In retrospect, he should have known this was how he would die.
A normal, blessedly clear, and warm morning like any other. Calm and peaceful—a day where he could’ve watched the sky without worry or fear. The kind of day where getting far from his thoughts was most imperative and yet, the necessary means proved most elusive.
There was only one path ahead, and it was through the same window. A room he peered into inquisitively, as cautious as one best regard the depths of one’s soul. Inside that room—
Noé Archiviste stirs awake. He’s half tumbled off the bed, grasping onto a pillow like a lifeline. His amethyst eyes blink through drowsiness and formulae, and when he yawns, it’s an exposure of pearly white fangs.
This was, most certainly, the start of his downfall. Perhaps, it was predestined.
“Vanitas,” Noé murmurs, reaching up to rub the sleep from his gaze. “B…Bonjour.”
“Bonjour,” he returns, unimpressed. “Do you plan on staying like that all day?”
Noé yawns again, adjusting so that the rest of his body was off the bed. All on the floor, still holding onto that pillow, the sheets askew… What a hopeless sight.
Vanitas clicks his tongue in irritation and, honestly, he should be on his way rather than bothering with this dim-witted vampire, but…
