it’s sparked by the constancy of dread tenaciously clinging to his conscience— the feeling of overwhelming insecurity within his current standing. there is no foothold on the jagged pass he climbs; no outcome where they both remain happily within each other’s arms as though death doesn’t hand over their heads, idly watching and waiting for the perfect moment of ideal grace vanitas is dealt to strike and so quickly steal it. it’s a thought that lingers like a stray cat— never around constantly, but always returning when it’s fed. with this thought, he’s left to stir within their bed, sleep evading him as though he were a plague to be cast out. vanitas turns on his side, facing away from riku as though it would take his mind off his rest’s silent thief, but to no avail. his fingers grip at the blanket that only partially covers them both, himself having stolen whatever purchase there was for riku to find within it during his fitful, temporary sleep.
it grows, festers, and becomes a beast no longer able to be tamed; the ideal monster nourished by his family’s curse, he thinks. it’s laughable— he’d thought that just this once he’d be able to escape it. the monster hadn’t always been so enormous; once, it hadn’t even existed on the same plane as he whenever he and a loved one were near. little by little, life by life, each and every one of them had contributed to the beast’s dwelling, making a home for it deep within his chest that he would suffer whenever he’d so much as thought of approaching someone new. now, it roared with a ferocity that could only ever be quelled by the touch of riku’s hand against his cheek, palm settling when he wished to grant the affection he’d known was needed but never asked for. it’s only when he’s granted no small amount of affection ( because he wants to, not because he needs to ) that it returns to a small, incessant voice only to be heard when he listens hard enough. vanitas turns once more, this time, intent on gazing at the beautiful features of his sleeping lover— long frostbitten lashes closed, lips slightly parted when he breathes ever so softly, hair sprawled about the pillow his head rests upon.
he must let him go, he thinks, otherwise he won’t be able to live with himself knowing that it’s the beast that’s killed him. he must leave and never come back, he thinks, his own palm cupping a pallid cheek as he smiles, as if yearning.
“ he’ll never love you. ”
it’s dark, always dark. his dreams are nothing more than shadows that chase him until he’s too exhausted to continue, leaving him breathless and aching, never quite able to wake up ( did he truly ever try? ). their voices sometimes permeate these dreams, constant reminders that he can never truly be rid of his past, be rid of the people who had taken bits of his soul until he could never get them back. it’s their voices that caress his cheek, brush against his neck as if lips to touch, wrap possessively around his hip as if to claim.
“ how can anyone love something so tainted? ”
the words echo around him, like bouncing off walls, and he stands still, chin tucked to his chest as he surrenders to the perverse thoughts that never seem to leave --- who could love someone such as himself? it slithers through his mind, even in waking hours, even when when the scorching sun lays warmly upon him, intent to chase away the cold that seeps into his bones and settles deep as if to root him there, frozen. they caress him as if familiar, taunting him with the knowledge that he once he cared little for himself. that he had once given his everything for nothing. he hadn’t cared. he hadn’t cared. and now he was dirty, broken, tainted. he was used and beaten, and everything had been his own fault. he had accepted it, had given in to it, had offered it. regret is a bitter taste that coats the back of his tongue and burns his throat. he wants to pull away from those hands, those that crawl over his skin; his throat, his chest, his thigh. familiar, repulsive ------
he wakes suddenly, eyes wide as breath lodges in his throat. the warmth of a palm sits upon his cheek, startling in its tenderness, resembling nothing like that of the hand that so coldly touched him in his dreams. gaze is momentarily frantic until he finds purchase in that of warm sunlight. vanitas. new breath fills his lungs. vanitas is different. vanitas, though cold and hard on the exterior, is warmer than any fire he might press his cold hands too. softer than the goose down that filled his favorite pillow. gentler than any mother to it’s child. but there is something hidden between them, unspoken words that create a chasm he can’t cross. words that tear the breath from him in a single movement. “ he’ll never love you. ”
“ don’t. ” it passes his lips in a hush, barely there but still to be heard, without intention. he had not meant to speak, to break the beautiful smile that adorns his face, but he cannot help the tightening in his chest at the subtle shift of his eyes, sunlight shifting dangerously. cannot help the catch in his breath at the hand that cradles his face so gently. he doesn’t know why the word slips, or what he asks of him with it. he only knows that his heart is held in a glass cage, and any moment it might break, with even the slightest bump. he’s rigid in their bed, unable to move toward him, to close the distance that feels as if it will continue to stretch no matter how much pleading he might give. what was this feeling, this ache in his chest that resembled abandonment? he reaches out hesitantly, fingers outstretched as if to curl across his naked hip, lips parted in expectant question, but producing only one word.
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