Ven tugs the edge of his shirt up, and twists to inspect the darkening smear of a bruise creeping across his back. The tiny bathroom in the caravan is little more than a tiled closet with a toilet, sink, and the suggestion of a mirror affixed to the wall. Barely the size of a dinner plate and coated in an oily film that Ven refuses to touch, the mirror offers little insight into his injury.

He had cast a healing spell when they were fleeing—just Cure, because his magic reserves were nearly depleted—but with a bruise this extensive, that hit must’ve been way harder than he’d realized. An experimental prod at the bruise sends a heady rush of pain tearing through Ven’s nervous system. So. Definitely still injured. His shirt falls back into place.

Ven finds Vanitas out in the kitchenette, looking remarkably fidgety for someone standing completely motionless. Only his eyes move when Ven shuts the bathroom door behind him.

Vanitas asks, unexpectedly, “How bad is it?” and Ven makes a noncommittal sound. It must not be a satisfactory answer, because Vanitas’ lips press into a thin line.

“How’s your head?” Ven deflects. He may have a massive bruise colonizing his body, but Vanitas is the one covered in gore.

They’d learned the hard way that this world’s nocturnal fauna pack a serious punch. A hulking titan of a creature had smashed Vanitas in the skull, destroying his helmet in an explosion of black glass and shrieking metal. He had leapt back to his feet, laughing. With teeth bared in an ecstatic grin and his golden eyes glowing bright amid the plumes of a Dark Firaga,

Vanitas was another feral monster in the darkness.

It’s hard to reconcile that Vanitas with the one now standing in the caravan, brusquely inquiring about Ven’s injury. The blood clinging to him isn’t even dry.

“It would’ve been fine, even without your interference,” Vanitas says.

Ven rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome.” He joins Vanitas in front of the grimy stove and peers out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the beasts beyond the safety of the campsite. Instead, all he can see is his and Vanitas’ reflections in the glass.

Vanitas snorts, “What, already hungry for more?” The lopsided grin pulling at his mouth seems less sinister without the metal jaw of his mask bracketing his face. It almost looks playful.

“Nah,” Ven says, mouth dry. “Maybe later.”

Shrugging, Vanitas says, “Just as well. Your friends are already going to give me hell for the condition you’re in. They’d be so annoying if you up and died on me.”

“That’s true, but shouldn’t it work both ways?” When Vanitas blinks at him, Ven explains: “If you’re gonna go out of your way to make sure I come home in one piece, shouldn’t I do the same for you?”

“What.”

The look of confusion on Vanitas’ face is so novel that Ven can’t help but turn to him and grin. “What? I care about what happens to you.”

“Gross.”

“Maybe, but it’s nowhere near as gross as your reflection,” Ven says, wrinkling his nose and gesturing at the blood matted in Vanitas’ tangle of dark hair. “You gonna do something about that?”

Vanitas’ eyebrows furrow as he squints at his reflection. He rakes his fingers across his scalp, blood smearing on his glove. “You already healed me. What else is there to do?” He wipes the blood away on his thigh. The stain is barely visible against the black of his suit.

He’s completely serious, and Ven suspects that if he were on his own, he’d manifest a new helmet to cover the mess and call it a night.

Shaking his head, Ven scoffs, “How are you so difficult without even trying?”

“You bring out the best in me,” Vanitas replies without missing a beat.

“Har, har.” Ven jabs Vanitas twice in the arm, eyebrows raising when he actually grimaces. “Shut up and wash your hair.”

Vanitas repeats the order, mockingly, but he flips the tap on the kitchen sink regardless. A horrible groan echoes out from deep in the pipes, but water eventually sputters out. It’s even hot.

A quick foraging expedition in the cabinets yields a single clean towel and an assortment of half empty containers of shampoo and conditioner. When Ven returns to the kitchenette, Vanitas is still standing in front of the sink, his left hand idly rubbing the muscle of his right bicep. His hair is dry. “You do know that your hair needs to be wet to wash it, right?” Ven asks, only half joking. Vanitas casts him a withering look. “So, like. Get to it.”

Ven dumps the bottles of hair product on the tiny counter and inspects their labels. “Do you wanna smell like seabreeze, passion fruit, or…” He frowns at the third bottle, unscrews the cap, and sniffs. “Soap.”

When Vanitas doesn’t respond, Ven glances at him. He still hasn’t moved to wet his hair. He gazes at the steam curling up from the sink, eyes distant and unreadable as he continues to knead his fingers into his right arm.

Watching him now, flashes of their hasty retreat return to Ven, easier to parse through without the tunnelvision of an adrenaline rush. He remembers: a crack across his back that ripped the air right out of his lungs, the dirt and grass beneath his hands as he wheezed for purchase, Vanitas barking get the fuck up! and Void Gear spitting sparks as Vanitas held off another attack, his arms shaking from the effort. His face had been pale, exposed.

Ven bites his lip. “Your arm is hurt.”

Vanitas’ eyes snap to Ven’s face, expression going slack with surprise. He’s disarmed for only the space between two breaths before he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his arm like he’s punishing it. Vanitas admits, voice low, “I strained it doing that last block. Moving it is…” He flexes his right arm, his nostrils flaring as he forces the movement. “Difficult.” His arm falls limp at his side.

Instinctively, Ven reaches into the well of his soul, where the magic collects and waits to be shaped, only to find a meagre trickle—nowhere near enough for even the most rudimentary healing spell. Guilt seizes in his chest.

“I can’t heal you yet.”

“Not a big deal,” Vanitas says, with a matter-of-fact indifference that reflects years of living as an afterthought. He turns the water off.

Ven turns the water back on and Vanitas stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “My dominant arm is messed up,” he says, enunciating slowly and clearly. “I can’t do this right now.” He reaches forward to turn the water off again, but Ven catches his hand and squeezes it.

“I can’t heal you yet,” Ven says, “but please let me take care of you.”

Vanitas wrenches his hand out of Ven’s grip, lips curling downward. “Gross.”

“Maybe.” Ven offers a small smile. “But I’m still gonna do it. If it’s okay with you.”

There’s a look in Vanitas’ eyes like distress, but then he blinks it away, glares at the sink, and mutters a resigned, “Whatever.”

Ven releases the air going stale in his lungs. “Okay,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Vanitas hesitates, then slowly ducks his head beneath the stream of hot water. The water running through his hair into the drain is streaked with blood. “Let’s get this over with.”

For all that this is Ven’s idea, the actual mechanics of it don’t click until the exact second he notices the tips of Vanitas’ ears. He’s never seen his ears before. They’re flushed a delicate pink, and Ven can’t help the giddy sensation of bubbles popping in his chest.

“You gonna start or what?”

Ven runs his hands through the water, stray droplets speckling the downy hair on his forearms like dew. “You in some kind of hurry?”

Vanitas sucks his teeth. “In a hurry to get this over with.” Ven watches with delight as his ears turn a furious shade of red. “As if I even—”

Whatever he was going to say gets choked off the second Ven’s fingers ghost over the crown of his head. Ven considers being shitty and poking fun at the abrupt silence, but Vanitas is tense like a coiled spring, and Ven can’t bring himself to antagonize him when he’s clearly uncomfortable. He scratches at a patch of crystallized blood on Vanitas’ scalp, working water into the matted hair. “You doing okay?”

“Die.” A tiny amount of the tension gripping his shoulders eases and Ven smiles.

Once Vanitas’ hair is sopping wet and the water is mostly running clear, Ven shuts off the water and grabs the passion fruit shampoo. The pink gel slides easily across his palms and lathers up along the roots of Vanitas’ hair. He takes his time, massaging the shampoo in and coaxing it into a voluminous white foam.

The smell is less potent than Ven expected, but the fruity, tropical scent is a welcome replacement to the combination of sweat and grime and old blood that Vanitas has adopted as his own personal fragrance. It separates him from the battlefield.

Beneath Ven’s touch, Vanitas softens like orichalcum when gradually exposed to heat. He’s not quite relaxed, but there’s a deeper bow of his head and a sluggishness to his breath. Ven wonders what kind of expression he’s making, if his eyes are closed, or simply half-lidded and drowsy.

When Ven turns the water on and rinses the suds out, it’s a little bit reluctantly.

“We done?” Vanitas asks. Ven’s not sure if that’s disappointment in his voice, but he likes to think it is.

“Almost.” It takes a couple aggressive shakes of the bottle, but conditioner eventually squirts out thick and custard-like, spreading slippery through Vanitas’ hair and detangling the remaining snarls. Ven adds some extra at the ends. It’s probably unnecessary, but who knows if they’ll ever do this again. He wants to drag it out, even if it’s only by a little.

Ven turns the water on a final time and washes the conditioner away. He turns the faucet off. Vanitas doesn’t recoil, so Ven draws the towel up over his hair, tousling it lightly and feeling weird in his chest. Like he’s empty, but also bursting at the seams.

“Okay,” Ven whispers.

It’s like a spell breaks.

Vanitas breathes through his mouth, tension spreading through his limbs like ice. He hunches over the sink, his spine growing so stiff that each vertebra seems welded to the next.

Ven murmurs, “Vanitas?” and Vanitas lets out a labored exhale and brushes Ven’s hands off.

He straightens, towel hanging over his head and obscuring half his face like the hood of an Organization coat. “Thanks,” Vanitas says, barely audible. Then he pulls the towel off and silently exits the caravan to sit outside on the step. Ven watches him leave, hands still wet and smelling of passion fruit, his insides cold.

Xion keeps telling him to give Vanitas space to think, feel, and process. Vanitas doesn’t need to expel his emotions anymore, he needs opportunities to experience and accept them. He needs the space. He doesn’t need to be a weapon anymore; he’s learning to be a person, and personhood involves dealing with feelings and thoughts that can be uncomfortable. This stuff is new to Vanitas, and Ven needs to be patient with him as he works to understand himself.

But isn’t it easier to deal with bad feelings when you know you’re not alone?

Vanitas doesn’t acknowledge Ven in any way when he joins him outside and plops down beside him on the step, thighs pressing so they can fit. “You sure this is safe?” Ven asks, straining his eyes at the fuzzy line where the lamplight fades and night reigns.

“Monsters fear the light.”

“Tell that to the one that hit me.” It’s meant as a joke, but it comes out a little rueful. Ven digs his fingers into the edge of his bruise and is rewarded with a fresh rip of pain that makes his vision go white.

Vanitas snatches his wrist. He’s got that look again: like he’s standing between Ven and certain death. “What is wrong with you?”

Ven’s face grows hot. He yanks on his wrist, but Vanitas’ grip is iron. “What’s wrong with you?”

Ven can see the fine threads of blood vessels in Vanitas’ narrowed eyes, can feel Vanitas’ breath on his skin. He’s staring at Ven with fury, fear, need. Ven’s heart beats wildly against his ribcage.

He’s aching for something that he knows the silhouette of but not the name.

He looks away.

Vanitas grabs his chin and forces Ven to meet his gaze. He dips in and Ven’s eyes slide shut.

They don’t kiss. Yearning hangs thick in the air between them. Vanitas inhales sharply and withdraws, but Ven leans forward and presses their lips together.

Vanitas gasps quietly into his mouth, breath still cool and minty from the ether they shared mid-battle. His lips are surprisingly soft while Ven’s have ragged edges from being worried at until they split. Vanitas’ hold on Ven goes slack and Ven cards his fingers through Vanitas’ hair, tangling them in the wet strands.

Kissing Vanitas exorcises all the pent up anxiety and frustration that’s grown heavy as a stone in Ven’s heart. It’s warm, like coming home.

When Ven finally pulls away, he’s smiling and pliant. But then he sees Vanitas’ face and immediately breaks into a cold sweat.

Vanitas looks far away; a wrinkle sits between his brows and his mouth twists unhappily. Ven jerks his hands away from him like he’s been burnt. “Are you…” He swallows, forces aside the feelings of having the ground vanish beneath his feet. “Are you okay?”

Vanitas blinks, as if just waking up. He struggles with the question. “I—” He stops himself. His frown deepens. “Are you crying?”

“What?” Ven brushes at his eyelashes and his fingers come away wet. He feels stupid. “It’s nothing, I just—” He curls into himself, hands coming up to cover his mouth. Ven stares down at his feet, trying to will away the memory of the vacancy in Vanitas’ eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He clambers to his feet and turns to go back inside the caravan, but Vanitas rises up and stops him with a single hand in the center of his chest. He looks Ven in the eyes. “You didn’t upset me. I was already upset.”

Ven stares at him. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“No. Yes.” Vanitas sighs and drags a hand over his face. “I just…” He grits his teeth and glares up at the night sky, glittering with unfamiliar stars and constellations. “I’m not some kind of charity case. You don’t need to do stuff for me.”

“Stuff,” Ven repeats slowly. “What do you mean, stuff.”

Vanitas turns that annoyed expression on Ven. “You know what I mean.” His fingers fist in the fabric of Ven’s shirt. “You don’t need to do that nice stuff.”

“Nice stuff like worrying about you and taking care of you when you’re hurt?” Ven asks, and now he’s getting irritated too. “Nice stuff like kissing you?”

“I don’t want your pity. You’re not obligated to do stuff like that for me.”

“Obligated?” Ven lets out a bark of outraged laughter and grabs Vanitas by the hair. “You stupid idiot.” He drags him in until their noses are almost touching. Vanitas’ wide, unblinking eyes stay fixed on Ven’s face. He’s hardly breathing. “I’m not doing stuff out of obligation. I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t pity you, I like you.”

Then to be sure there’s no misunderstanding, Ven asks,

Vanitas flushes that same sweet pink as earlier. He averts his gaze, mortification drawn into every line of his scowl. Ven laughs again, grinning so hard his cheeks ache, and leans in to whisper against Vanitas’ lips, “Then I won’t.”