Chapter Text
It was cold outside.
Vanitas hated the cold — at least, he told himself he did. And yet, there was something about it. Something strangely gentle. Something that slowed the racing storm inside his mind, even if only for a moment. Just a moment where he could allow himself to feel. The chill brushed over his skin like a quiet whisper, weaving itself through his thoughts in a way he could neither fully accept nor reject.
This contradiction had haunted him for as long as he could remember.
He hated the cold because it reminded him of sterile metal. Of laboratory tables that felt like frozen graves beneath his back. The way his small body used to tremble as he was forced to lie there — day after day, night after night — until time lost all meaning. He had stopped counting eventually. Numbers had become useless when pain was endless.
He could still remember the sting of needles piercing his skin, the burn of those unnatural blue liquids flooding into his veins. He remembered the smell of antiseptic, the echo of distant footsteps, the distant murmurs of scientists who spoke about him like an object rather than a child. “Number 69”. The name he was given by the scientists still haunts him to this day. Even so it was the only name he had. Vanitas is not his real name. It was given to him by the vampire of the blue moon. His savior. Even now, the mere thought made his stomach twist in disgust. How could the though of naming countless of little children who had nowhere to go after a simple number even cross anyones mind? You’d have to be a real egg-shaped head, mindless bastard. Oh right, that’s “Doc. Moreau” for you. The Cause of most of the suffering the healpless little vanitas had to go through as a mere child. Experiments over experiments. All of them connected to this blue liquid which gave him nightmares even years after the escape.
The worst part was knowing that at least twenty percent of that cursed substance still flowed inside him — forever mingled with his blood.
If only he could tear it out. Rip it from his body with his own hands. Cleanse himself of it completely so that he would never again feel that unnatural chill creeping through his veins. But deep down, he knew that was nothing more than a childish fantasy — a dream that would never come true.
That desire had once been the only thing he truly wanted. Freedom from the cold inside him. Freedom from the past that clung to his bones. Yet every time he reached for something precious, it slipped through his fingers like smoke. Everything worth wanting seemed to vanish the moment he obtained it.
His purpose now was clear — painfully so. He existed to heal vampires, to save them from the very curse that had taken everything from him. The curse that had stolen his savior, his protector, his light in the darkness.
And with him… his little brother.
Both of them gone.
So what use was it to crave love? What use was it to long for warmth, comfort, or affection? He had long since convinced himself that such things were not meant for someone like him. Worse. It’s now just a revolting idea of someone ever being capable of loving someone like him.
Who could ever love Vanitas — the mad vampire doctor, the broken experiment, the walking contradiction? The very idea felt laughable, even revolting.
Vanitas had been sitting on the roof of the Hôtel Chouchou for what felt like hours. The city lay beneath him like a sleeping beast, wrapped in blue moonlight. Above him, the stars shimmered faintly, distant and untouchable, yet strangely familiar.
Here, on this lonely rooftop, he felt almost… weightless. As if the night itself was listening to him. He allowed his thoughts to drift — to places he rarely dared to visit. His parents. Dr. Moreau. Mikhail. Fragments of a past that still bled into his present.
Then, softly —
“Vanitas.”
He didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. There was only one person reckless — or perhaps foolish — enough to climb all the way up here in the freezing night just to look for him.
Noé Archiviste stood beside him, his presence warm despite the cold air. His expression was different this time — something Vanitas couldn’t quite decipher. Which was strange, because Noé was usually an open book. Easy to read. Easy to understand.
For a moment, Vanitas allowed himself to get lost in his own thoughts again — drifting somewhere between memory and reality — until Noé’s voice pulled him back.
“Vanitas! We should go inside. It’s cold out here. Don’t you hate the cold?”
The words hung in the air between them.
He was right.
And yet… somehow, terribly wrong.