#vnc misha
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Vanitas of the Blue Moon
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The Ghost of Sweetness (Ao3)
Fandom:Vanitas no Carte | The Case Study of Vanitas
Summary: He was screaming again. Oh god, he was screaming again. It filled the room like a faucet someone hadn’t turned off steadily gushing all over the floor. Soon enough, it would drown them all. || Some Vanitas and Mikhail/Misha hurt/comfort. Written for the prompt “can I please request a misha & vanitas fic…maybe some hurt/comfort during their time at moreau’s lab.“
Notes:For@phmonth2021, vncweek Day 2, prompt: Passion.
Spoilers for manga Chapter 47+.
I hope you like it!! It would mean a lot to me if you could comment and let me know!!
P.S. Anyone have any better ideas for the title? I don’t like it but I can’t think of anything better XD
P.P.S. Is there really no vnc option on FF.net?!?
*
He was screaming again. Oh god, he was screaming again. It filled the room like a faucet someone hadn’t turned off steadily gushing all over the floor. Soon enough, it would drown them all.
Not the doctors though, no. They could breathe in this water. Or more, this water was like alcohol to them, intoxicating them, making them smile and laugh, and treat innocent children like animals and objects.
Was this all because of the vampires? Because their parents were killed by them? Other orphans got a nice orphanage, a warm bed, a friend or two. Numbers Seventy-One and Sixty-Nine got needles and knives. Was it for the simple distinction that their parents were killed by a creature with teeth, rather than an earthquake or a gunshot?
Number Sixty-Nine could do nothing but shake in his cell, put his hands over his ears, and bite his lip till it bled, and let hate pierce him, infecting him with its poisoned tip.
If this was alcohol, rather, it did nothing but burn and rot and claw at his insides.
This wasn’t what doctors were supposed to do. He’d watched a good one work before.
Hate coiled, curled and flared in him at the sound. How could they do this to him? He didn’t care for himself—(well, he did, but not more than those who would get hurt in his stead). But for the poor boy who had done nothing to them but exist peacefully, and lose his mother to vampires? This was more than cruel.
Vampires. The word was held more bitter tang than the things the doctors forced down their throats.
As abruptly as it started, it stopped. The screaming cut off, and all Sixty-Nine was left with was the fierce beating of his heart—or was it bleeding?
He drew his hands away from his ears and turned to face what they had done—though he couldn’t see much, just the boy strapped to the table, and the color red.
No, it wasn’t silent; the raging faucet had becoming a dripping one, and the tears were almost worse, like hell and defeat.
“He won’t last much longer.” One of the doctors said behind closed hands.
“Oh that’s alright!” Moreau flapped his sleeve at him. “The information he’s given is very useful!”
Sixty-Nine dug his nails into his palm so hard his whole arm shook.
Is that all this poor boy’s screams were to that monster? Information?
No. Sixty-Nine changed position as they came closer, the creaking of the door swinging open like the whimpering of some wounded beast. They threw the boy back in the cell with blood and tears and a cough or two.
He lay on the floor, and the faucet kept dripping.
Mikhail. Misha. The one with the name. They stole that from him, much like they stole everything else.
—(Were ‘they’ the vampires, or the humans?)—
But No. Sixty-Nine would still call him by it.
Misha didn’t get up. He lay on the floor, the sobs quiet and wracking his entire being.
Sixty-Nine wouldn’t shush him or tell him it was okay. He knew it wasn’t. And screams and tears were all they had in this empty place, he wouldn’t take them away from him now.
Those blue eyes flickered open, and they glistened with sadness and loss, but they looked at him like he was the moon and the stars, and everything in between.
Sixty-Nine wasn’t sure he could bear such a burden.
Misha leapt upon Sixty-Nine, wrapping his arms around him and holding him as tight as if, if he didn’t, he’d turn to sand and slip through his fingers.
They were trapped in an hourglass alright.
No. Sixty-Nine leaned his head back against the bar, trying not to listen to the doctors on the other side. He didn’t run his hands through his hair or rub soothing circles on his back, he merely continued to let him cry, and this was mercy and comfort of its own. He let him cry and the sound was flint to the already raging fire of hate inside him, soothed only by the thought that it was into his shirt rather than the palm of the doctors’ hands.
After a while he spoke gently over him:
“Once upon a time…”
Misha raised his head, blinking up at him and sniffing. “What?”
“The other day you were telling me about a story game you came up with, weren’t you?”
Misha nodded slowly.
Sixty-Nine raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘Well…Aren’t you going to play?’
“Oh!” Misha realized what he was saying, and backed up, sitting on his knees.
“Once upon a time…” Misha put a finger to his chin, thinking, “There was a nice prostitute!” He threw his hands in the air, beaming.
Sixty-Nine tried not to let his eyes widen in shock at the word. Misha really had no clue what that meant, and he had no intention of making such things clear to him. He’d already seen far too much for a boy so young.
“…Sure.” He looked away. “A nice prostitute. And she…she liked tarte Tatin.”
“Tarte Tatin?”
“It’s…a dessert. A pastry with apples and…” He exhaled heavily, shutting his eyes. The words curved around his tongue, a ghost of sweetness.
“That sounds amazing! I-I never got to have nice desserts,” he murmured softly.
Sixty-Nine tried not to let that taint his expression.
He envied the boy, in a way: the echoes of the taste on his tongue now was almost worse than never knowing it in the first place.
“So she liked tarte Tatin.” Sixty-Nine repeated. “And one day…”
“One day a nice vampire came by with some!”
Sixty-Nine couldn’t help reacting this time.
“A nice…what?”
“Yeah! Sometimes I saw men bring mom gifts!”
“You said vampire.” The word was venom.
“Well a vampire gave her the loveliest gift of all! Surely they bring other nice gifts too!”
Sixty-Nine tried not to feel sick to his stomach, tried not to shout How could you possibly think that?! Tried not to spit The only gift he gave her is death.
But maybe that was a gift, in a way. Especially to the boy she would hit when he didn’t dress like a girl.
“Okay…” His breath rattled. “And he gave her some…and it was delicious and…he told her that he would be back with more.”
“And he came back the next week with a whole bunch of it!”
Sixty-Nine closed his eyes and spoke softly, “She he said it tasted like all the stars came down and burst in her mouth.” His breath heaved with the weight of the memory of taste.
“And he told her that he would take her away from all this. …Her and her son beneath the bed.
Sixty-Nine’s he turned to look at him. Misha only smiled.
“Y-Yes. Her and her son beneath the bed. And…he did.” He exhaled the words. “He came back with cakes, and tarts, and chocolates…and”—He couldn’t bring himself to the end the story on a kind note towards vampires—“he drank her blood, and he…took her away.”
“Yay!” Misha clapped. “That was a great story! Let’s do it again next time!”
“Yeah,” he sighed.
Misha curled up against him, and after a pause asked softly:
“Do you think he did? Take her away? My mom?”
He swallowed the spit that had gathered in his mouth from the talk of good food, and looked away. “Yes. I do.”
“Do you think she’s in a better place?”
He thought of the church when he’d been with the chasseurs. How they always made grand speeches about Heaven.
He thought of the traveling players, and the general goodness to people he saw there.
He thought of the doctors here, and how sometimes people were cruel.
He thought of the sermons about the evils of sins like prostitution, and their consequences.
He thought of that one story about the prostitute who washed the feet of the son of God.
“I don’t know. …Better than us, probably.”
He stood up and grabbed the blanket from off his bed, wrapping them both in it. Misha leaned against him, and Sixty-Nine thought of how Moreau said he was to be his guardian, and tried to decide if he resented the command. He was never very fond of physical contact as a form of affection, but he knew it was all this boy had, and to take it away would be almost worse than what the doctors did.
“Say…Why do vampires drink blood?” Misha asked.
That hate flared behind his throat. He wanted to say Because they are parasites. He wanted to say Because they suck the life out of innocent for fun.
But then he thought of the doctors, and the needles.
“Did your mom ever drink…alcohol?”
“I saw her drinking stuff from a bottle a lot. It was red. It made her look all red too. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. What that alcohol?”
“Mostly likely.”
“She was always mad. She got even madder when she drank it.”
Sixty-Nine bit his lip, then continued calmly:
“Blood is like that for vampires.”
“But when the vampire drank her blood it made him happy.”
“Yeah, alcohol makes some people happy too.”
“So…he drank my mom’s blood, so he could feel happy?”
Sixty-Nine hesitated. “…Yeah”
He expected Misha to get angry at that, or sad. It certainly returned that burning to Sixty-Nine’s gut to think that human life was nothing more than a good drink to vampires.
“Then I’m glad!” Misha laughed. “I’m glad they could both be happy.”
And Sixty-Nine tried not to let horror affect his gaze.
When he thought of his father, of the gashes in his neck, the red all over everything, he didn’t feel glad at all.
My fic for this prompt on my ph & vnc blog, as well as @phmonth2021’s vnc countdown, Day 2: Misha | Mikhail and/or Luna!
(This might function as my Day 1: Vanitas fic too…I don’t really have any fic ideas for him right now. Might do art instead, if I have time. If you do have Vanitas fic ideas, send em over!)
Here was the original prompt:
“Can I also request vanitas & misha please. But from misha’s pov…Maybe something on misha liking that vanitas has long hair even though misha hated having long hair. and misha playing with vanitas’s hair. It can be during their time at Moreau’s? Some fluff during the angst.”
*
Misha never had any brothers. No sisters, or a father, or even friends, really. Just him, and his mom, and the men who came and went.
He wasn’t quite sure what friends or brothers, or all those sorts of people were made of. And what that made Number Sixty-Nine.
As he sat next to him on the bed, Number Sixty-Nine leaning his head back against the wall, Misha wondered:
Were they friends? Were they brothers? Were they…what was that word again? Quaint-something? Were they merely two bodies to be broken and tampered in this lab? Were they just numbers after all, not just to the doctors, but to each other?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he was made of. But he did know he was the only warmth after the cold tables and needles, the only quiet after the screaming, the only smiles after the tears. He knew Sixty-Nine was the sun and the stars to him, and that must make him at least somewhat special.
He was the first person who actually cared if he got hurt. Not just cared, tried to stop the hurt.
He didn’t know there were people like that. He was softer and warmer than the pillows he fell into when his mother hit him.
He wasn’t sure what mothers were supposed to do, but he never liked it when his mother hit him.
Did all mothers hit their children?
What that what mothers were made of?
Bumps and bruises, and shouts, and being cut and shaped into what she wanted you to be. That’s what his was made of, at least.
He never liked hiding under the bed.
He never liked hearing his mother moaning in the night. He never quite knew what the noises above the bed meant. She sounded like she might be in pain. But she told him never to get up when she had one of her men over.
She was in pain. Then afterwards, she gave that pain to him.
Only the vampire made her happy.
And he never liked having long hair. Though he didn’t like the doctors either, he did like that they offered him that small kindness. Though they may strap him to tables, and put strange things into his body, and make him hurt too, that small kindness always made his body feel a little more like his. Not some imitation of a girl. Not some imitation of what his mother wanted him to be.
His mother who hurt him.
No. Sixty-Nine. Who tried to stop the hurt.
He never liked having long hair, but taking strands of Sixty-Nine’s hair between his fingers, like dark water across his skin, he found he didn’t mind it on him—(whatever they were to each other).
Sixty-Nine noticed him staring, and raised an eyebrow at him.
Misha gave a little giggle. “Say, do you like having long hair?”
Sixty-Nine raised his eyebrow further at the question. “I’ve never really cared much.” He looked away. “I suppose I must…since I’ve kept it this way.”
“Well, I like it!” Misha threw up his hands. “I like it on you, at least.”
No. Sixty-Nine looked a little embarrassed at that, he moved his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Thanks I-I guess.”
“May I play with your hair?”
“Uhh…Sure I guess.” Then he murmured under his breath, “I guess you don’t have much else to play with.” And Misha knew he was talking about things he didn’t understand again.
Misha began taking the strands of Sixty-Nine’s hair and tossing them over and under each other, braiding them together. His mother often braided his hair, but it was something she’d made him learn too. He never liked doing it in the mirror. But it felt nice now.
“Say…what are we?” He asked after a pause.
“What are we?” He looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “We’re human. Why is that a question?”
“I know that, Silly! I mean what are we to each other?”
“Huh?”
“I’ve never had friends before—I don’t think. Are we friends?” He curled a strand around his finger. “Are we…what was that word? Quaint-aunts-es? Are we lovers?” And this last one caught in his throat a little: “Are we brothers?”
“We’re not lovers, I can tell you that much,” he snorted. “And it’s ‘acquaintances’. I—“ Sixty-Nine sighed.
He always seemed so tired. He either seemed so tired, or energy burst out of him. There was an anger to him, he knew. Though he didn’t know why, where it came from. (Not that he ever knew. He didn’t really get angry much himself). An anger that was different from his mother’s. It wasn’t an aspect of him, a piece of clothing he wore that Misha wished he would take off, something that made him hurt others sometimes. It was like the anger was written in his very being. And he never hurt anyone.
“I don’t know. I guess we
can be whatever you want us to be.”
“Well…what’s an acquaintance?” The braid wasn’t looking quite right, so he brushed it out and restarted.
He sighed. “An acquaintance is someone you know, but not well. Someone you know casually, or met once or twice. Like…a friend of a friend.”
“Well we must not be acquaintances! We’ve met much more than twice!”
He chuckled a little. “Fair enough.”
“What’s a friend?”
“A friend is someone you do know well. Someone who you enjoy being around, and want to be around and talk to often. Someone you’re close to.”
“That sounds like us!”
“What’s a lover?”
Sixty-Nine scoffed. “I don’t really know. I won’t say I’ve ever been one, but a lover is someone who you love morethan a friend. Someone who you don’t just want to be close to, but you want to be close to constantly.” He stuck his tongue out in disgust.
“Oh, that sounds like us too! I want to be around you all the time!”
“You don’t love me,” there was an ice to his words, a bite to the cerulean gaze now directed at him. “Not like that.”
Misha ignored this. He was reaching the bottom of the braid. “Well anyway, what…” his voice grew quieter now, and he sat back on his knees. “What’s a brother?”
“A brother…a brother’s a little more complicated. A brother is generally someone who you’re related to. Someone who is also a child of your mother and father, but… isn’t you. There’s also half-brothers who share either your mother or your father but not both. It’s a bond closer than that of friendships, or even lovers, in a way. Your parents blood runs through their veins so, in a way, your blood does too. It’s like you’re…pieces of a whole. You’re family. You live together, you eat, and sleep, and cry, and laugh, together.
“But, at the same time…you can call someone your brother, even if you’re not related, if they’re as close to you as a brother would be. If you’re family. If you live together, eat, sleep, cry, and laugh together. Or perhaps better yet, if you go through something together that makes you closer than you are to your friends. Something that makes you… pieces of a whole.”
Misha finished the braid, but he had nothing to tie it off, so he simply admired it for a moment, then released his grip, and let the bottom fall loose.
“I think I get it now,” Misha grinned, meeting his gaze, “Brother.”
*
<-Day 4: Chloé and/or Jean-Jacques
P.S.Here’s the link to another fic I wrote for another Misha-and-Vanitas-at-Moreau’s-lab prompt!!
