Vanitas knows, intimately, the weight of isolation. He knows the impotent frustration of a body too weak to go on, how pathetic it feels to be held at the whim of another. He even knows what it feels like to slog through the cloying pain of a body so broken it can't move. All of these things, individually, are places his body and mind have been. They've even been there multiple times.
What makes this instance so different, he doesn't have the capacity to understand or explain. He is not afraid of the dark, but sometimes when the shadows move, they draw his eye too quickly. When he sees the wink of his own eyes in an impromptu reflection, his heart jumps into his throat. Back when those creatures had made their first appearance, he'd known they were dangerous. Vanitas knew before any of them how dangerous these things could be, and long before that iridescent green gleam had crept into his waking nightmares.
He spent nearly three days awake. He knows his body here requires certain needs to be met to survive, and so he can only conjecture it's the spirits that slid down his throat, caught slippery and raw against his teeth, that kept the worst of the side effects at bay. It's lingered, he knows, despite how brashly he spoke about it Masaomi, to Carmilla. He took one look at the raspberry jam in the cupboard, it's viscous texture, and put the jar back with the distinct urge to hurl.
And it creeps up on him, a slow and insidious thing.
Bruce says his name and Vanitas raises his head, turns around to look at him. His eyes, that ghastly green for most of the week, seem to have lost most of their emerald sheen. He has the distinct impression of feeling faintly unwell, but the truth is, this feeling isn't a new one. Not after the hours and days of anguish. If Bruce were literally anyone else, he might fling up the same caustic, flamboyant wall he shows everyone else in this town. Instead, he looks a little like he's just woken up from a dream.
Though, it's more of a nightmare. He can't close his eyes without it resurfacing— the cages, the pain, the shine of those eyes. The glint of the scalpel, the gore on the floor.
no subject
What makes this instance so different, he doesn't have the capacity to understand or explain. He is not afraid of the dark, but sometimes when the shadows move, they draw his eye too quickly. When he sees the wink of his own eyes in an impromptu reflection, his heart jumps into his throat. Back when those creatures had made their first appearance, he'd known they were dangerous. Vanitas knew before any of them how dangerous these things could be, and long before that iridescent green gleam had crept into his waking nightmares.
He spent nearly three days awake. He knows his body here requires certain needs to be met to survive, and so he can only conjecture it's the spirits that slid down his throat, caught slippery and raw against his teeth, that kept the worst of the side effects at bay. It's lingered, he knows, despite how brashly he spoke about it Masaomi, to Carmilla. He took one look at the raspberry jam in the cupboard, it's viscous texture, and put the jar back with the distinct urge to hurl.
And it creeps up on him, a slow and insidious thing.
Bruce says his name and Vanitas raises his head, turns around to look at him. His eyes, that ghastly green for most of the week, seem to have lost most of their emerald sheen. He has the distinct impression of feeling faintly unwell, but the truth is, this feeling isn't a new one. Not after the hours and days of anguish. If Bruce were literally anyone else, he might fling up the same caustic, flamboyant wall he shows everyone else in this town. Instead, he looks a little like he's just woken up from a dream.
Though, it's more of a nightmare. He can't close his eyes without it resurfacing— the cages, the pain, the shine of those eyes. The glint of the scalpel, the gore on the floor.
"What?"