“I want to talk to you.”

Vanitas waits impatiently. It’s been…it’s been…? Oh, just how long now? At least years. Who measures time, anyway?

It’s just another reason to be angry with him; the easier that is, the easier it is to live on.

He can’t get too close to where his other half sleeps. But he sees him, gets as close as he can like moth drawn to flame. Golden eyes try their damnedest to pierce through the barrier that protects the light, to free Ventus so that he’s all for the taking.

But Vanitas knows that would not wake him. That would not join them.

“Ventus,” comes his lowly voice, like the pained growl of an animal that’s wounded and left to bleed. A gloved hand reaches out, blocked from touching further. There’s the slightest recoil of his fingers before he stretches them out, palm pressing over what separates them. “Even asleep, you have to keep me at arms length, don’t you?”

He scoffs, keeping his hand in place; if this is as close as he can get to touching him, then he’ll take it.

“…That’s so like you,” the bitter words are spat, a grimace forming beneath Vanitas’ mask.

Beneath the barrier, Ventus doesn’t stir. Does his heart ache out there, wherever it may be? Darkness craves light, but is the favor returned?

“…It’s like talking to the dead,” Vanitas continues, brows furrowed as he grows annoyed with Ventus. How like him. To sleep, ignore him, not want to join. “Are you cold like them?”

Cold like the dead… Even Vanitas knows that can’t be; even twelve years into a sleep, Ventus is still as warm and radiant as the sun. The heat of the barrier tells him that.

It’s him…

“Lay your hand on me…at least one last time, Ventus.” In battle, in comfort, in whatever manner he chooses.

But Ventus doesn’t move; he never moves.

The stillness angers Vanitas. In a quick motion, he rams a fist to the glass. Not one shard breaks or shatters. The silence that follows could be cut in half with his keyblade. The air is stagnant. Neither boy moves.

A hollow, disappointed laugh falls from Vanitas’ lips finally. “So, that’s how it’s going to be, Ventus…”

Ventus is quiet as he’s ever been these last twelve years. Far away as his heart may be, it yearns, craves what’s missing. It knows that what its missing piece feels ails it, too. But in this state, there’s no conveying that to Vanitas, who is left to write this off as a failure, as he does everyday.