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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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."
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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.