Chapter Text
The necktie circling Noé’s ivory collar is a tight noose on his neck. An infuriating thing that keeps on grazing his tan skin in ways not satisfying at all. He’s constantly redoing it but never does it sit right in every attempt.
“What’s taking you so long?” Vanitas’ voice rings irritated from the other side of the suite, a cozy guest room lent to them by the de Sade’s. Noé is faintly aware of Dominique’s position in the family—after a fiasco that kept him from meeting her for a while—so it’s a wonder she is able to secure lodging for him and Vanitas in Altus.
It’s admirable. Noé can’t be more grateful.
However, this tie is still wrong in his eyes.
His fingers are slapped away by leather-clad ones.
“You’re hopeless,” Vanitas mutters. He unravels the expensive silk of his necktie. Noé watches raptly, gaze focused in hoping he can do it himself next time, yet he finds himself fixated on the slender fingers looping the strip textile with finesse. Vanitas softly pulls the tie done, flattening it right against Noé’s undershirt. The heat of his skin seeps through his clothes and underneath his chest.
Those hands leave and Noé feels the cold instantly.
“There.” Vanitas huffs, “Surely, Noé, I thought you at least can do this.”
“I can. It doesn’t simply sit right with me.” The implication falls on them—that Vanitas has magically erased the wrongness of Noé’s tie. It lays there, along with his outfit tonight, perfectly.
“Sure, you do.”
Vanitas swivels away from him then, much to Noé’s disappointment, to pick up an intricately-decorated colombina mask. It’s designed to cover the upper half of his face, to obscure the blue of his eyes, to hide his identity, as Domi advised. After the incident of the Bal Masque, Vanitas’ visage is burned in the minds of the vampiric aristocracy, either in awe or disgust of his identity and abilities.
There is a slim chance that Domi might have begged Veronica and Antoine de Sade not to attack Vanitas in the duration of their quick stay here and Noé worries what Domi will have to do in exchange.
Vanitas wears the mask. A patterned white surface with golden swirls tracing its edges. Other than the mask, Vanitas wears a black linen undershirt, its softness prominent in the finish of the fabric. On top of it, a designed overcoat sells Vanitas’ figure with its exorbitant patterns, its collar stiff and high on the man’s neck, effectively silencing any thoughts on his skin.
Yet, it doesn’t stop the unbidden thought of Noé’s own mark sitting right on Vanitas’ skin underneath it all.
He looks at Noé, as if to gauge his opinion on his new “disguise”. Noé begrudgingly admits its enhanced effect of showcasing Vanitas’ charm.
Instead of a compliment, something different comes out of his mouth.
“Will you not change your earring?” He asks. The accessory dangles on Vanitas' ear, the light reflecting on its hourglass.
It is the wrong thing to say, because Vanitas’ expression shutters and a void makes itself known in Noé’s stomach.
“Hmm, I doubt vampires will recognize me with it,” Vanitas murmurs, seemingly unfazed with Noé’s comment and it digs itself deeper than any weapon can.
I will always be able to, with or without it. “You can’t be so sure, Vanitas.”
“Allons-y, Noé,” the vampire specialist says instead, dismissing Noé’s concern, “We have a curse-bearer to cure.”
Three days before they depart to Altus Paris. Amelia knocks on their door, bearing a letter with no sender.
The letter itself speaks of elegance. The scented paper wafts in their hotel room the moment Vanitas opens it. He immediately deduces that it is from a vampire with a social standing and promptly shows it to Noé.
“’Lucia Devriès is a curse-bearer. Please cure her.’” Noé reads. “Is this all?”
Vanitas shrugs, yet he starts gathering his things, like he means to take off to Altus right at that moment. “Hold on, should we ask Count Orlok about this?”
A silence passes between them, then Vanitas releases a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”
So, they find themselves in Count Orlok’s office and the count himself inspecting the letter. Vanitas lounges on the long sofa that he’s quite familiarized with.
When Count Orlok lowers the paper, Vanitas says, “So, we’ll go to Altus and cure Mademoiselle Devriès.” He smiles as if he will not accept no as an answer. Knowing Vanitas, he’ll get to Altus even if he’s chained down in prison.
Count Orlok’s narrowed eyes narrow even more. “This is a sensitive person you are talking about. I can’t let you go easily.”
Vanitas’ smile morphs into challenging. “You can’t stop me.”
Before they erupt into a fight, Noé asks, “Who is Lucia Devriès?”
The two look at him as if he’s been living under a rock all this time, to which Noé partially agrees if one is to compare Averoigne to a rock. He can already hear Vanitas lecturing him on his naivety and cluelessness and how it will be the end of him someday.
Vanitas sighs for the second time that day. “Lucia Devriès is commonly known as the ‘Darling of Altus Opera.’ A soprano belonging to the theatre group there. How come you don’t know that, Noé?”
His eyes wander to the count on his desk. “Moreover, I hear she’s to be wed with Antoine de Sade.”
“Correct,” Count Orlok agrees, “Speaking of de Sade, Mademoiselle Dominique de Sade is coming today.”
At the mere mention of the name, Domi appears with a flair, a friendly smile on her glossed lips. “Good day, Count Orlok, and to you gentlemen.”
“Domi!”
“Noé, mon cheri,” she greets, then turns to address the count, “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing Noé for a bit.”
“Dominique,” Vanitas calls and Domi answers him with a raised eyebrow. “We’re going to Altus.”
He motions at the vulnerable letter sitting on the table, most likely Domi has read it with its contents already exposed. “I will need that favor returned for this.”
By favor, Noé thinks it’s the incident with the amusement park. For some reason, the two have bonded during the recuperation and shared some sort of connection, treating each other with civility that Noé is mildly privy to. Though, it doesn’t stop Noé from feeling light with how the two of them are actually getting along together.
Domi tilts her head and answers, “Of course.”
The ball is in its full festivities the moment they arrive. The main hall shines with painted high ceilings, sculpted pillars, crystalline chandeliers, and appealing fashion of the vampires. Escorting Domi, Noé clings to her side as her partner for the night. Vanitas trails behind, identity veiled under a mask—disfigured after an incident is the cover story—and smiles in the same way Noé has discovered how aristocrats do. Opaque. Unreal.
Fake.
Vanitas’ charming disposition earns him curious gazes from women finding themselves near to him. A moth to a flame. Yet, Vanitas enjoys their company all the same. A swirling wine in his gloved hand. A dashing smile on his lips. The baritone of his voice as he recounts his engaging tales.
“If I didn’t know any better, it will be him that you are escorting today, not me,” Domi comments. She hands him a flute of champagne. “Tonight, your limit is two flutes.”
“Sorry,” Noé whispers. He hides his embarrassed flush behind his tilting glass. The burn in his throat is more welcome than the ladies flocking around Vanitas like a prized bachelor.
“Good thing we arrived before the guests of honor,” Domi sighs. Noé can never understand the intricacies of protocol upheld all the time. “It’ll be troublesome if we’re late.”
Noé doesn’t mention that she’s the reason why they entered the hall at a delayed time. Then again, when asked, Domi will surely say it is simply the way it is, especially now that the host of tonight’s celebration is her own father, the head of the family. It seems that the more late a person is, the more important they are.
They don’t have to be idle for long because the main characters of the ball arrive with a fanfare and an applause. Everyone has paused from their activities to see Antoine de Sade and Lucia Devriès emerge like a prince and his princess in a fairytale.
Antoine de Sade forgoes his senator uniform and dons an embellished tuxedo. Its classical elegance speaks in the expensive sheen of his fabric, the perfect slim cut of his trousers, and the overcoat that hangs on the shoulder. His manners are immaculate and indeed prophesies his fate as the future heir of the family.
He barely sees Antoine de Sade and the instances can be counted on one hand. Neither did Noé interact personally with the de Sade heir. Now, he has a faint sense that he will.
Where Antoine de Sade is all sharp and wit, Lucia Devriès is soft and sweet. The famed soprano’s outfit is tailored to match her partner and complement her features. Fuchsia locks are tucked high to emphasize the exposed line of her neck and shoulders, yet stray hairs fall to frame her silver gaze. Mademoiselle Devriès carries herself with delicate grace, smooth around the edges, as if floating.
“Her beauty is indeed undeniable,” Domi whispers beside him and Noé agrees. He watches the head of de Sade walk to them with a welcoming expression, and soon the man invites them all for a toast. A blessing for the engagement of the two.
“I sincerely hope for everyone’s eagerness to watch my fiancé’s play,” Antoine de Sade announces to the hall, “My father went so much as to sponsor the play in support of our marriage.”
Noé’s sight wanders elsewhere, latching on a slender figure with a mask across the ballroom.
He finds Vanitas fixated not on the central couple but on him. Noé can’t read the expression on his face yet he sees the slow spread of Vanitas’ lips then he angles his wine on him in greeting.
A woman of indigo hair approaches him and Vanitas breaks their eye contact, entertaining the individual before him instead.
Something settles in Noé’s chest and it is not pretty.
“Noé.” Domi regards him with a stare and a questioning eyebrow. He berates himself for being so distracted tonight. They need to be focused. He needs to focus.
“Right, sorry, Domi.”
“I only accept apologies with a dance.” With it, she offers an expecting hand. Noé happily obliges to the request and leads them to the shaping formation of dancers in the center. In his periphery, he sees Antoine de Sade and Lucia Devriès leading the waltz with their own footwork.
The symphony begins and the first dance commences. Noé guides Domi through the exposition as they glide through the polished dancefloor, settling into the familiar muscle memory from childhood, one where Louis ingrains the vital basics of directing the lady into a dance. Expertly, they traverse the ballroom along with countless strangers.
He catches Vanitas joining the affair too, with his own lady to lead.
Noé pointedly focuses on the golden irises of Domi. However, his attention never wavers too far. He knows that Vanitas accommodates the same woman from earlier and the picture they create is one worthy for a painting.
The melody changes and the choreography prepares for the switching of partners. Soon, Domi spins away from him and an unknown woman replaces her. Noé, with manners of a perfect gentleman, keeps his interest in the mademoiselle before him. It repeats. Again and again.
Until a notable pink hair arrives at his arms, Noé’s breath stutters in his throat.
“Mademoiselle Devriès,” he greets. Suddenly, it dawns on him that this woman is a curse-bearer. He finally understands the fragile topic of her in Count Orlok’s office and the count’s own hesitance on their mission. The social standing of this woman is too precarious if the public are to learn of her state.
The singer chuckles, “Lucia is alright, Monsieur…”
“Noé. Noé Archiviste, Mademoiselle Lucia,” he supplies. Mademoiselle Lucia steps out of his grasp for a twirl, her layers of skirts follow along.
“Are you enjoying tonight's festivities, Monsieur Noé?” she asks. Her smile is a demure, gentle thing.
Right now, Noé wants to ask her if she feels fine, that she can simply reach out to them for her to be cured.
It is the one thing you’ll never ask, Noé. Vanitas’ voice sternly reminded him. You very well know how common vampires react, what more in high society?
“I think it’s perfect,” Noé answers, “I find the architecture here magnificent, mademoiselle. It most certainly showcases the elegance and sophistication, as well as the talent of designing it. The tarte Tatin is also delicious.”
Mademoiselle Lucia appears shocked at his tangent, then her lips curled indulgently at him. “That’s a relief.”
The orchestra’s tune changes again. The partner is bound to interchange once more.
“Do attend the play’s opening night, Monsieur,” Mademoiselle Lucia tells him, “Adieu.”
With the melody’s signal, Mademoiselle Lucia waltzes away, and along with her, Noé’s nerves.
Noé finds himself alone in the brightly-lit hallways of the de Sade mansion.
It is deserted, not a single vampire in sight for all of them are occupied with bubbling themselves with awe and praise for the small performance that the soprano presented. Noé has been there too, deeply entranced by her singing, like the sirens from Teacher’s books.
Mademoiselle Lucia has excused herself after, most likely to recover from the singing.
That’s when he meets Vanitas’ eyes—a clear beautiful blue from the sea of red—and the sign is an acknowledging nod. There, Noé slips away from the crowded hall, whispering an excuse to Domi. Though knowing her, she likely knows where he’s going, muttering a silent be careful.
Now, he might be lost.
“There you are,” Vanitas calls, his voice echoing, “I was starting to wonder that you are already lost.”
“You are correct,” Noé promptly answers.
“Quoi?” Vanitas sounds disbelieved, “Aren’t you the ward of the family? You don’t know your way around here?”
“I didn’t exactly live in this manor, you see,” Noé huffs, “I was in Averoigne.”
Noé decisively walks ahead, dead set on ignoring Vanitas, and assumes with strong determination, that he’ll be able to at least locate where Mademoiselle Lucia is.
Instead, his wrist is grappled, gloved fingers wrapped around his exposed skin. Vanitas stubbornly directs him in the opposite direction. “I never said I didn’t know my way around.”
“That’s amazing, Vanitas,” the compliment comes unbidden, “I thought you were genuinely enjoying yourself back there.”
“I wasn’t.” Selfishly, Noé is relieved at the denial. “I was mapping the place, unlike someone who is busy eyeing the guest of honor.”
He’s seen that then? It’s not only Noé who’s been watching Vanitas but the man himself has been observing the other too?
“Mademoiselle Lucia simply asked if I was enjoying the evening.”
“My point exactly.” What the point is, Noé is about to inquire, but is interrupted when Vanitas halts in his step, right before a decorated door.
Vanitas knocks and with his trademark recklessness, opens the door, uncaring of respect for the person on the other side. Noé can’t even remind Vanitas of propriety in time.
There, Mademoiselle Lucia flinches at the sight of men entering the women’s lounge. Her face darkens instantly at the sheer offense to her privacy, yet it smoothens to one of confusion and curiosity.
“How may I help you?” She asks Vanitas, and upon seeing Noé, she greets, “Monsieur Noé.”
Vanitas enters the room confidently, discarding all sense of shame. He ensures Noé is already with him in the room before locking the door closed.
“Let’s get this quick. Lucia Devriès, I’m here to cure you.” Vanitas explains, concise and brief.
Mademoiselle Lucia tilts her head to the side, obviously clueless at the claim. “I suffer no illness, monsieur.”
“Aren’t you a curse-bearer?”
Mademoiselle Lucia smiles and it holds none of its gentle surety in the hall. It is of the frozen, polite expressions that is soon to be followed by disrespect. The final warning to back off, the last edge on their patience.
“What curse-bearer? I am no curse-bearer.”