pretty pottery and some leathercraft, trim, art; all kinds of beautiful things, though nothing piques his interest.
Vanitas follows about a pace behind him, radiating a palpable aura of disdain. Ven smiles when he glares at a passersby; really, it’s not cute, and it shouldn’t make Ven feel so endeared. He offers up his arm, and Vanitas takes it— almost gentlemanly.
“I fail to understand the appeal of such an event,” Vanitas comments.
Ven says, “You wouldn’t.”
Matter settled, Ven drags Vanitas’ unwitting self around the tables, looking at the various raffle prizes; they have to navigate a thick crowd of people, bent over the prizes, examining them, chattering loudly. A man in a coronet and a booming voice smiles at Ven and Vanitas as he hands them both a raffle ticket; Ven has to take Vanitas’ for him, when Vanitas pointedly looks away and turns his nose up. “Thank you, m’lord.”
“Such a spoilsport,” Ven chides, to Vanitas. “Come on, you should pick something!” He rips the tickets in half, holding the half for bidding in one hand, the half to keep in the other.
“Why would I?” Vanitas drawls. “I’m not in need of any garishly blue favors.”
Ven smacks his arm lightly, but returns to the tables. “Then what am I gonna do with this?”
“Use it to bid for whatever you want,” Vanitas shrugs, as if that's supremely obvious.
And everyone thinks he’s cruel.
Ven’s attention is caught by a little strip of trim; bright green, embroidered with silver thread. The design is… chains. Interlocking links that are woven all down the fabric. Nobody else’s bid on it yet.
Gingerly, Ven sets both their tickets down on top of it.
“Fascinating choice.”
Ven elbows him in the stomach, and is gratified when Vanitas grins toothily at him. And at that moment, booming pipe music explodes from the other side of the room. Some jig flows through the air, loud and thumping; pipe accompanied by horns accompanied by drums.
Ven offers his hand and asks Vanitas to: “Dance with me?”
And, miraculously, Squire of the Baron Xehanort, vicious and fierce fighter of the East Kingdom, Vanitas takes his hand and allows himself to be led to the dancefloor.
…
“Hey, Ven!” Sora calls, waving exuberantly. He bounds through the crowd to Ven’s side, beaming. “I just wanted to say that I’m really glad to see you and Vanitas here together.”
Ven flushes. He’s listening to the raffle numbers being called, waiting for the item he (and Vanitas) bid on to be chosen for. Vanitas is… somewhere; a cursory glance shows him exactly where Ven left him, sitting sprawled on the concrete floor against the wall. The only change is that Larxene, of all people, is talking to him.
“Oh… I just bribed him, as usual.” Ven reorients on the conversation with Sora, sparing him a smile. Less bribery and more guilt-tripping, but who’s there to lecture him on semantics.
“Still.” Sora takes his arm, squeezing it happily. “Congrats on finally getting together.”
Ven sputters.
“We’re not— that’s not— I just, we, he, uh?”
The smile melts from Sora’s face, until something warmly, fondly? Fondly amused settles onto his mouth. “OH!” His voice comes out shrill, awkward; forced cheerful. “Sorry, I guess I just…” Sora searches his face, openly. “…assumed.”
Ven stares at him.
Because… the old weight is settling over his shoulders. An ache he’s long since understood and accepted; cold ice crackling over his limbs, leaving a layer of frost over his lips.
“Vanitas wouldn’t ever… feel that way about me.”
If he did, wouldn’t he have said something by now? Done something by now? All these years of Ven living in Vanitas’ bed, nursing his silly, quiet little crush; letting Vanitas press him into the mattress because Ven saw him and saw beauty.
Sora’s mouth drops open. His hand is suddenly on Ven’s wrist, in a grip that’s almost bruising, staring at him in open disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
”I’m completely serious.”
”You can’t be serious.” Sora repeats, his voice going high and shrill. “You’re serious. Oh my god, you’re serious.”
Ven’s throat feels tight. “You don’t need to rub it in—”
”Ven,” Sora says, with feeling. “Vanitas adores you.”
“Wh— what?”
“How do you not—” Sora seems honestly beside himself. “He came to the Blue Feather Ball for you? I saw him dancing earlier. He doesn’t— it’s not just that. He’s just… I don’t know how to describe it, honestly.
“It’s like… when you’re around, Vanitas just comes alive.”
Ven can’t breathe.
Because it’s hitting him, puzzle pieces clicking into place. It’s slamming into him with the force of an oncoming train, crushing rock and collapsing cave ceiling raining weight down onto his shoulders. Because it’s been staring him, dead in the face, this whole time, hasn’t it?
Dancing with him, taking his arm, take my cuirass. Spitting blood onto the dry dirt of the battlefield. I won’t coddle you. It’s been staring him in the face, written in the syllables of his name, that Vanitas says in its entirety, every single time.
A bitemark on his cheek.
The floor cracks open, and the shadows beneath crawl forth; grab for Ven’s ankles. His entire body flushes, ice suddenly thawing at everything click, click, clicks into place, making sudden sense, for the very first time.
Vanitas has been saying I love you in every way except with his mouth for actual years.
But— no, that can’t be right. It can’t be. There’s no way that Vanitas that way about Ven. There’s no way that Vanitas feels that way about Ven.
Ven isn’t someone you build a life with. He isn’t someone you choose. He’s… fun. A distraction, meant to be used until real life comes knocking again. He’s candy-sugar, sickeningly-sweet and only enjoyable in small doses. Anything more than that, and you’ll get sick. Sick of him.
“He’s been waiting.”
Ven stares at him.
“Like… that’s what he says. That he’s waiting for you.”
Ven feels sick.
“Then why didn’t he… say…”
Sora shrugs. “Because he’s Vanitas?”
Would Ven have even believed him?
And then numbers are being called; the numbers on Vanitas’ raffle ticket. And, mechanically, Ven turns away from Sora, and receives the pretty little piece of embroidery from the grinning man in the coronet.
There’s no way. Ven isn’t… he’s not…
He looks at Vanitas, across the room. Absorbed in some conversation or another. And Vanitas… hates being interrupted. Especially not when he’s talking strategy, which he most certainly is; muttering about a “weak defensive line, ever since we stopped emphasizing putting shields first.” Larxene has some cutting reply, one that has his snapping about bucklers.
So Ven shoves the favor in his pocket, walks swiftly over there, until he’s right at Vanitas; who doesn’t really spare him a glance.
Not until Ven’s sitting in his lap. Making himself comfy, lengthwise, on Vanitas’ thighs. He’s warm and soft and he’s sat here a million times, and Vanitas— doesn’t say a word. Just wraps his arms around Ven’s waist, pulling him close and flush to his chest. His arms fit so perfectly around Ventus, holding him tight.
Ven says, “Oh, sorry. Don’t stop on my account.”
Larxene’s grin is viciously amused. “Yes, Vanitas. Tell us what you were saying, about combat archery being useless?”
Vanitas tightens his grip on Ven’s waist, and presses his nose to Ven’s shoulder. “Not… useless.” His voice sounds airy, far away. He’s looking at Ven. And… isn’t he always looking at Ven? “Just, underutilized. Because,”
Ven looks back.
He really does look like a dragon made human; all jagged edges, crystalline against a soft place in a soft world. Ven… wants to open him up, and see what he would find.
Vanitas stands, hoisting Ven like a heavy sack of potatoes. He tosses Ven over his shoulder in something… somewhat less graceful than a fireman’s carry, and marches out.
A choir of wolf whistles from people Ven doesn’t know meet them, clamoring catcalling wishing them well. Most loudly from Larxene, who’s cackles are a background symphony to Ven getting carried out into the cool nighttime.
It’s as their walking up the dirt road towards the battlefield that Ven asks, “Where are we going?”
Vanitas doesn’t reply. But he does walk them to the dead center of the field, before flipping Ven out. Dropping him, deadweight, into the cool grass. It’s wet.
Ven doesn’t have much time to contemplate it, because Vanitas is lowering himself on top of him sharply; almost businesslike in how he pins Ven with his hips and chest and hands.
And Ven actually— fights it, which he never does. Vanitas loves to tie his hands back and Ven loves his hands to be tied, but he fights and wrestles until he gets his arms free of the pin, and then he’s wrapping them tight and locked around Vanitas’ neck.
Because Ven’s realizing that Vanitas treats him like he’s solid gold. Precious jewels. Sword calluses bite into Ven’s skin as Vanitas works a hand underneath his shirt, and his touch isn’t gentle but it’s not meant to hurt.
Ven’s more important than whatever it was he was talking about, or thinking about. Ven’s more important than whatever plans he had or didn’t have for tonight. Ven’s more important than his dignity. His time. His dad.
Vanitas kisses him the same way he always does; hard and demanding, but his unusually free hands drift up. One holds him down, the other raises to brush gently, oh-so gently, over the bitemark still sunk into his cheek.
Ven can see it now, stretched out in front of him, a lifetime’s worth of secret kindness baked into the crevices between rude barbs and spars.
He’s been waiting, all this time.
Ven presses his face into the side of Vanitas’ head and noses at his temple, pressing himself closer; locking his arms tighter, until Vanitas has no choice but to let Ven hide from the enormity of his stupidity in the gentle creases of his dark hair.
Vanitas rucks his tunic up to slip a hand underneath, where it’s warm and waiting for him, and Ven sighs and it is— relief.
Ven isn’t a creature you’re meant to choose, but here they are anyway. His breaths come faster as Vanitas moves faster, and they’ve done this a thousand times, because Vanitas chooses him, every single time.
And suddenly everything makes sense.
“I want you,” he mumbles, bucking up into Vanitas’ hand. And he doesn’t mean fuck me, but he also does, but he means more than that in ways he didn’t know were possible.
Vanitas obliges him regardless; tugs their pants only far down enough for him to spread Ven’s legs with his hands and then sink down with his hips. Ven sighs, warm and electric and at peace. And together there they sit, just basking in it for a moment; Vanitas pressed inside Ven, as close as two humans can be.
And he seems to understand— lowers himself down far enough for Ven to grab him again, to hold him, to yank him down so he can kiss him. And it’s got to be uncomfortable, especially when his hips start to move, but Ven’s gasping around a washing cacophony of realization, and nothing else matters.
Vanitas’ pace is hard and fast and brutal, pushing the air out of Ven’s lungs with every movement, and Ven is losing his thoughts; they’re whispering away on the wind, in the movement of their bodies and the warmth of Vanitas’ breath in a fan over his cheeks. Nothing else matters.
Nothing except them on the damp grass, in the quiet dead of night, moving together.
And Ven pays it forward; Ven chooses Vanitas.
And Ven finally realizes that there was never really anyone else.
And that is the moment when there is the gentle plink of a cold raindrop against Ven’s nose. Vanitas twitches when one lands on the back of his head. And then it’s a whispering drizzle before a sudden deluge of wet, the sky cracking open and finally thickening the hot, damp air.
It’s pelting down on them in seconds, beating against their skin and the ground in heavy sheets; turning the dirt into soft mud underneath Ven’s body.
But far be it from Vanitas to let a little rain stop him, and Ven laughs and laughs until Vanitas steals all his air away.
…
“Maybe we should’ve gotten up earlier?” Ventus suggests, helpfully.
Vanitas tightens his grip on Ventus’ wrist, standing halfway in front of him to shield him from the rain. Vanitas has a hand in front of his face, which is doing absolutely nothing, because the rain is coming down in such impressive and cacophonous sheets that through the violent pelting against his face, he can’t actually see much of anything.
Vanitas doesn’t dignify Ventus with a reply; neither of them were going to let a rainstorm cockblock them, so they didn’t. With the lightning flashing overhead, close and bright enough to make him tug Ventus closer in some… utterly useless attempt to protect him from the unmitigated wrath of Mother Nature, he does… see Ventus’ point.
Around them, canvas tents whip wildly in the chaos; the road beneath their feet is flooded to their ankles, turning into a gushing river that they’re fighting against and up Brewer’s Hill. Vanitas’ boots sink into mud everytime he takes a wrong step, and behind him, a categorically exhausted Ventus almost trips into his back every few steps.
With the wind in a crushing, violent deluge against them, Vanitas understands why.
Vanitas spares a brief thought to some worst cast scenarios; swept away, fallen and can’t get up, struck by lightning. And as the sky above them turns into a kaleidoscope of color and violence, he debates the merits of—
Ventus shouts: “Help!”
Well. Yes. That.
“Two trite fools, are you actually wandering around out there?” Comes a sharp, barbed voice. A shadowy figure appears right at the gate of the camp they’re next to, and Vanitas isn’t able to process a single other thing, or possibly tell Ventus that walking directly into a stranger’s camp is a good way to get murdered, because suddenly Ventus is pulling him.
In they go, under a canvas canopy that sings a song of complete and utter cacophony.
In it, is Maleficent.
He supposes she has about a thousand titles that he isn’t adding to her name. He isn’t feeling particularly friendly— not that he ever is— on account of the fact that he’s shivering, dripping wet, and the singular being in charge of keeping Ventus alive, because god knows he won’t do it himself.
Ultimately this is Vanitas’ fault, for not anticipating that, somehow, impossible coincidences would occur if Vanitas fucked him on the battlefield. Duly noted.
The tent has no floor; a foyer of a tent, its plastic walls whipping so loudly in the wind that it’s making Ventus wince. And with every whip of the walls, comes a wash of rain, spattering their already soaked skin even more.
She’s only a little damp, and without her headdress she looks particularly unintimidating. Dressed in a period nightgown that swallows her, with the batwing sleeves of a particularly goth blaut. She looks down her eyelashes at Vanitas, like he’s a particularly disgusting bug she found on the side of the road. She doesn’t spare Ventus a glance.
“Truly, child. Do you fancy yourself some kind of storm chaser? Or are you simply suicidal?”
Horny. Sadly, that is the answer to her question. That’s why he’s in this situation.
“Big words from someone running around doing Consort Noctis’ bidding.” Vanitas replies. “Do you enjoy bowing your neck to children?”
“His Majesty is older than you, so I don’t see why you’d have stones to throw,” she raises an eyebrow. “I’d prefer my neck with him then with you, since you seem to enjoy masochism.”
He grins. She has no idea. Clearly his meaning came across, because she wrinkles her nose.
“Duchess,” Ventus breaks in, and attempts to step closer; god knows why. Vanitas doesn’t let him, sidestepping to keep him exactly where he is, shielded behind Vanitas. “Thank you so much for letting us in here.”
“Don’t thank me yet, whelp.” She replies. “I could cast you right back out onto the street, if I felt like it.”
While Ventus’ smile doesn’t falter, it does ripple with a snap of anger that probably only Vanitas can see or identify. He laughs, as if that was a joke.
Vanitas sighs. “What do you want in return for the kindness, Duchess?”
Vanitas knows her. Better than he’d have ever liked to, considering the circumstances. She doesn’t do anything for free, especially when it’s lowering herself to talk to the bastard spawn of her cheating ex-husband.
“I want to know if you plan to say yes.” She says, with a curling gleam in her eye.
And there, the thing he hasn’t been thinking about, it’s entered the room. Ventus looks at him curiously, but Vanitas studiously ignores him, instead wondering why. Clearly she wants him to say yes. Why? It only benefits Xehanort if Vanitas becomes a knight, and Maleficent famously hates anything that benefits Xehanort.
“That’s all?” He asks, warily.
“Well, normally it isn’t really a question, is it? The question is perfunctory. Of course everyone says yes.” She taps a black-lacquered nail to her bottom lip, and thunder crashes above them at that exact moment. “But not you. Everyone is truly wondering if you’ll deign to accept or not, in all your superior attitude and arrogance.”
“Vanitas,” Ventus says, tugging on his arm insistently. “What is she talking about?”
Vanitas grits his teeth. Because her eyes light up with amusement, lips curling into a wide smile that he remembers with disdain from his youth. “Oh, my. He hasn’t told the little cherub, has he?”
With an air of baffled indignance, Ventus says, “I’m a twenty-four year old man.”
She barks a laugh, a scraping sound that digs into his ears. “Oh, nevermind. Don’t tell me. We wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, now would we?” Her eyes are practically sparkling. “Now, come in, children. We wouldn’t want you to catch cold, now would we?”
Vanitas briefly entertains a daydream about crashing his car into her.
…
“Are you coming to opening ceremonies, Ven?” Terra asks, with the careful cadence of someone who’s talking to a particularly skittish dog. Ven musters up a smile and pretends that he’s even considering it. Why would he ever want to… And then he remembers—
“Is the first heavy weapons battle first thing tomorrow?” He asks.
Vanitas will be there.
I need to tell him, Ven had thought, all last night, completely sure he was going to blurt it all out at the first opportunity he had. But something kept his tongue painfully still. He kept trying to say it, to look Vanitas dead in the eye and say it, but…
By the time he’d come enough to really get into it, he couldn’t really form any words anyway; his cheeks pink as he remembers himself, overstimulated and clawing at the dirt, barely slurring out syllables that only sort of sounded like Vanitas’ name.
So if words are a no, then Ven has to say it all somehow. He has to show Vanitas that he knows, he knows. He knows now, he chooses Vanitas, but it was never a choice because it was always him. Always them.
”Yeah! I’ll come.” Ven beams. It’s mid-morning by now, and the air is cleaner from the storm. Though the mud’s a bit gross; luckily, walking through the storm is probably the only thing that saved that tunic… by the time he got home last night, his entire camp was practically hysterical with worry; of course, Ven had left his phone on his bed in the end… Aqua was about ready to kill him.
But there he’d been, after the rain stopped, with Vanitas on one side and the Duchess von Northshield, personally escorting him home. Truly a crossing of worlds if there ever was one.
He ducks away to go digging through his stuff. He could go to the market, but… his hand closes around the little slip of embroidered fabric, that he’d won last night. But Vanitas doesn’t care about embroidery. He doesn’t want this.
What does he want?
Ven. He wants Ven. And he’s waiting.
But Ven has to give him something— the plan is forming in his mind. He needs to give Vanitas a token— no. A favor. Ven’s favor. But Vanitas doesn’t want trite gifts, he doesn’t care about pretty things, unless those things are Ven. So how does Ven give himself…?
His eyes settle on his knife. Decorative, with a carved wood handle in the shape of waves of wind, tightly bound in a special leather case. He picks it up, considers for a moment; Vanitas doesn’t want a knife. He wants—
—Ven takes a lock of hair at the back of his head, pulls it taut, raises the knife, and shears it away. The knife’s quite dull, but with some sawing the strands come free.
And then Ven has a lock of his hair between his fingers.
He binds it with an embroidery thread he finds deep in his tote, looping the hair over itself so none of it comes free. He double-triple knots the thread, tight enough to squeeze the lock. Then, he has to emerge with the two pieces of his prize, and ask Roxas if he’s seen Eraqus’ sewing kit.
Roxas stares for a long moment at the items held gently in Ven’s hands, and then shakes his head; no doubt he knows exactly what Ven’s doing, and why, and for who.
“Now?” Roxas finally says.
Ven flushes. “Yes, now. Today. Opening ceremonies. Seriously, I just need a needle.”
Roxas chuffs. He hasn’t seen it, but Roxas fearlessly ducks into Dad’s tent and begins rummaging around in his stuff. Ven hisses at him that he’s being rude, but Roxas just shrugs one shoulder. “I can ask him when he gets back!”
“He’s teaching classes all day, and then you’re gonna end up walking him to opening ceremonies, so no, actually, you can’t. And you’re gonna wanna give Vanitas that,” he nods towards the not-yet-favor, “before the fighting starts.”
Ven knows that it was obvious who it was for, but he still winces at the casual way Roxas tosses out Vanitas’ name anyway.
Opening ceremonies isn’t… really a social hour, it’s a time for announcements and play. All the royalty gather together and set off the canons, and shout about how there is no way to settle this except war! And everyone screams Vivat! And there’s music to be played and canonfire to wince at.
It marks the beginning of the fighting, and the first battle is either just after or the next day. Which means that Ven’s window of opportunity is now, right now, and his heart feels huge in his throat.
Roxas does eventually find it, and hands it off to Ven with a lingering glance. Still, he ducks away to do whatever it is teenagers do when they aren’t either practicing or fighting or sneaking off to have sex somewhere ill-advised, because he knows Roxas is nothing like he was, as a teenager.
And then he has it. So he hides, hides in his tent and sews the embroidery thread tight and flush to the fabric, successfully pinning the lock of hair in place. He sews over it a few more times, just to be sure it’s secure; then, feeling like a naughty child, he dashes back into his father’s tent to leave the sewing kit in the general vicinity Roxas found it, and then flee.
And then there’s nothing else to do except go to opening ceremonies.
…
Vanitas doesn’t want to be here, and technically he doesn’t have to be, but far be it from him to let his idiot— hhhh. His brother wander around unattended. He actually does that all the time, but their dad is coming with, so the going is different.
He gathers at the edge of the battlefield with the rest of the crowd, watching as people mill around. There’s a substantial crowd around the canons, talking fast and hushed. In front of the fort is quite a few heralds, coordinating no doubt. Vanitas isn’t super interested in standing here and watching all the royalty get called out with their processions. Not even Noctis and his stupid boyfriend’s reign is as amusing as it once was.
In fact, he’d rather not look at Noctis Lucis Fucking Caelum at all.
And, as if hearing his call, a hand taps his shoulder. He whips around, startled and irritated, but deflates when it’s just Ventus.
“Hey,” he says.
“What do you want?” Truthfully, Vanitas didn’t expect Ventus to come to opening ceremonies. Not while he’s still smarting from the bruise that is his retirement.
“To… talk to you for a sec,” he says, eyes landing meaningfully on Sora and the old man, both of whom are studiously pretending to not be paying attention.
No, spoke too soon. The old man looks their way and grins, with all his teeth. “Go on, son. It's nigh time you got a confession.”
Ven squeaks, clapping a hand over his rapidly reddening cheeks. Huh. That… isn’t the reaction he expected.
“Keep your mouth to yourself, old man,” is what Vanitas says, and then leads Ven towards the edge of the crowd. Not too far; he wants to keep an eye on Sora. “Okay. You’ve got me. Now what do you want?”
Ventus— doesn’t say whatever it is that he wants, which means it’s either a big ask or he thinks Vanitas will get mad at him, or, more likely, he thinks he’s not deserving of Vanitas’ time or energy and is going to hem and haw for awhile until he asks or pussies out.
“Just spit it out, would you?”
Ventus, briefly, looks quite irritated. Vanitas almost wonders if he’ll be able to goad him into a wrestle right here, dead in the middle of all the game. And yeah, Ventus opens his mouth; but whatever he was about to say is drowned out by the sudden blaring of horns. And then yelling— a herald calling out to attention.
Ventus’ mouth presses into a thin line, glares at the band like it’s personally wronged him, and then jams his hand into the leather pouch on his belt.
He emerges with— a piece of cloth. In a deep green. It shines in the light— no, it’s that cloth that he won at the raffle. Why would he—
He turns his hand and something gold catches the light. A bauble, he thinks, for only a moment. Only a moment long enough to realize that it’s a lock of hair the color of sunlight.
Oh.
Vanitas doesn’t look at it; can’t. Has to look Ventus dead in the eye, searching for recognition, understanding; and there’s no mistake. Ventus is too terrified to be anything but entirely aware of the gesture he’s making.
“Now?”
Vanitas’ voice cracks.
He didn’t think the old man was right.
Ventus doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Looks down at his hands and runs an idle thumb over the fabric. There are still yelling voices across the way, but Vanitas hears it so clearly when Ventus says, “Would you do me the honor, of, um.”
His face flushes, and he stutters. Shoulders at his ears. Gives a little frustrated breath.
“Would you fight for my honor?”
He presses the little token into Vanitas’ chest. And when Vanitas stares at it, and him, blank and uncomprehending, he turns bright red and says, “Please tell me I’m not— reading this wrong.”
Vanitas’ brain abruptly kicks back into gear, and in his haste to snatch this chance before it disappears he ends up smacking a hand hard enough to Ventus’ favor that he knocks all the air from his lungs and makes Ventus wince.
His other hand grips Ventus’ wrist, white-knuckled. His heart is roaring in his ears, he almost can’t hear anything else, and Ventus is looking at him hopefully, full of hope.
He pries Ventus’ hand from his favor and cradles it to his chest like it’s a babe he’s swaddling. And then there they stand, Vanitas’ breaths rattling in the air.
He releases Ventus’ wrist, unsure if he wants to punch Ventus or kiss him, and he certainly can’t do either of those things here, so he pins the favor to his chest with his hand, turns heel, and flees.
…
It’s not a hard and fast rule, but if Ven’s honor is being fought for, he damn well best be on the battlefield to watch. And he— he’s about seventy-five percent certain that Vanitas accepted. Maybe, maybe sixty-five percent sure. Fifty?
Still, here he is. Standing underneath a shaded East Kingdom tent, though nowhere near the royals. Ven doesn’t have any interest in court today. His feet are bare, and he’s smiling at Zack, placidly.
It’s suffocatingly hot, the kind of hot that makes you want to shed your skin like a lizard; crawl somewhere dark and wet and cool. It’s so hot and the sun beats down on them in visible waves, shimmering fire onto the grass of the battlefield, glinting off of silvery armor.
“Not fighting,” he’s explaining. “I just figured I’d watch, you know?” Fourty percent. Fourty-seven percent sure.
“Oh,” Zack kinda deflates. As if Ven would be showing up right before the cannons go off, shoeless and decidedly not wearing armor, without a weapon? Oh, god, he sounds like Vanitas. “I get it. Stay hydrated though, okay?”
“I should be telling you that!” Ven beams, trying really hard not to think about how Vanitas would take Ven talking to his least favorite of Ven’s exes assuming that the thirty-percent is true and he did actually accept the favor—
Zack says, “Thanks!” And then there’s yelling, something that sounds like the deep bellowing of line up! Line up!
“Fight well,” Ven says, and Zack beams as he pulls his helmet on and runs out.
And now he didn’t even get to see Vanitas beforehand. He scans the crowd for him, searching for that stupid DIY paint job. He scans and scans, but the crowd is too thick, a million shiny pieces of armor moving in chaotic directions.
Once the cannons go off, it’s basically a lost cause. It’s a mass of bodies running full tilt across the battlefield at each other, weapons raised and yelling. He’s… never actually watched the fighting before, and suddenly he kinda gets why everyone sarcastically calls it hitting people with sticks. The wooden thunk of hundreds of spears meeting hundreds of shields makes him wince.
It’s almost a frenzy; utter chaos. He gets now, why there’s a news outlet here, like twice a decade, to record just the battles and nothing else. It’s… a spectacle. Vens right beside one of the resurrection points, and he watches as fighters stomp over and turn around to watch and wait, panting and clanking.
Someone beside him begins playing the flute.
A bard. He has short hair in a fiery orange and a flute pressed to his lips, and the cold opening notes of what is undoubtedly a war song warble through the air. Morose and yet determined; a humming power to the music.
It’s… Peter. Wow. Ven hasn’t seen him since… he’s very much still wearing the same green ensemble, just bigger and perhaps more refined, to match the fact that he’s aged ten years. But he’s not looking at Ven.
Ven hums along with the song, after a while. It doesn’t have words that he knows, but he hums, sings a few wordless notes in time. So Peter picks it up, faster and faster, and Ven struggles to keep up, but he does.
As the song draws to a close, and there’s the bellowing shouts and clanking of armor and booming of wood-against-wood in the air, Peter quirks him a smile and says, “Want to try?”
Ven gapes. And he laughs, merrily holding out his flute for a turn. “Oh, no, I,”
“It doesn’t bite,” he says.
So Ven gingerly takes it in his hands and holds it up to his mouth, mimicking the bard’s posture. He blows into it and there’s, something of a pathetic little hum and not really anything else.
Peter laughs, and tells Ven he’s holding it all wrong. He adjusts his posture and shows him where to put his lip against the hole, and when he says blow as hard as you can, Ven lets out a shrieking sound that makes everyone in their vicinity jump.
“Maybe not that hard!” He chortles.
And so while there’s bellowing and shouting and the clang of metal and sweat and everything Ven’s ever wanted, everything Ven’s ever fought for, Ven learns to play a scale on the flute.
He really hopes Vanitas doesn’t die anytime soon, because he’s taking back what he said earlier. Vanitas’ least favorite of Ven’s exes by proximity might be Zack, but he hates Peter. Powerfully.
“A little birdie told me your shadow had a favor hooked to his belt,” Peter says, taking his flute back. Ven looks at him and feels confused and twelve all over again, new to the world and desperate to find any meaning in it all.
And it’s a desperate gasp of relief, because oh, so he did accept it.
“Yeah,” Ven says, for lack of anything else to say.
“You wore my favor, once.”
Ven sputters. “Peter, we were twelve.”
He laughs uproariously at this response, cheerful and booming. “So we were!” He agrees, and then splays a hand. “But isn’t it funny how everything loops back around?”
He steps up close, and presses the flute to Ven’s chest. “Keep it.”
When Ven gapes at him, he cackles again, saying, “It’s not as if it’s worth anything!” And then he pats Ven on the chest— which, woah, okay, he’s still got appendages there— and then jaunts off with a skip in his step, whistling.
But… a gift freely given isn’t something to sneeze at; even if he did grow up to be a bit strange. So Ven slides the flute inside his pouch, and that’s when he sees Vanitas.
Stomping over to the res area, each footfall a violent point of genuine aggression. He looks hulking, in his armor; everyone looks hulking in armor. And then he clanks right on passed the res area, directly for Ven.
He rips his helmet off with a violence, throwing it so hard against the dirt at Ven’s feet that it bounces, and then he halfway-sits and halfway-falls, right onto his knees in the dirt.
Ven blurts something probably incoherent about water and hydrating and cooling down, which Vanitas summarily ignores to press his forehead to Ven’s thigh.
And then the world slows down. Slows to a crawl, between Ven’s breathing and the feeling of Vanitas’ overheated skin pressing against his clothed thigh. His eyes are shut, his cheeks flushed, hot gasps of air puffing from his mouth.
All while nosing at Ventus, like all he wants is to crawl inside and a make a home in Ven’s bones. Like this is all he wants. Like Ven is—
—he sees it. The favor, hooked to his red squire’s belt.
Ven hastily flags down a water-bearer, and when he gets his hands on said water, he unceremoniously dumps it over Vanitas’ head.
He’s expecting a snap, some kind of almost-violence; the squeezing jaws of a dog who doesn’t know the difference between play and a battle of wills.
But Vanitas just hooks a hand around the back of Ven’s thigh, and inhales deep and long, and presses in closer until his eyes are hidden against Ven’s skin.
And there they are. There he is, kneeling. Like a knight before his king, head bowed and neck bared. Eyes shut, shoulders loose, utterly compliant. Knees on the ground.
Absolutely unmoored, Ven digs a hand into his sweat-and-water soaked hair, giving a gentle tug. And Vanitas sighs, in relief maybe, utter and palpable tension easing from his shoulders.
Again, Ven acquires some water, and he says, “Vanitas,” in a whisper, as if trying not to disturb him. “Vanitas.”
As if in prayer, Vanitas shakes his head, breaths coming shaky.
“What… did they call you to court for?” He asks, tiny. Because it’s been… ever since then.
Ven’s a crybaby. He cries when he’s sad, when he’s mad, when he’s overwhelmed. Vanitas has seen him cry a thousand times, for a thousand different reasons. And this… isn’t so different, is it. A three day long dissipation, the dissolving of walls that had always been there. Trenches and gulches between them drying up, filling in.
And now he’s kneeling in the dirt, like Ven is all there is.
“It doesn’t matter,” Vanitas says, a warbling croak that comes out on a pant, and thats a fucking lie if Ven’s ever heard one.
But he ignores him; breaks their posture to kneel across from him. Looking in his shadowed eyes; his skin’s pallid, and he’s still trembling, even soaked.
Ven presses the water into his fumbling hands. And he can’t get his gauntlets around it, so Ven sets it down to help Vanitas undo the straps, and no one says a word. Neither of them speak, or even breathe, in fear of disturbing the utterly precious tranquility of this moment.
So Ven tugs his gauntlets off, and helps him hold a jug of water, and he sips it, good and slow.
So Ven hums a little of that tune Peter played for him, and Vanitas shuts his eyes like it’s the first music he’s heard in years.
And there they rest, so far away from the rest of the world that nothing else matters. In this moment, they are infinite. Immortal. Whole.
…
August 5th, war week Wednesday, A.S. LVIII (Pennsic 50)
The world is water.
Or maybe that’s just what Ven aches for; water, not just inside him but around him, everywhere around him; water exploding from him, leaking from him, so much water he’d throw it right back up.
And regardless, the world is buoyant. As buoyant as a ship on water, pitching this-way and that-way and every-which-way. And Ven is in the middle of a sea.
The sea, maybe. The only sea that matters. The sea of metal and leather and wood; the sea of armor and violence and skill; the sea that Ven has been desperately trying to turn himself into a big fish in, since he knew what a sea even was.
His body isn’t his. His body is water; loose and pliant and flowing, not listening to him at all. His body isn’t the dancing wind, it is heavy, soaked, heavy, soaked. His limbs don’t move when he wants them to. His limbs move when he doesn’t want them to.
The world is brighter. Sharper, somehow. Papery at the edges, blinkering in and out like TV static. And right there, in the center of the sea… are stars. Bright, flickering stars, in a million colors.
It’s a relief when he pitches down onto the hot grass of the battlefield. Because his lungs are rattling, and not his limbs might stop moving, but the world doesn’t stop being water.
Someone yells something that Ven doesn’t hear. He just stares at, at the crashing metal waves of the sea. Armored bodies clashing and clanging all around him, and he can almost see the vibrations in the air of every insane hit.
And then, the sea parts.
And there is Vanitas, dressed in his stupid DIY painted cuirass. There’s shouting, but it’s all water. And then there’s a hand hoisting him to his feet, and then he does vomit, and Vanitas is dragging him out of the sea. Dancing over the waves, clawing his way out of the current.
He emerges onto land with a triumphant cry, and one last look at Vanitas’ almost gold eyes, before he blacks out.
Later, when Ven wakes up in a bleached white hospital bed, Vanitas is there. Sitting beside him.
He’s always there.
…
But all moments have to end.
Vanitas didn’t return to the battle. He sat in the little bubble of peace with Ven until the cannons fired again, and then he heaved a sigh and pulled himself to a shaky stand. He let Ven follow as far as Chiurgeon’s point, and then snapped at him in no uncertain terms to go home.
“I’m just going to get handed some hydration packs and then walk back to camp, so what’s the use in you being here?”
But Ven was expecting the shove after the hug for a while, and he just nodded and let his bare feet walk him home. And he finds his camp… utterly empty.
That’s not shocking; Terra would’ve been at the battle, and is probably lingering a little to talk with people. Aqua was probably there, too. And Dad almost always had a battery of classes he was teaching up at Pennsic University, meanwhile Xion spends all day fluttering around classrooms, learning everything she can. Roxas was usually off doing… whatever he does, and, Ven uses this time to escape with Vanitas, so…
He sits at the table and tells himself to stop feeling so fucking unbearably lonely all the time. He has no right, not when he is so surrounded, on all sides. So surrounded.
For a lack of anything better to do— he isn’t tired at all— he pulls the flute from his pouch. He cleans it, as thoroughly as you can clean anything while you’re camping, and carefully observes the ways it comes apart, and goes back together.
And then he tries to play it, and the sound that comes out is a shrill death cry of a small animal. He jerks it away from his face, briefly wondering how Peter managed to make that so effortless, when they were twelve.
But Ven’s not a quitter, and so he spends the better part of an hour emptying his lungs muddling his way through pitchy and off-key scales. He pities his neighbors and their afternoon naps, honestly. But nobody comes to tell him off; maybe because they can hear the first trembling steps of his baby-deer attempts to do something to fill the silence.
And it works. Because by the time he’s poking around the class schedule to see if there are any beginner’s flute classes, his heartbeat is slow and calm, and he is warm in the sun and content with life.
And then afternoon becomes evening, and still nobody comes home, so Ven begins rummaging through their coolers, making idle dinner plans.
And then comes a balk of, “Ven?”
“Roxas!” Ven beams, sticking his head up so Roxas can see him over the table. “Hi! Welcome back!”
Roxas is staring at him like he’s grown three heads, turned purple, and sprouted a pair of wings.
“What, is there something on my face?”
Almost meanly, Roxas says, “What are you doing here?”
Feeling sort of attacked, Ven says, “Um, not much? I was just thinking about dinner, and—”
“Why aren’t you at court with everyone else?” Roxas cuts him off.
Something in Ven just, shrivels.
“Oh. We were summoned to court? I didn’t realize, must’ve missed the writ—”
“No!” Roxas interrupts, though Ven’s starting to get the impression that it isn’t him Roxas is mad at. “Ven, Vanitas is being knighted right now!”
Ven’s brain short-circuits.
The first thought is, since when was he fucking nominated? But that’s a stupid thought, because there’s no way the Baron hasn’t been all up the ass of every sovereign in the past five years whispering snake-oil about getting his latest majority-aged child a peerage, but the real question is who agreed to that, which is also a stupid question, because the current king-consort pair are Vanitas’ cousin and Vanitas’ cousin’s husband, so the real real question, the actual question, the important question is: why the hell did Vanitas say yes?
But Ven has an answer for that, too. A creeping answer that crawls up his throat and into his mouth until he can taste it, and it tastes like watching Vanitas kneel in front of him like a knight before his king.
Breathlessly, Ven asks, “Where?”
“EK’s tent on the battlefield!” Roxas cries. “Org XIII’s procession had only just gotten there before I left. If you go now—!”
But Ven doesn’t need to hear the end of that thought, because he shoots right out their camp and onto the street without a second thought. Except—
He wheels backwards, whirling heel to sprint back into House Departure, flying past an incredulous Roxas and bursting into his and Aqua’s tent. He tears his section apart, his bucket and his stupid air-mattress bed and his backpack until he finds it, until he closes his fist around the warm metal of the chain that was meant to be his and was never going to be.
And then Ven runs.
And listen— Ven was an athlete, all his youth. In the mundane world he did soccer and track, but it was all for fighting, it was all because all he cared about was skill, skill in something tangible, something real. But Ven hasn’t been an athlete in about a year, not since he collapsed and never quite got back up again, emerging from the hospital with a shiny new dual diagnosis of narcolepsy and POTS, and he hasn’t been running since.
But Ven is completely sure, completely and utterly sure, that right there, in that moment? Barefoot on the hot asphalt, gasping for labored air, clutching a chain of leaves? Is the fastest he’s ever run.
The world is just color and wind and the simple, singular goal: get there before Vanitas is knighted.
And then Ven skids to an uneasy stop in the dead middle of the crowd at the royal court, and Axel, of all people, has to reach out a hand to steady him.
Noct stands in front of the old oaken thrones of the East Kingdom, passed through the hands of a thousand kings before him, up on a dias; dressed to the nines in something shiny and black, jade-encrusted coronet on his head; he stands there and Ven gets a good look at him just in time for him to bellow, “And is there someone from the Order of Defense who will speak to the credence of this candidate?”
And there is Vanitas, in a tense kneel before Noct and Gladio, head pitched up and eyes shut; face tense and fists clenched. Ven can’t really see his expression, past his curtain of dark hair. In his dark tunic, he blends into the relative shade of the tent. God, you’d think he was in the gallows, looking at him.
He wants to call out; look at me, won’t that make it better? But his breath is still coming in short pants, and Axel’s asking if he needs any fucking water, and other useless shit.
And he’s so focused on etching every line of Vanitas’ image to memory that he doesn’t see who from the Order of Defense stepped up to vouch for Vanitas’ right to join the Order of the Chivalry.
“I owe Vanitas a debt,” Aqua says.
Genuinely, the court gasps. Even Noctis breaks character to blink, fast and confused; Gladio is slackjawed. Every head swivels to Aqua, standing a way’s away from the little circle of grass Vanitas is lowered in; and Vanitas whips around with a speed and violence, staring wildly at her in shock and— contempt.
And she stands there, meeting his eye, dressed in her baldric and everything.
“Chivalry means different things to different people.” She says, cool and calm and utterly stalwart. “We embody… an ideal. Grace and courtesy as we strive for it never existed, but I don’t think there’s a fighter among us who doesn’t know that. Yet, it’s real, and that we know as well. We feel it inside of ourselves, as we strive to be better and better.
“I’m not here to sing his praises. I don’t like him, to put it bluntly, Your Majesties. But I pay back my debts, and I owe Vanitas a debt. One that he paid my side of chivalry for.” Another gasp flows throughout the room, and then utter silence, like people are afraid to even breathe, worried they’ll snap the knife’s edge tension of this moment. Vanitas looks vaguely ill.
In a deep breath: “You offer courtesy to those who don’t expect any, when no one else thinks to.”
Meaning Ven. He’s always there, Ven had said. And it occurs to him like nausea— this is all because of Ven. This is all because Ven was so utterly fucking helpless that Vanitas had to part the metal sea, and bring a drowning Ven to safety ashore, right where everyone could see.
Oh, and Vanitas has been saving Ven and hurting Ven in equal parts in a million different tiny ways for years, but the one time he does it in front of god and everyone, he gets everything Ven ever wanted.
Aqua gives a deep, slow, bobbing nod to Vanitas.
And Vanitas— tilts his head like a confused dog, and doesn’t return it.
To Noctis, she says, “He is my peer.”
The clapping following that is less an applause and more a cacophonous shriek— of delight, of amazement, of utter shock. And no one looks as shocked as Vanitas himself, who sits in the grass with his fingers digging into the dirt, and pants hard.
Ven’s blinking wispy tears from his eyes, because it feels like something out of a dream; something out of a fantasy. Master Aqua looking dead in the eye of the king of the East Kingdom and saying that Vanitas is her peer. Deserving of respect and accolades and— Ven almost can’t breathe, because it’s all so sudden, all at once.
Because nobody told him. Because they were scared he’d be jealous, or depressed, or whatever the hell else. Vanitas is right; coddling him, swaddling him and coddling him to the very end, but Ven feels alive.
And Vanitas hid it because he couldn’t spit the words out, same as he couldn’t spit the words out about anything else, and Ven is laughing.
“A— and is there a member of the Order of the Pelican who will vouch for this candidate?” Noct almost doesn’t recover, when the screaming subsides, still shell-shocked.
As if to counter the unmitigated insanity of the last speech, Xemnas steps forward.
“I am charged to speak of servitude, as my Order represents.” He says, crisp and clear, not looking at Vanitas at all. “Vanitas is a quintessentially self-serving creature, though to serve oneself is still… to serve. Particularly when serving oneself becomes taking on the mantle of land agent, manager, babysitter and knight, all in one.”
Vanitas fucking gapes at him.
“I am not unaware to the things my brother does, both in the Society and outside of it. He continues to be the one to care for our father, our youngest brother. He continues to serve our family.”
Oh, that motherfucker, he has an angle. And it hits Vanitas at the same moment, rocketing across his face like a lightning strike of rage. If Vanitas gets a peerage, their family— dynasty, really— gets more clout, more recognition, more power in the Society. And if Xemnas reinforces how Vanitas serves his family in the Society in elevating him to his peerage—
Ven suddenly feels a little sick.
“He is my peer.”
It’s more of the same, when Noctis calls for a laurel, and Ansem waxes poetic about how Vanitas’ skills with a blade are art in the making, music in motion. And for a Rose—
Maleficent curls a hand around her yew scepter, smiling sharply.
“Vanitas,” she says, “is my son.”
It becomes clear to Ven, then, that all of this was politics. This was a calculated move to better— social standing, like it’s a stat in a JRPG, and nobody here is here for Vanitas.
Except for Ven, who can’t stop looking at him. And Sora, who claps and cheers after every speech, and, amazingly, Aqua. Who came to repay a debt.
Maleficent spins some wild tale about Vanitas as a child having some kind of ephemeral grace about him, and it’s so stupid; because of course Vanitas is graceful. He serves. He makes art.
He is graceful the way a panther is graceful; long and lithe and every smooth line promising lethal danger. His grace is in his body, in his sword; his grace is in how he puts up with every new thing Ventus decides to start, every single time.
He makes art the same way everyone makes art. He was an angry, creative teenager given one outlet; a set of armor. So he dumped paint on it, drew all over it in sharpie; stained his fingertips black with ink making that armor bleed with his image.
And he serves in a thousand ways they might understand, if they thought to look. He serves by buying his brother a belt when his brother isn’t even present. He is land agent, against his will; and he presses his mouth between Ven’s legs with no expectation of returns. He kneels in front of him. He waits for him. He takes a peerage he doesn’t want for him.
And maybe, for just a moment, Ven understands what it feels like to hate. He understands Vanitas’ anger. He understands why these people turned him into the person who kicked Ven to the dirt and demanded to see life in him, and then broke his ribs when he didn’t.
“He is my peer,” Maleficent says, and she’s right and she doesn’t even know why.
Noctis pulls out the ceremonial sword, and he sets it, gently, tip-first into the dias.
“Is there a belt?” He asks.
“There is, my lord.” Xehanort ambles forward, holding an aged white leather belt with the edges curling in, its surface just slightly yellowed. He hands it off to someone who hands it to Noctis, saying, “This was my belt, when I was first recognized.”
And Noctis takes the belt with a slight wrinkle in his nose. But Vanitas sits very still, allowing Noctis to wrap the belt around his waist and hook it taught.
“Are there spurs?” Noctis calls.
“There is, Your Majesty.” Xemnas says smoothly, holding out a pair of boot spurs. “These belonged to Baron Xehanort, and Duke Odin before him.”
Vanitas did not allow either of them to put the spurs on. It wasn’t… appropriate, it’s not the way it’s meant to go, but with his eyes flashing like that, nobody was going to tell Vanitas he couldn’t put on his own boot spurs.
“Is there a ch—”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” Ven cries at the top of his lungs, cutting off whatever the hell Ansem was about to bring out; another something of Xehanort’s, no doubt. And every eye swivels to him, now. A hundred some-odd gazes pinned straight to him, heavy and unrelenting and shocked.
Even more now, Ven is not going to let this be about anyone except Vanitas. Because for one shining moment— for one shining moment, there was something real, here. They’re here to play a game, but their codes and creeds and hierarchies are their own, and Aqua looked at Vanitas and told him she was repaying a debt, and that wasn’t a lie.
This isn’t how an award is supposed to go. It’s not supposed to feel like a burden, like it’s for somebody else. It’s not supposed to come with strings attached. An award is love shared, it’s in-jokes inappropriately snapped across formal settings, it’s joy, the utterly simple joy of being told, I see you, I see how hard you’ve been working from someone who wants to make you happy.
When Aqua won her peerage, she cried. And so too did the rest of them, and then Terra called out that water-girl brought the water-works, and everyone laughed.
So Ven holds up the chain triumphantly, and Ansem is too swept by the crowd to object; it’d be uncouth. And Ven is smiling, grinning, alive and alight with powerful victory.
Because this is victory. Being recognized by the peerage is victory. Fuck the politics, fuck his family, all that matters is that the King and Consort of the East Kingdom saw in Vanitas something valuable. Something to recognize.
And Vanitas is staring at him now, all traces of that dark expression wiped from his face, leaving only an open, vulnerable terror. Maybe awe.
Breathless, Ven shoulders past the gathered crowd of Org XIII members to hand the chain, with a shining grin, to Noct.
And he’s smiling when he takes it.
“And what is the story behind this chain?” He asks.
“Nothing,” Ven breathes, and it tastes like victory and it feels like victory and he is alive, he is so alive, and maybe this is better than if he’d won the peerage himself. “It has a legacy that starts with him.”
“A chain, a gift freely given,” Noctis says, reading the subtext. “A new beginning.”
Noctis wraps the leaves around Vanitas’ trembling hands, before looping his own through it, and then latching them both around the pommel of the ceremonial sword.
And maybe there’s magic in all of this playing after all, because Vanitas is looking at that sword like it’s real, like all of this is real, and like part of him never expected to be anything but the dirt on the bottom of someone’s shoe.
“Vanitas,” Noctis says, and apparently he’s leading the whole thing, even though the sovereign who won the title usually does this part. But Vanitas looks up at him, and Noctis says, “do you swear to serve your kingdom with your body and your heart, whenever we shall need you?”
And Vanitas spits out, “Yes?” like he’s confused that the answer is an affirmative.
Noctis laughs, wild and free. “In return, we offer you all that we have. Shelter when it stormy, food when the stores go low, and company when that is scarce. Thus, you will be ours and us yours until the crown shall fall from our heads, or the world shall end.”
Noctis untangles their hands from the chain, to gently— almost reverently— place it over Vanitas’ head. It settles onto his neck with a gleam against his black tunic.
Noctis raises the sword— and it’s real steel, so he struggles with it a bit— until he gets the flat side pressed to Vanitas’ right shoulder.
“Thus, now and forevermore,” a tap against the left, “you shall be known as Sir Vanitas,” a tap, gentle, against the top of his head, “the East’s newest knight.”
Now is when friends rush in to clap Vanitas on the back and scream and hug him and yell, but that’s not what happens. A blanket of quiet settles over the crowd, and again, everyone turns to Ven.
Even Vanitas does. Still kneeling in the dirt, he turns to look at Ven.
Only when Ven is a few steps away does he stand. Hunched over himself, uncharacteristically meek. Like he’s bracing for something.
“We’ll get you a new belt,” Ven announces, uncaring of who hears him. “Custom order one. Maybe the buckle can even be your symbol,” he suggests, brushing a fingertip over the painted jagged heart, right on Vanitas’ chest.
Your art is identity, he thinks. Your identity singular.
“It’s yours,” Vanitas says abruptly.
They’re in each other’s space, he’s realizing. Orbiting stars in motion, almost circling. Close, but not touching. Ven is studying the color of Vanitas’ eyes. Vanitas is studying Ven’s expression. Equal and opposite reactions.
“No,” and Ven grips the chain in his fist with a smile, one that he means from the bottom of his heart, and shoves his fist into Vanitas’ chest. “It’s yours.”
“You earned it for me,” Vanitas argues.
“I gave you the chance to show off,” Ven feels tilted, wry. “And you didn’t even mean to. I think it’s karma, honestly.”
“For?”
“Breaking my ribs.”
And then he laughs. Vanitas laughs, almost a crazed bark of a sound, louder than Ventus has ever heard him laugh. He laughs and then he swoops in to kiss Ven, but Ven dodges back with a laugh of his own.
Something thunderous cracks across Vanitas’ expression, and Ven halfway expects to get grabbed by the jaw again. Vanitas refrains, but there he is, isn’t he? That’s Vanitas. No more of this kicked puppy routine. No more of the perfect knight. That’s not Vanitas.
Vanitas goes to grab him by the arm, and Ven sidesteps away. Sharper, faster; again, he dodges. Until they’re moving all about the tiny space in the middle of this tent, a dance and a spar and most of all, a game. And he gets more and more jagged; more and more of that sleeping dragon, come to make Ven the crown jewel of his hoard.
All of that wasn’t Vanitas.
This is.
Ven says, “Catch me.” and then turns heel and sprints away.
Vanitas makes a choked noise, because no doubt there’s a party planned and meetings and whatever else, but Vanitas abandons all that as soon as Ven hits the battlefield proper.
Ven can hear his footfalls beating against the ground behind him, a lowered dark bullet through the golden evening, chasing Ven with a bit-off cry. And Ven laughs, because the world is color and wind again, and his breaths are coming hard and fast, and Ven can’t run but he’s still running.
Scratch what he said earlier. This is the fastest he’s ever run. Barefoot, out of practice, probably rapidly careening towards blacking out again.
One last hurrah. A bookend to their endless chase. Years and years of chasing and waiting and catching and releasing, and Ven’s going to release it all in a blaze of glory.
He goes shooting off the battlefield and onto the sarengheti, past the gates to a hundred camps who’s gates and tents are swept up in the wind of his desperate run. He kicks up dirt behind him, swerves around corners, dodges cars and golf carts and people, and runs.
Up and down Brewer’s Hill he goes, until he’s in the bog. And then he dashes around the lake, cackling as he passes his own father sitting in Bog U, bare feet digging into the sharp rocks.
Up the other side, until the bog spits him out by the Penn Mart. Then it’s a slide down the hill to the amphitheater, and Vanitas almost catches him when he stumbles at the bottom. Then it’s back up, up, up— Runestone Hill, barreling past Middle Royal, into the merchants.
Ven gains some ground in the crowds, given that he’d small and whippy and while Vanitas is short, he doesn’t exactly cut a subtle presence. But by the time Ven’s running past the food court towards the archery range, he can feel the tips of Vanitas’ fingers brushing his back.
So off Ven goes, up and through, past archery and the outlands and everything else, until his legs are trembling on the incline of Tuchuk hill.
He trips on a rock, and Vanitas grabs him by the bicep, twirls them around, and throws Ven to the ground hard enough to knock the wind from him. And that comes with a shriek of delight, of anxious joy, of absolute happiness at being caught. And then Ven is sitting up, and Vanitas is kneeling down, and somewhere in there they meet for the most desperately relieved kiss of Ven’s life.
It’s barely a kiss; more the meeting of bodies. Vanitas’ hands are everywhere, his hair and neck and cheeks and shoulders and breasts and waist. And Ven hangs onto his tunic like it’s his only life-preserver in stormy waters, and it hurts but in a good way; hurts like a healing wound scabbing over, throbbing swelling that heralds the ease of a broken bone.
It hurts like all good things hurt, and Ven is alive; ass on the dusty road, biting at Vanitas’ mouth like it’s the only real thing for miles. Grabs onto the chain and tugs on it, hard enough that he hears Vanitas choke, and then he hooks his heel around the necklace.
And presses his heel to Ven’s mouth, hard enough to make his lips part; the metal digs into his teeth, spills onto his tongue. And Ven opens his mouth, lets Vanitas shove and shove until all he tastes is brass.
“Mine,” he announces, savagely victorious.
“Yours,” Ven agrees, molars clacking on the metal.
And then it’s done. Sealed in stone— or metal, in this case. And they are whole.
And then someone clears their throat.
They startle apart, but don’t get far. Ven hugs Vanitas close, and Vanitas seethes into Ven’s chest, gripping his hips to keep him still.
A Tuchuk is standing there, in his leather loincloth. He’s a bigger guy, with a beard down to his chest, a septum piercing in his nose.
Ven grins at him, absolutely beams, and barely chokes out, “Hi, I’m so sorry, we weren’t here to cause trouble, I swear we stopped here by coincidence.”
The Tuchuk just raises a brow, looks them over another time; panting and sweaty and dirty and having just run the whole length of the campground, and asks, “D’you want some water?”
Which, yeah.
He does.
Which is obviously when he blacks out.
…
“Ventus, what are you doing over there?” Vanitas asks, on a snap.
Monday, Vanitas was knighted. He had to carry Ventus to chiurgeons, and honestly, it’s just amazing he hadn’t had to do that before war week Monday. Ventus was fine; woke up a few moments later on the fan, and spent all evening quietly and slowly drinking hydration packs and not moving from that exact spot, as he should have, after pulling that absolutely idiotic stunt.
Vanitas has tried making his idiocy clear to him, but Ventus just gets this pathetic, starstruck smile whenever Vanitas so much as brings it up, even if it’s to be scathing.
Tuesday, Ven spent in bed. Obviously. Just spent in bed back at his camp, which caused quite a squabble when Vanitas demanded to see what was his. So he hid most of yesterday in Ventus’ tent, watching him hawkishly to make sure he was drinking enough water.
And then today, war week Wednesday. Midnight Madness, as it’s colloquially called; referring to how the merchants will stay open until (not-quite) midnight, alight with sales. Vanitas has never cared for shopping, so it interests him little.
What does interest him is that it’s the only time in the War when House Departure is utterly deserted.
“I thought the first-aid kit was over here?”
“I’m sorry, has the bleeding bite wound affected your ability to see?” Vanitas says, exasperated.
Ven gripes, “Turn on a light, I know you have your phone.”
“No.”
“Everybody already knows about us, at this point! It’s not like I was subtle.”
“Nobody but me is allowed to see you like this,” Vanitas snaps.
He can’t actually see Ventus at the moment, but he knows what he looks like. Freshly wrecked, missed and ruined, and bleeding from a wound that Vanitas may have… accidentally made too deep, as it won’t stop bleeding.
He hears Ventus’ breath stutter, and feels satisfaction at that; and then he huffs in irritation again, and once again begins scrabbling at the dirt underneath House Departure’s dining table. Vanitas crawls closer to join him in his futile search, and brushes a hand against the still weeping wound.
“I should just take you to a hospital.”
“No!” Perfect, well behaved Ventus almost snarled there, Vanitas is impressed. “I am not going to the ER two Pennsics in a row! It’ll become a thing,” he complains, dropping his voice to comically low registers, “So when’s little Venty-Wenty going to need an ambulance this year?”
“I do not sound like that,” Vanitas says, sourly.
“Yeah, you do, but that’s not even the point,” Ventus says, and his shadow shifts as he says it. “Let’s just find the stupid first-aid kit and get some pressure on it.”
“Fine.”
“Why’re your teeth so sharp, anyway?”
He filed them. With a file. Years ago, as a teenager. Why? For the thrill.
“Why are yours so blunt?”
An audible eyeroll. “I still think it’s fine. Honestly, I think it’s bleeding less.”
“You’re delusional.” Vanitas snaps. “Have you forgotten that there’s major arteries in your neck?!”
“Then why’d you bite me so hard, huh?”
“You certainly weren’t complaining at the time,” he mutters, annoyed at himself regardless. And then his blindly groping hand smacks into something made of hard plastic, and when he grabs it, he finds it’s a tote. And when he opens it, out comes the distinct smell of antiseptic.
“Found it,”
Which then begins the absolutely insane game of charades that is trying to disinfect and tie off a wound in the dark, and Ventus is threatening Vanitas with bodily harm by the time a lantern clicks on.
Terra stands underneath the light, staring at them. Slack-jawed and absolutely beside himself, shock and confusion so intense, it’s almost like fear.
Vanitas ignores him to finish tightening the bandage, tight enough that Ventus winces and complains. Idiot.
“…Ven?”
“Hi Terra!” Ventus, despite the blood smeared awkward to his jaw, beams. “Don’t mind us. We just, uh. Had a little accident.”
Right, because Vanitas often bites Ventus by accident.
Terra says, “Oh my God, are you alright?”
Ven says, “Hey, we should have a fire!”
…
Ventus’ bright idea to have a fire ends up being mostly just Vanitas being glared down by a teenager. Vanitas isn’t particularly intimidated by sixteen-year-olds— or however old Roxas is— but the kid is really trying quite hard, a heavy stare over Ventus’ shoulder that is as unrelenting as it is irritating.
Roxas only relents on his staredown when Sora comes bounding into camp, calling to hail and tumbling happily to the fire. He plops into the seat on the ground beside Roxas, before making a happy little hum noise when he buries his nose in Roxas’ shoulder.
Terra says, “Congratulations on being knighted, Vanitas.” And his voice doesn’t even have a hint of jealousy. What a bastard.
“Against my will,” Vanitas says, blithely. Just to really twist the knife. And Terra probably won’t get a peerage, not for a long time; if three of Eraqus and Xehanort’s children are given peerages at uncomfortably and basically unheard-of young, somebody will claim favoritism, which while true, is not something either house wants pointed out. So.
Vanitas redirects his attention to the bandage on Ventus’ collarbone, and the way he flinches when Vanitas tries to touch it. “It’s fine,” he says, irritably, but he’s certainly in pain.
“I don’t want to drive you to the hospital again.” The less said about their first teenaged forays into fucking, the better.
“That wasn’t a hospital, that was a pharmacy.”
“Yes, and you had to beg the pharmacist for a drug that didn’t even work—”
“—oh my god, it probably did work, or did you forget that we did stuff after that—”
“Oh my god!” Terra cries. “You two are in a relationship!”
The group is very briefly silent. Ventus rubs a hand over his face with a heaving sigh. Vanitas stares at Terra like he’s an idiot. Because he is.
“You didn’t know?” Sora blurts.
“You did?” Terra cries.
“Yes! You have no idea, Ven’s always hanging around our camp, and they…” abruptly, Sora trails off. Buried his face in Roxas’ shoulder and makes a wordlessly unhappy noise.
“Fuck loudly all the time.” Roxas finishes.
As Ventus reels back in absolute horror at hearing those words come out of his little brother’s mouth, Vanitas says, “And where’d you hear about that?”
Roxas shrugs a shoulder and mutters, “It’s just what Axel told me.”
Ventus recovers from the horror valiantly to screech: “Since when have you been talking to Axel?!”
Roxas hunches, shoulders at his ears, and admits, “He DMs our DnD campaigns.”
“You are way too young for him!”
“I’m eighteen!” Roxas snaps.
“He’s twenty-seven!”
Vanitas leans back, behind Roxas’ back, to make eye contact with Sora. His brother, still twisted around to hide in Roxas’ arm, grins in amusement. Vanitas cocks a brow, as if to say, can you believe this? And Sora shakes his head with a little giggle.
Ventus turns to Vanitas and demands, “I need you to beat someone up.”
And Vanitas takes another look at the wound on his neck and announces, “I’m driving you to the hospital.”
And that’s the story of how Ventus of the Land of Departure went to the hospital on war week Wednesday, two years in a row.
It’s also the story of how Ventus woke the next morning, sick on antibiotics, to see Vanitas getting sternly chewed out by an angry nurse, lecturing him on safe sex.
It’s also the story of how Larxene passed around on Facebook a picture of Vanitas kneeling in front of Ven in front of god and everyone, captioned, young love, isn’t it sweet how it turned him into a bitch? much to Ven more than Vanitas’ chagrin.
Perhaps most importantly, it’s the story of how Vanitas, wordless and with no challenge, shoved Axel into the dirt and punched him until one of his teeth came out.
And thus, the weirdest Pennsic of Ven’s life ended with an adage that would be repeated as nauseum, forever more; coined by a cackling Sora as he watched Saix press a rapidly reddening handkerchief to Axel’s mouth:
What the twink wants, he gets.