#vanitas anime
pretty boy :(
Memento Mori
Jean -“Use my traumatic memories to put yourself to sleep you don’t get in my way” - Jacques
.VANITAS.
Anime guys hit different
WOOHOO IT’S CHASSEUR DAY!!
This is a fic I started for this prompt on my ph and vnc blog, which I finally got around to finishing today for @phmonth2021’s vnc countdown, Day 5: The Chasseurs!
Since the prompt helps explain a bit of why the story is the way it is, I’ll include it here!
“But I also agree, Roland & Olivier are two characters that would be really fun to explore. What are they doing when they break out of chasseur mode? I find it amusing that Olivier is so popular with the ladies but can’t be bothered by all that. Heh!”
Thank you @adriisamused so much for this prompt!! <3 <3 And once again, I’m sorry it took so long.
I’m honestly really proud of this fic, and I had such much fun with it!! I really hope you all like it!! I’d absolutely love to hear it if you do!!
Lastly, if you enjoyed this, please please don’t hesitate to send me more prompts/asks–for anyone in vnc or ph, but especially for these two!! I love writing for them. You can either send them here, or to my ph and vnc blog @this-idiots-left-eye.
Thanks so much for reading!! Reblogs and comments are especially appreciated!! <3
*
Olivier was having a perfectly satisfactory morning. His coffee smelled just the right shade of black, and was scalding hot—just as he liked it. He brought a book he’d been hoping to read for a while, but hadn’t had the time for recently. He lit a cigarette, and—whatever anyone else said—the smoke was as decadent as any sweet treat from a pastry shop. He was just opening up said book, just bringing the mug to his lips when—
“OLIVER!”
Oliver didn’t jump. Didn’t shout or otherwise react in surprise at the sudden disruption to his morning. Instead, very slowly, he closed the book, very carefully he set down his coffee. He lifted the cigarette and took a long drag, blowing out a substantial wisp of smoke.
And he silently regretted (for what was probably the eightieth time) telling Roland where his favorite coffee shop was.
Roland presently was running up to him, dragging behind him a dazed looking old man, and successfully made it to him by the time he finished his drag.
“Olivier! This poor man has lost his parakeet! He’s looked everywhere and he just can’t find Monsieur Butterbeans! Code blue! Code blue!
“…You know that’s for hospitals, right?”
“Well red just didn’t seem high enough! The situation is dire!”
Olivier blinked, eyes lidded. “Go look for it.”
“Oh Olivier! This simply isn’t a two person job! Two sets of eyes isn’t going to be enough! We simply cannot scour all the skies by ourselves!”
And he was having such a good morning.
“You think I want to spend my afternoon giving myself a crick in the neck?” Olivier asked.
Roland leaned in closer. “I think you want to spend the afternoon helping one of God’s lambs who is in need.” When Olivier stared at him Roland sighed. “If you help…I might just be inclined to work extra hard tomorrow.”
Olivier leaned to the side to look at the old man, who was staring up at the sky, not seeming too bothered. “Where did you lose it?”
“He lost her at the docks!” Roland jumped in—(quite literally jumped in front of him)—and answered for him.
After taking an extra second to try to calculate why a parakeet called ‘Monsieur’ was a ‘she,’ he spoke, perfectly monotone, “So go to the docks.”
“You think we haven’t already tried that! We searched everywhere! She was nowhere to be found!”
“Well if you’ve already searched everywhere—” He began to take another sip of coffee.
“Oh come now, Olivier!” Roland took his arm and shook him, making him both spill some coffee on the table, as well as cough coffee. “What kind of Chasseurs would we be if we gave up helping one of God’s children after one measly search? We’re more determined than that!” He curled his hand into a fist, his eyes sparkling. “Remember the story of the lady and her coins?” He was practically dragging him out of his chair now.
“I don’t think Jesus was talking about parakeets.”
“It’s a parable Olivier, it can be about parakeets if it’s applicable!”
Rather than arguing with him (like he was very much inclined to do) Olivier took another drag from his cigarette and sighed out smoke. “Let me finish my coffee.”
“But Olivier, Monsieur Butterbeans could be halfway up the Seine by now!”
“Let me. Finish. My coffee.” Olivier enunciated each word, staring intently at Roland as he lifted the coffee to his lips.
Roland sighed, and sat down across from him, gesturing to the old man to sit next to him, he obeyed diligently, like he was a pet himself.
Roland folded his hands on the table, and stared at him, with big, imploring eyes, the entire time. Others would have found this more than mildly intimidating, and incentive to drink faster. But Olivier drank his coffee at an ordinary pace, if a little slower than usual. After he was finished he set it down, paid, and left.
If this day was going to be as long as he thought it would be, he wanted to experience it on a full head of caffeine.
They indeed spent all the noon, and half the afternoon searching for her. Olivier tried his best not to look up too much (due to the aforementioned neck-crick potential), but with Roland taking the opportunity every few minutes to slap them both on the shoulders, then point upwards, and shout at shadows, and oddly placed light fixtures, and decorations, “IS THAT HER?!” he couldn’t help looking up.
It was never her.
At one point he was convinced she was nesting in a lady’s hat.
That was also not her.
They had decided to go by the park, and Olivier was just asking why the old man deigned to call a female parakeet “Monsieur” and before the old man could respond, Roland shouted:
“THAT’S HER!”
Olivier, sure it was another false alarm, turned his head with an exasperated sigh building in his throat.
But there was indeed a pretty little parakeet sitting there.
This whole time they thought they would find her nestled in the rafters of some house, or perched on a shop roof, or sign. They had been hoping she wouldn’t find herself too high for them to even see (though Roland had made them climb up building staircases and onto their roofs more than twice).
But there she was, nestled comfortably, not in a tree or on a roof, but on the shoulder of a woman.
More accurately, a mime.
Monsieur Butterbeans was sitting on the shoulder of a mime, and seemed to be having a perfectly pleasant time (ignore the rhyme).
“I mean that simply mustbe her, right?!” Roland turned to the old man.
The old man nodded vigorously.
Roland’s whole face lit up (though his face was always lit with a sort of angelic glow, so this was a bit of a Moses-and-Mt-Sinai situation) and he was running towards her before they could say a word.
“Salut, Mademoiselle! May I say, you are looking lovely today!”—She waved her hand as if to say, ‘oh stop’—“I simply must thank you!”—She gave an over-exaggerated expression of delight—“That parakeet on your shoulder? She belongs to my friend over there!” He pointed a finger at the old man with the speed and rigidity of a compass needle. “He lost her early this morning!” Roland turned around and was about to march victoriously back, “So thank you so much for—!”
She pretended to make a lasso and swing it around Roland. Even though it was made of nothing more than air, Roland was pulled back.
Olivier put his face in his palm.
He didn’t like mimes on the best of days. They were quiet, which would potentially be a nice quality… if it weren’t for that quietness being, not a means for peace, but rather something to make their interactions with normal-human-beings all that much more frustrating and difficult to discern. And their games with empty air seemed but another reason to disrupt the days of normal natural-world abiding people. They were like vampires…except they couldn’t actually see anything beyond this world, and couldn’t actually alter anything, and they were much more annoying to deal with.
And this one was proving, (as mimes generally did), unable to let them get away without participating in her little farce.
He had a theory that mimes weren’t really there to entertain normal people, rather normal people were there to entertain mimes.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” Roland asked.
She held her hand up, and bent her fingers a few times as if to say she would like payment.
“You want a reward?” Roland seemed more than slightly affronted at this. The thought that anyone wouldn’tdo a good deed out of the goodness of their heart was nothing short of diabolical to him.
The mimette made several hand motions which, while confusing at first seemed to be her way of conveying that she wasn’t asking for much (Olivier thought that would remain to be seen).
She pondered for a moment with a hand to her chin and squnched up face. Her eyes grazed over the old man, (who had his hands clasped in front of him in a pleading motion), and Olivier (who had folded his arms over his chest, and decided to look away when she looked at him). When he looked back, she was pointing at him.
She pointed at him, then she tapped her finger to her cheek.
Olivier didn’t need an interpreter to understand what that meant.
He recoiled, his voice going low and tense, “I would…prefer another method.”
It’s not like he didn’t know how to kiss a woman, (he’d done a lot more than kiss more than one woman), but this was just—
“Oh it’s just one little kiss, Olivier!” Roland waved his hand. “Do it for Monsieur Butterbeans!” (Monsieur Butterbeans decided to take this opportunity to do the important job of pooping on her shoulder).
Well someone ought to do it.
The mime did the lasso trick again, this time with Olivier. Olivier decidedly did not play along, but she was clearly well-versed in the ways of unparticipatory students, and happy to use the invisible rope to pull herself towards him. (Roland looked delighted with the show).
She got uncomfortably close, put her hands behind her back and presented her cheek.
Olivier looked away, his arms still folded.
Roland still found a way to get in his line of sight, and gave him the thumbs up.
The mimette stood on her tiptoes and blinked her eyelashes repeatedly. She might have been pretty, but who could tell under all that disgusting makeup? ( …Which Olivier did not want on his lips).
“This is ridiculous.” He grunted. “There are other ways to—”
“It’s just one little kiss Olivier!“ Roland repeated. "She seems a perfectly nice lady! She deserves it!”
Olivier was not going to humiliate himself for a parakeet, who seemed to rather like this mime anyways.
“Remember, I might just be inclined to work harder tomorrow!”
Olivier sighed, still not looking at her.
“Fine, if you can’t do it, I’ll kiss her!” Roland stepped forward.
“No, no, I’ll do it!” Olivier pinched the bridge of his nose. ”She clearly likes me.” Olivier peeked open an eye to see the mime blinking more profusely, apparently not the least bit offended at his obvious disinterest. (Only more evidence for the normal-people-are-entertainment-fodder-for-the-mimes theory)
“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem like you’re going to do it. It’s really fine if you want me to!”
Olivier took a rather long moment to gather himself, and all the dignity that he knew he was about to lose. He kept his eyes firmly shut…and gave her a peck on the cheek.
…Except, when Olivier opened his eyes, he came to find—(to his absolute horror)—that in the moment he had taken to muster his courage, Roland had decided that Olivier wasn’t going to do it, and went in to kiss her other cheek. The mime recognized this in perfect time, (and in perfect mime fashion), stepped out of the way. So the person who he had kissed was actually….
Olivier jerked away with what almost sounded like a horrified squeak, his hand flying to his mouth. He then turned sharply away, sticking out his tongue, and hacking like a cat who had a hairball.
Roland simply blinked, then began to laugh mirthfully, like he didn’t find the situation the least bit awkward. “Well played, Mademoiselle!” He applauded her.
The mime bowed with a flourish of her hand, and as she lowered herself Monsieur Butterbeans flew off her shoulder and into the hand of her owner, who he then brought up to his own cheek to nuzzle gratefully
“Olivier, your mouth tastes like an ashtray.” Roland remarked as they began to leave—waving his hand and sending an extra thank you towards the mime. “I really hope you don’t smoke before you kiss women. It doesn’t make me want to kiss you again you know.” Roland put his hand on his shoulder.
Olivier flinched violently, snapped equally violently, “Don’t touch me!” and said low, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost I dearly hope it doesn’t.”
Roland just laughed.
“If you even thinkabout mentioning this to anyone—” his glared at him, hoping his eyes were as sharp as he intended them to be.
“I really don’t know what the big fuss is about! It was just a silly prank! And a rather clever one on her part!”
Olivier stuck his tongue out again, feeling like he was going to vomit. “It was a disgustingprank.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll feel insulted! I hope my mouth didn’t taste half as bad as yours did.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Your mouth didn’t taste like anything, because that didn’thappen and we are nevertalking about it!”
“Well, nothing to complain about is good news I guess!”
“Stop. Talking. About it.”
They had been walking a good way, and the sun was setting over the city, when the old man stopped in front of them, holding Monsieur Butterbeans in front of him, looking down at her lovingly.
“Thank you for helping me find my dear Monsieur Butterbeans,” the old man spoke. (Olivier tried not to shout in surprise at the reveal that he could actually talk). “The Church really does help those in need, doesn’t it? You’re good boys.”—(Olivier would have preferred ‘men’ but)—“I would like to repay you somehow.”
“Oh no, we simply couldn’t accept!” Roland burst out, stepping forward. “A good deed is its own reward! ‘Anything you do for the least of these’ and all! Although, you’re not the least of course! It’s just a verse you know! Well no verse isjust a verse, but—”
“I feel I must do somethingfor your…trouble.” (Olivier curled his nose at the slight snicker there was behind the word ‘trouble.’) “At the very least, I have some rather nice vintage wines in my cellar—“
Before Roland could say once again that that-really-wasn’t-necessary, Olivier shot his hand in front of him and said, a little too loudly, “We will gladlyaccept.”
******
The next day Olivier was leaning back in his chair in front of a rather large stack of paperwork, massaging the crick in his neck when Roland burst in, a little girl hiding behind him.
“OLIVIER!” He panted. “Olivier, this poor girl has lost her favorite doll! We simply musthelp her!”
Olivier shut his eyes, rubbing his temple, his voice shaking. “You told me you would work harder if I—”
“I will! I will! But this is urgent!”
Olivier sighed. “Astolfo!” He yelled.
After a few moments, a boy with red hair came in.
“You sent for me?”
“Roland has a job for you…(however ridiculous it may be),” he added under his breath. “Will you help find this girl’s doll?” Olivier marched forward, his footsteps ominous on the stone floor, and grabbed Roland’s wrist a little too tight, dragging him into a chair, “Roland here has work to do.”
As Astolfo obliged, Olivier muttered, more to Roland than anyone else, “And he’s not getting out of it this time.”
Roland pouted, plopping down in the chair to properly do his Chasseur work.
…And Olivier couldn’t help but feel like he was having a perfectly satisfactory morning once again.
*
Little ficlet for @phmonth2021’s VNC anime countdown, day 8: Noé and/or Murr
Noé found the cat wandering through the woods by the manor. His fluffy white fur was matted, dirty and disheveled, and the look in his multicolored eyes was one of great disgruntlement.
And he did not want a bath.
Noé had always been rather good with animals. Well, not so much good, just that he thought he was good with them, and that was enough. Once he found a wild raccoon, said “Look Teacher, a cat burglar!” and ran up with hands outstretched so it could receive its helping of pets.
This cat, however, was less keen on pettings than the raccoon.
He did not want to be petted or stroked, he did not want to come inside for a bath, or be otherwise relieved of his dishevelment.
Noé was determined, and did not halt in his pursuit. “Giving up” was never really in his word bank.
After Noé spent far more time than most children would chasing him, this cat came to realize that he was not going to win such a battle against a determinedly kind and loving vampire—(who had become extra fond over the course of the chase)—and so ultimately found himself (much to his chagrin) arriving at the front door of a manor in the little vampire’s arms, his legs flopping down, revealing his fluffy belly.
How humiliating.
Noé grinned, and asked Teacher if he could keep him. Teacher, leaning down to observe the cats expression—(he made a noise at him that sounded like a warning; not a growl, not a meow, and not a purr, something in between)—said that the question was indeed could.If he couldkeep him, then he may as well.
Both Teacher and Louis—(“Look, Louis! Look what I found in the woods today!” “Mmm. You really are so weird.” Louis folded his arms and looked away, determined not to betray the fact that he rather liked cats)—leaned against either side of the bathroom’s doorframe as Noé tried to wrangle the creature into bathing. He’d recruited Dominique to help, but even together, and even though the cat knew he wasn’t escaping, they made little progress, and received a lot of scratches.
After a good half-hour of scratches and struggling, (and Teacher and Louis chuckling in the background), Louis sighed, abandoned his post at the doorframe, and walked up to the trio. The cat stared at him, sizing him up, making that grumbling meow-growl-purr sound—(meow-purr…‘Murr,’ perhaps it could be called?)—once again.
“You are going to have a bath, or you’re going to [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. So, which’ll it be?”
Noé and Domi bristled in horror at this, too stunned to even berate him.
The cat seemed to have somehow understood him, for when Louis calmly and brusquely reached out to wash him, (however reluctant), he sat and let him do so.
Domi and Noé collapsed onto the bathroom floor, feeling exhausted and betrayed—(by the cat, or by Louis, they weren’t quite sure).
As Teacher wrapped bandages around his scratches, he looked into Noé’s face and asked gently,
“Are you really sure you want to keep him, after all this?”
But Noé nodded, looking towards the cat and Louis. He had decided the moment he saw the cat in the woods—wild and stubborn yes, but also lost and abandoned, (and furthermore he knew that there really was a little prince in there)—that he belonged to him.
“Well if you’re going to keep him you ought to give him a name.”
Noé smiled like he was hiding food in his cheeks. He already had a name picked out.
“Murr.”
Noé might be a dumbass but he’s my dumbass
