Bruce has always been preternaturally aware of what someone else's gaze feels like. The precise weight of another person's attention. He knows immediately that once Vanitas yields and allows himself to be tilted onto his back, that he doesn't stare upward. He knows that those inhuman eyes have landed on his face. But Bruce doesn't shift to look back. There's an offer of privacy in that too, the space that permits him to be curious. "I would fall asleep to my mother's voice, sometimes she would stay all night."
Instead his arm shifts and he catches Vanitas's head in the crook of his elbow, lets his body become a pillow.
"Once, she told me that the stars came from a big silver spoon. That they were tiny pieces of sugar that sprinkles all around us."
Weird, to hear this sort of thing. Not just because it's Bruce, who keeps the details smudged out and smoothly covered, but because Vanitas has never had a family. What is a mother, a father, or siblings? Sora and Ventus, he thinks, are probably the closest things, but even that isn't right. Their connection isn't so straight forward as that. Vanitas simply doesn't have any other comparison for the peculiar little triad they make up.
What would it be like, to have someone do something like that? To have someone stay with you because you were afraid. It isn't something he could have imagined, not before Bruce did those things for him. Not before Riku had done them, too.
"That's stupid." Vanitas says, practical, without any heat. "Stars are planets."
He knows already that he won't find a beat of commonality here. Vanitas has been alone longer than most people could ever imagine. The only figure that could ever have been a parent taught him pain, told him to cleave to rage and despair. Who would there have been to tell bedtime stories? Who would he eat dinner with, or to teach him to tie his shoes? To show him how to take care of a skinned knee?
Beside him Bruce smiles, it's as small as his other tells- a subtle, quiet thing. "I didn't know any better." There's no shame in his admission either, no beat of reluctance. "But you know, where I'm from only a few of them are planets. Just nine and we can't even see all nine with the naked eye. The rest are balls of gas, like the sun."
"Just nine?" That's naked incredulity, and Vanitas doesn't look away from the stars up above. The window makes a cut out of them, like a cookie stamp. The stars like a scattering of sugar from a spoon. He can see the comparison— only he'd never been so naive enough to believe it. Or at least, if he had, he doesn't remember it.
Vanitas reaches down to pull the blanket up under his chin. The seasons are turning, but he gets cold easily.
"That's not right," He decides, as though whatever Bruce's lived experience might be is inconsequential. "The hearts of your worlds are probably just locked."
Vanitas pulls the blanket up, all the way under his chin and there's something very small about the sight. It's easy to picture him as a child, arguing with a bedtime story as he tucks himself in. Bruce stretches his fingers without moving the arm behind Vanitas's neck, and he takes hold of the edge of the blanket, draws it around him on the far edge as if he's helping stitch up a seam. To keep the warmth trapped beneath.
"How many worlds have you seen?" It isn't a heavy, overly serious question so much as it is a quiet piece of conversation. "If there are so many, maybe there are worlds out there where the stars are just sugar."
The cadence of Bruce's voice stays so remarkably even. He almost always sounds like this; and it isn't that he doesn't feel anything. Vanitas has proof of it, not just in what he can feel intrinsically off him, but also in the misshapen figures of the funny looking bats in the rafters. Bruce feels just as deeply as Vanitas himself does— but it stays under the surface.
It's soothing, which is kind of nice. He feels so tired and heavy all over. Vanitas' eyes are starting to droop as he gazes up through the window.
"Way more than you have," His voice comes out a murmur, just this side of a sleepily slurring. It's warm here. Vanitas doesn't often feel safe, especially not for the last week, but this rings familiar. Like an echo of laying down in a hammock near the shore. "I know wh-wh-" He yawns, so big that it pops his jaw. "What I'm talking about."
Vanitas's weight is something that increases by degrees, as his body starts to surrender to the warmth, and the physical presence- to the stillness and the quiet and the drug. He can feel it, not just in the press of his head falling back into the crook of his elbow, but in the downward pull on the mattress beside him. Each limb gradually growing still, the sound of his voice dampened.
He yawns huge and wide and unembarrassed, like a cat. And Bruce smiles through the dark, this room barely lit by the combination of both of their lanterns. "They're definitely sugar," he says quietly, instead of promising that he'll stay right here all night. Instead of saying he won't go anywhere. "And the moon is made of milk."
Vanitas hears it, but at a distance. Like listening to the sound of the wind through leaves, or chasing up the tiny grains of sand, the soft noise they make moving against one another. Sugar and milk loiter around in his thoughts, idle like fat fireflies, and he doesn't even notice when his eyes have closed.
Anything else Bruce might say is utterly lost on him, because it takes seconds from there for the drug in the chocolate to work it's magic. Vanitas doesn't even roll over to his customary position, curled up in a tight comma on his side. His body just sinks into sleep and the onset of fever hurries him on his way.
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no subject
Bruce has always been preternaturally aware of what someone else's gaze feels like. The precise weight of another person's attention. He knows immediately that once Vanitas yields and allows himself to be tilted onto his back, that he doesn't stare upward. He knows that those inhuman eyes have landed on his face. But Bruce doesn't shift to look back. There's an offer of privacy in that too, the space that permits him to be curious. "I would fall asleep to my mother's voice, sometimes she would stay all night."
Instead his arm shifts and he catches Vanitas's head in the crook of his elbow, lets his body become a pillow.
"Once, she told me that the stars came from a big silver spoon. That they were tiny pieces of sugar that sprinkles all around us."
no subject
What would it be like, to have someone do something like that? To have someone stay with you because you were afraid. It isn't something he could have imagined, not before Bruce did those things for him. Not before Riku had done them, too.
"That's stupid." Vanitas says, practical, without any heat. "Stars are planets."
no subject
Beside him Bruce smiles, it's as small as his other tells- a subtle, quiet thing. "I didn't know any better." There's no shame in his admission either, no beat of reluctance. "But you know, where I'm from only a few of them are planets. Just nine and we can't even see all nine with the naked eye. The rest are balls of gas, like the sun."
no subject
Vanitas reaches down to pull the blanket up under his chin. The seasons are turning, but he gets cold easily.
"That's not right," He decides, as though whatever Bruce's lived experience might be is inconsequential. "The hearts of your worlds are probably just locked."
no subject
"How many worlds have you seen?" It isn't a heavy, overly serious question so much as it is a quiet piece of conversation. "If there are so many, maybe there are worlds out there where the stars are just sugar."
no subject
It's soothing, which is kind of nice. He feels so tired and heavy all over. Vanitas' eyes are starting to droop as he gazes up through the window.
"Way more than you have," His voice comes out a murmur, just this side of a sleepily slurring. It's warm here. Vanitas doesn't often feel safe, especially not for the last week, but this rings familiar. Like an echo of laying down in a hammock near the shore. "I know wh-wh-" He yawns, so big that it pops his jaw. "What I'm talking about."
no subject
He yawns huge and wide and unembarrassed, like a cat. And Bruce smiles through the dark, this room barely lit by the combination of both of their lanterns. "They're definitely sugar," he says quietly, instead of promising that he'll stay right here all night. Instead of saying he won't go anywhere. "And the moon is made of milk."
no subject
Anything else Bruce might say is utterly lost on him, because it takes seconds from there for the drug in the chocolate to work it's magic. Vanitas doesn't even roll over to his customary position, curled up in a tight comma on his side. His body just sinks into sleep and the onset of fever hurries him on his way.