Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The necktie circling Noé’s ivory collar is a tight noose on his neck. An infuriating thing that keeps on grazing his tan skin in ways not satisfying at all. He’s constantly redoing it but never does it sit right in every attempt.

“What’s taking you so long?” Vanitas’ voice rings irritated from the other side of the suite, a cozy guest room lent to them by the de Sade’s. Noé is faintly aware of Dominique’s position in the family—after a fiasco that kept him from meeting her for a while—so it’s a wonder she is able to secure lodging for him and Vanitas in Altus.

It’s admirable. Noé can’t be more grateful.

However, this tie is still wrong in his eyes.

His fingers are slapped away by leather-clad ones.

“You’re hopeless,” Vanitas mutters. He unravels the expensive silk of his necktie. Noé watches raptly, gaze focused in hoping he can do it himself next time, yet he finds himself fixated on the slender fingers looping the strip textile with finesse. Vanitas softly pulls the tie done, flattening it right against Noé’s undershirt. The heat of his skin seeps through his clothes and underneath his chest.

Those hands leave and Noé feels the cold instantly.

“There.” Vanitas huffs, “Surely, Noé, I thought you at least can do this.”

“I can. It doesn’t simply sit right with me.” The implication falls on them—that Vanitas has magically erased the wrongness of Noé’s tie. It lays there, along with his outfit tonight, perfectly.

“Sure, you do.”

Vanitas swivels away from him then, much to Noé’s disappointment, to pick up an intricately-decorated colombina mask. It’s designed to cover the upper half of his face, to obscure the blue of his eyes, to hide his identity, as Domi advised. After the incident of the Bal Masque, Vanitas’ visage is burned in the minds of the vampiric aristocracy, either in awe or disgust of his identity and abilities.

There is a slim chance that Domi might have begged Veronica and Antoine de Sade not to attack Vanitas in the duration of their quick stay here and Noé worries what Domi will have to do in exchange.

Vanitas wears the mask. A patterned white surface with golden swirls tracing its edges. Other than the mask, Vanitas wears a black linen undershirt, its softness prominent in the finish of the fabric. On top of it, a designed overcoat sells Vanitas’ figure with its exorbitant patterns, its collar stiff and high on the man’s neck, effectively silencing any thoughts on his skin.

Yet, it doesn’t stop the unbidden thought of Noé’s own mark sitting right on Vanitas’ skin underneath it all.

He looks at Noé, as if to gauge his opinion on his new “disguise”. Noé begrudgingly admits its enhanced effect of showcasing Vanitas’ charm.

Instead of a compliment, something different comes out of his mouth.

“Will you not change your earring?” He asks. The accessory dangles on Vanitas' ear, the light reflecting on its hourglass.

It is the wrong thing to say, because Vanitas’ expression shutters and a void makes itself known in Noé’s stomach.

“Hmm, I doubt vampires will recognize me with it,” Vanitas murmurs, seemingly unfazed with Noé’s comment and it digs itself deeper than any weapon can.

I will always be able to, with or without it. “You can’t be so sure, Vanitas.”

“Allons-y, Noé,” the vampire specialist says instead, dismissing Noé’s concern, “We have a curse-bearer to cure.”

Three days before they depart to Altus Paris. Amelia knocks on their door, bearing a letter with no sender.

The letter itself speaks of elegance. The scented paper wafts in their hotel room the moment Vanitas opens it. He immediately deduces that it is from a vampire with a social standing and promptly shows it to Noé.

“’Lucia Devriès is a curse-bearer. Please cure her.’” Noé reads. “Is this all?”

Vanitas shrugs, yet he starts gathering his things, like he means to take off to Altus right at that moment. “Hold on, should we ask Count Orlok about this?”

A silence passes between them, then Vanitas releases a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”

So, they find themselves in Count Orlok’s office and the count himself inspecting the letter. Vanitas lounges on the long sofa that he’s quite familiarized with.

When Count Orlok lowers the paper, Vanitas says, “So, we’ll go to Altus and cure Mademoiselle Devriès.” He smiles as if he will not accept no as an answer. Knowing Vanitas, he’ll get to Altus even if he’s chained down in prison.

Count Orlok’s narrowed eyes narrow even more. “This is a sensitive person you are talking about. I can’t let you go easily.”

Vanitas’ smile morphs into challenging. “You can’t stop me.”

Before they erupt into a fight, Noé asks, “Who is Lucia Devriès?”

The two look at him as if he’s been living under a rock all this time, to which Noé partially agrees if one is to compare Averoigne to a rock. He can already hear Vanitas lecturing him on his naivety and cluelessness and how it will be the end of him someday.

Vanitas sighs for the second time that day. “Lucia Devriès is commonly known as the ‘Darling of Altus Opera.’ A soprano belonging to the theatre group there. How come you don’t know that, Noé?”

His eyes wander to the count on his desk. “Moreover, I hear she’s to be wed with Antoine de Sade.”

“Correct,” Count Orlok agrees, “Speaking of de Sade, Mademoiselle Dominique de Sade is coming today.”

At the mere mention of the name, Domi appears with a flair, a friendly smile on her glossed lips. “Good day, Count Orlok, and to you gentlemen.”

“Domi!”

“Noé, mon cheri,” she greets, then turns to address the count, “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing Noé for a bit.”

“Dominique,” Vanitas calls and Domi answers him with a raised eyebrow. “We’re going to Altus.”

He motions at the vulnerable letter sitting on the table, most likely Domi has read it with its contents already exposed. “I will need that favor returned for this.”

By favor, Noé thinks it’s the incident with the amusement park. For some reason, the two have bonded during the recuperation and shared some sort of connection, treating each other with civility that Noé is mildly privy to. Though, it doesn’t stop Noé from feeling light with how the two of them are actually getting along together.

Domi tilts her head and answers, “Of course.”

The ball is in its full festivities the moment they arrive. The main hall shines with painted high ceilings, sculpted pillars, crystalline chandeliers, and appealing fashion of the vampires. Escorting Domi, Noé clings to her side as her partner for the night. Vanitas trails behind, identity veiled under a mask—disfigured after an incident is the cover story—and smiles in the same way Noé has discovered how aristocrats do. Opaque. Unreal.

Fake.

Vanitas’ charming disposition earns him curious gazes from women finding themselves near to him. A moth to a flame. Yet, Vanitas enjoys their company all the same. A swirling wine in his gloved hand. A dashing smile on his lips. The baritone of his voice as he recounts his engaging tales.

“If I didn’t know any better, it will be him that you are escorting today, not me,” Domi comments. She hands him a flute of champagne. “Tonight, your limit is two flutes.”

“Sorry,” Noé whispers. He hides his embarrassed flush behind his tilting glass. The burn in his throat is more welcome than the ladies flocking around Vanitas like a prized bachelor.

“Good thing we arrived before the guests of honor,” Domi sighs. Noé can never understand the intricacies of protocol upheld all the time. “It’ll be troublesome if we’re late.”

Noé doesn’t mention that she’s the reason why they entered the hall at a delayed time. Then again, when asked, Domi will surely say it is simply the way it is, especially now that the host of tonight’s celebration is her own father, the head of the family. It seems that the more late a person is, the more important they are.

They don’t have to be idle for long because the main characters of the ball arrive with a fanfare and an applause. Everyone has paused from their activities to see Antoine de Sade and Lucia Devriès emerge like a prince and his princess in a fairytale.

Antoine de Sade forgoes his senator uniform and dons an embellished tuxedo. Its classical elegance speaks in the expensive sheen of his fabric, the perfect slim cut of his trousers, and the overcoat that hangs on the shoulder. His manners are immaculate and indeed prophesies his fate as the future heir of the family.

He barely sees Antoine de Sade and the instances can be counted on one hand. Neither did Noé interact personally with the de Sade heir. Now, he has a faint sense that he will.

Where Antoine de Sade is all sharp and wit, Lucia Devriès is soft and sweet. The famed soprano’s outfit is tailored to match her partner and complement her features. Fuchsia locks are tucked high to emphasize the exposed line of her neck and shoulders, yet stray hairs fall to frame her silver gaze. Mademoiselle Devriès carries herself with delicate grace, smooth around the edges, as if floating.

“Her beauty is indeed undeniable,” Domi whispers beside him and Noé agrees. He watches the head of de Sade walk to them with a welcoming expression, and soon the man invites them all for a toast. A blessing for the engagement of the two.

“I sincerely hope for everyone’s eagerness to watch my fiancé’s play,” Antoine de Sade announces to the hall, “My father went so much as to sponsor the play in support of our marriage.”

Noé’s sight wanders elsewhere, latching on a slender figure with a mask across the ballroom.

He finds Vanitas fixated not on the central couple but on him. Noé can’t read the expression on his face yet he sees the slow spread of Vanitas’ lips then he angles his wine on him in greeting.

A woman of indigo hair approaches him and Vanitas breaks their eye contact, entertaining the individual before him instead.

Something settles in Noé’s chest and it is not pretty.

“Noé.” Domi regards him with a stare and a questioning eyebrow. He berates himself for being so distracted tonight. They need to be focused. He needs to focus.

“Right, sorry, Domi.”

“I only accept apologies with a dance.” With it, she offers an expecting hand. Noé happily obliges to the request and leads them to the shaping formation of dancers in the center. In his periphery, he sees Antoine de Sade and Lucia Devriès leading the waltz with their own footwork.

The symphony begins and the first dance commences. Noé guides Domi through the exposition as they glide through the polished dancefloor, settling into the familiar muscle memory from childhood, one where Louis ingrains the vital basics of directing the lady into a dance. Expertly, they traverse the ballroom along with countless strangers.

He catches Vanitas joining the affair too, with his own lady to lead.

Noé pointedly focuses on the golden irises of Domi. However, his attention never wavers too far. He knows that Vanitas accommodates the same woman from earlier and the picture they create is one worthy for a painting.

The melody changes and the choreography prepares for the switching of partners. Soon, Domi spins away from him and an unknown woman replaces her. Noé, with manners of a perfect gentleman, keeps his interest in the mademoiselle before him. It repeats. Again and again.

Until a notable pink hair arrives at his arms, Noé’s breath stutters in his throat.

“Mademoiselle Devriès,” he greets. Suddenly, it dawns on him that this woman is a curse-bearer. He finally understands the fragile topic of her in Count Orlok’s office and the count’s own hesitance on their mission. The social standing of this woman is too precarious if the public are to learn of her state.

The singer chuckles, “Lucia is alright, Monsieur…”

“Noé. Noé Archiviste, Mademoiselle Lucia,” he supplies. Mademoiselle Lucia steps out of his grasp for a twirl, her layers of skirts follow along.

“Are you enjoying tonight's festivities, Monsieur Noé?” she asks. Her smile is a demure, gentle thing.

Right now, Noé wants to ask her if she feels fine, that she can simply reach out to them for her to be cured.

It is the one thing you’ll never ask, Noé. Vanitas’ voice sternly reminded him. You very well know how common vampires react, what more in high society?

“I think it’s perfect,” Noé answers, “I find the architecture here magnificent, mademoiselle. It most certainly showcases the elegance and sophistication, as well as the talent of designing it. The tarte Tatin is also delicious.”

Mademoiselle Lucia appears shocked at his tangent, then her lips curled indulgently at him. “That’s a relief.”

The orchestra’s tune changes again. The partner is bound to interchange once more.

“Do attend the play’s opening night, Monsieur,” Mademoiselle Lucia tells him, “Adieu.”

With the melody’s signal, Mademoiselle Lucia waltzes away, and along with her, Noé’s nerves.

Noé finds himself alone in the brightly-lit hallways of the de Sade mansion.

It is deserted, not a single vampire in sight for all of them are occupied with bubbling themselves with awe and praise for the small performance that the soprano presented. Noé has been there too, deeply entranced by her singing, like the sirens from Teacher’s books.

Mademoiselle Lucia has excused herself after, most likely to recover from the singing.

That’s when he meets Vanitas’ eyes—a clear beautiful blue from the sea of red—and the sign is an acknowledging nod. There, Noé slips away from the crowded hall, whispering an excuse to Domi. Though knowing her, she likely knows where he’s going, muttering a silent be careful.

Now, he might be lost.

“There you are,” Vanitas calls, his voice echoing, “I was starting to wonder that you are already lost.”

“You are correct,” Noé promptly answers.

“Quoi?” Vanitas sounds disbelieved, “Aren’t you the ward of the family? You don’t know your way around here?”

“I didn’t exactly live in this manor, you see,” Noé huffs, “I was in Averoigne.”

Noé decisively walks ahead, dead set on ignoring Vanitas, and assumes with strong determination, that he’ll be able to at least locate where Mademoiselle Lucia is.

Instead, his wrist is grappled, gloved fingers wrapped around his exposed skin. Vanitas stubbornly directs him in the opposite direction. “I never said I didn’t know my way around.”

“That’s amazing, Vanitas,” the compliment comes unbidden, “I thought you were genuinely enjoying yourself back there.”

“I wasn’t.” Selfishly, Noé is relieved at the denial. “I was mapping the place, unlike someone who is busy eyeing the guest of honor.”

He’s seen that then? It’s not only Noé who’s been watching Vanitas but the man himself has been observing the other too?

“Mademoiselle Lucia simply asked if I was enjoying the evening.”

“My point exactly.” What the point is, Noé is about to inquire, but is interrupted when Vanitas halts in his step, right before a decorated door.

Vanitas knocks and with his trademark recklessness, opens the door, uncaring of respect for the person on the other side. Noé can’t even remind Vanitas of propriety in time.

There, Mademoiselle Lucia flinches at the sight of men entering the women’s lounge. Her face darkens instantly at the sheer offense to her privacy, yet it smoothens to one of confusion and curiosity.

“How may I help you?” She asks Vanitas, and upon seeing Noé, she greets, “Monsieur Noé.”

Vanitas enters the room confidently, discarding all sense of shame. He ensures Noé is already with him in the room before locking the door closed.

“Let’s get this quick. Lucia Devriès, I’m here to cure you.” Vanitas explains, concise and brief.

Mademoiselle Lucia tilts her head to the side, obviously clueless at the claim. “I suffer no illness, monsieur.”

“Aren’t you a curse-bearer?”

Mademoiselle Lucia smiles and it holds none of its gentle surety in the hall. It is of the frozen, polite expressions that is soon to be followed by disrespect. The final warning to back off, the last edge on their patience.

“What curse-bearer? I am no curse-bearer.”

Chapter Text

Their journey falls flat, unproductive, and upon leaving the ladies’ lounge, Noé sees the tense line of Vanitas’ shoulders. He makes a move to remove his mask but Noé grapples his wrist. In fear of others seeing his unmarred face or something else, he doesn’t know.

He’s afraid. That is all there is to it.

Vanitas glares at him, evidently annoyed at the sudden contact. “What?”

Noé says, “Are you going to leave?”

“Obviously, there is no curse-bearer. The lady said so herself—”

“You can’t be sure,” Noé presses on because he knows this intimately. The fear and the denial. He’s lived through someone denying and what came after was a beheaded corpse. “We don’t know for sure, Vanitas. What if she is indeed a curse—”

“You also don’t know that, Noé,” Vanitas interrupts. His voice is a cold, stern thing.

“But I—”

“Noé,” Vanitas’ fingers circle around his wrist, a telltale sign to remove Noé’s desperate grasp on the man’s own. “We’ll talk later. Let’s go back to the ball.”

His hand falls away and Noé dumbly watches Vanitas turn to retreat back to the festivities. The echo of his footfalls ring hollow in the hall. For some unknown reason, the tie on his neck feels like a noose more than ever. His gloved hand slightly loosens the tie. He’s dimly aware of a familiar voice that sounds like Domi scolding him for his disheveled appearance, however he ignores it for the brief reprieve from the uptight clothes that are as stiff as the etiquette demanded in the hall.

If anything, he doesn’t want to go back at all.

Noé defeatedly sighs at the helplessness of the situation. He attempts to navigate through the astermite-lit corridors, following the distant song of the quartet.

As he rounds an intersection, he bumps into someone. A woman rather.

He mumbles a sincere apology and assists the lady from almost falling, until she slaps his touch away from her.

“I do not require your assistance, monsieur,” the woman hisses.

That is when her appearance registers to Noé. The incessant indigo hair he keeps on sighting near Vanitas—it now reveals a visage to Noé. A sharp, calculating, and piercing mulberry eyes glares back at him. Her hair is askew, lavender strands falling out of place, most likely due to Noé’s carelessness.

“Ah, but your hair…”

“—is something that can be remedied once I excuse myself, now excuse me.” With that, she briskly walks away from him.

Noé is left dumbfounded at the interaction, finds himself a bit flabbergasted because it is embarrassing to have ruined a mademoiselle’s appearance, especially on a night like this where it matters for aristocrats. He mentally notes to himself, as he emerges into the bustling hall once again, to search for the lady and apologize to her properly. If she allows, compensate her as well.

“Noé!” Domi sidles up to him. “What took you so long?”

“Ah, I was—”

“No matter,” Domi insistently tugs at his sleeve, steering them to what appears to be a circle of elites engaged in a conversation. “Father’s been searching for me and I can’t show up without my escort. There can only be so much time until I’m forced to face him.”

Noé feels the idea of actually meeting the Head of de Sade family daunting, perhaps he is on edge because of Teacher’s involvement in the amusement park—an affair that definitely inconvenienced the family—and in turn, Noé’s presence might make the atmosphere sour due to his association with Teacher.

Oh dear, he thinks he might be able to relate to Domi’s complaints of social cues.

“Greetings, Father, Brother,” Domi curtsies and Noé imitates her with a respectful bow of his own. “Mademoiselle Devriès.”

No way but forward, Noé resigns himself.

“Dominique,” Count de Sade humors his daughter with a smile. “It’s been a while since I sighted your face.”

“I’ve been preoccupied with my duties,” Domi answers.

“I suppose so. Becoming a lieutenant of the Royal Guard demands more of one’s time,” the man nods. He sweeps his observing eyes to their group. “Well, if it isn’t quite a scene for the members of our family to be present, although Veronica is absent, doing who knows what.”

Veronica isn’t coming. Dominique quietly mumbled on the carriage. Maybe occupied with Marquis Machina, I bet.

The Head of de Sade lands his heavy gaze on him. Noé stills, breath pausing in anticipation. He prepares for an interrogation.

Nothing comes. The count simply averts his eyes instead, as if Noé isn’t there, as if Noé doesn’t exist.

He opens his mouth but Domi’s warning squeeze on his hand halts him. Noé settles to swallow the blatant offense he just received.

“Do not pay that woman any mind, Father,” Antoine finally speaks. “Instead, let me formally introduce my fiancé to Dominique. Meet Lucia Devriès.”

The opera singer presents herself with the same airy grace from her entrance, dipping into a bow. A practiced motion that certainly stems from her frequent acts in the theater. “A pleasure, Lady Dominique.”

“To you, as well, mademoiselle,” Dominique smiles. “I’ve watched a few of your plays in the past as a child. They’re all wonderfully memorable.”

“It’s an honor.” Mademoiselle Lucia doesn’t spare Noé a glance, choosing to behave in the safest option possible—imitate the host.

Yet, the House of de Sade remains an enigma to Noé, because he regards Noé, a gloved hand outstretched as if to present him to their small party. “This is Noé Archiviste, a ward of the family.”

Noé forces out a greeting, “Good evening.” The sudden change of treatment to him is a whiplash when he already accepted to be treated as air for the rest of the exchange.

“Monsieur Noé, we danced earlier in the first song,” she says. “A fine footwork with a potential for skill.”

Mademoiselle Lucia behaves as if their interaction earlier hasn’t happened at all. Noé is almost baffled by it, but realizes that their actions and words are monitored here at all times. As Vanitas and Dominique have hammered into him on the way here. Noé once again internally expresses his dismay at the complexities of high society. Why can’t they be direct and simple? It’s not as if the world will end if they do.

Then again, Mademoiselle Lucia’s life will actually end if she admits to her state.

Noé inwardly groans. He braces himself to maneuver the conversation unscathed.

Noé only catches Vanitas in the darker hours of the night, deeper and almost bleeding into morning. Only then the vampire doctor allows himself into their shared quarters when Noé is settling into his bed, ready to stay awake until dawn if it means to glimpse at him. It’s more urgent than ever, after the encounter with Mademoiselle Lucia.

So, he starts, “What are we going to do?”

Vanitas navigates in their room, prepping to retire, and he stays quiet. After a series of frustrating arguments, he has promised to stay in the room Domi arranged for them. It’s much safer when a sadist like Veronica de Sade prowls the mansion, even if they are guests, even if the vampire has given her word not to harm them.

“Nothing,” Vanitas replies. His back faces Noé as the mask is cluttered on the rosewood desk.

“What do you mean nothing? We cannot leave Mademoiselle Lucia just like that.”

“She denies being a curse-bearer, Noé. That is enough reason for us not to interfere.”

Noé rises from his place on the bed. “Clearly, there is more to this! We can’t just leave!”

Vanitas turns to him. It’s the first time Noé’s seen his face since the long, dragging hours of the ball. His brows are pinched, mood obviously foul at Noé’s stubbornness. “Then, go ahead and stay for all I care. Tomorrow, I’ll leave.”

Noé feels his annoyance brewing within. “You can’t go anywhere.”

Vanitas laughs. “That is quite rich coming from someone with a broken sense of direction.”

“You—” Noé huffs. He’s unmoored at the uncharacteristic disinterest of Vanitas in this situation, as if he’s resolved not to get involved.

But that’s it, isn’t it? Vanitas always chooses what he wants to do and when he’s indifferent, he’s detached. He removes himself from the equation immediately. He stops caring altogether.

This is utterly wrong.

“You are a hypocrite, Vanitas.”

“What?”

Noé levels a glare at him. “You preach grand things about saving vampires and when you think it’s hopeless, you decide they are not worth saving anymore. You make excuses like it’s too late.”

Vanitas doesn’t say anything so Noé pushes on. “That’s rich coming from a man who proclaims himself as a doctor yet chooses his patients.”

“Fine,” Vanitas hisses and Noé senses their distance more than ever. “If you are so adamant, then have it your way.”

Vanitas storms past him, his footfalls heavy on the carpet, and leaves the room through the open window. The silence that follows blankets the room in an oppressing manner. Noé struggles through the suffocating air. He wins the argument this time and there won’t be another vampire losing their identity to a malady.

He manages to make Vanitas stay yet he feels farther than ever.

Sleep doesn’t find him easily that night.

Morning in Altus Paris spots them convening properly in their room, with addition to Domi who’s about to tend to her duties at the Carbunculus Castle.

“You plan to investigate Lucia Devriès? Even if she denies being a curse-bearer?” Domi reiterates their objective.

Noé nods.

Vanitas further elaborates, “The ball perhaps wasn’t the best place to cure her, with all the elites around, hence her denying the allegations. That’s why we plan to visit a place where she feels secure—the Opera de Saint-Étienne.”

He’s thought of all this already. Noé notes. Why the hesitance last night?

“I see,” Domi murmurs. “Go ahead. Though I suggest you settle this issue before the opening night in a few days. I apologize for not being able to give anymore assistance. Things… have been hectic at the castle these days.”

Noé reaches for Domi’s hands, reassures her with a comforting squeeze. “You’ve done so much for us already.”

“Anything for you, cheri,” She returns her gaze to Vanitas. “I’ll leave the both of you. Be careful.”

With that, she departs their room. An uneasy silence swallows the chambers and Noé longs for Vanitas to break it lest he does something so absurd.

Vanitas sighs as if the world weighs on him. “Here’s the plan. You entertain Lucia Devriès as you are while I sneak inside, am I understood?”

“Yes.”

With that, Vanitas nods, satisfied at the moment. Noé sees his leather gloved hand reach for the mask. Before it even nears his face, Noé speaks.

“Vanitas, I’m sorry.”

His hands pauses and the mask remains in the air.

“For?”

“About last night. My words were too harsh.”

Like this, the mask is unused. It doesn’t hide Vanitas’ expression from Noé’s imploring gaze. It doesn’t veil the minute reactions on the other’s face. The small twitch of his lips and the way his cerulean eyes narrow at him—Noé wants to see it clearly.

Then, Vanitas puts the mask on his face. It obscures the fine shape of his upper visage. “It’s water under the bridge, Noé.”

Hopefully, it remains as it is. However, in the time Noé has known Vanitas, it is never water that is under the bridge for him, but blood.

He likes to think he’s an exception.

Chapter Text

Opera de Saint-Étienne is a towering establishment nestled not too far from the Carbunculus Castle. Its immense walls are accented with ivory pillars, the design reminiscent of Greek-style architecture. The roof is sculptured in neo-baroque motifs with precise skill and is highlighted with rich golds to truly emphasize its magnificence. It puts the neighboring buildings to shame. Noé can’t find himself to move and can only stare as the vampire is struck in awe at how little he is compared to the opera house. There are numerous entrances lined up before them. In all of them, only two are wide open where few vampires—perhaps members of the opera—freely go in and out.

“So, this is where operas are performed?!” Noé gasps in delight, “It’s so huge!”

Vanitas snorts behind him. “Yeah, a glaring ‘fuck you,’ I guess.”

“Huh, how come?”

Vanitas dismissively shrugs and motions for him to follow.

They slip through the entrance. Their low-heeled boots clack on the marble floor and echoes in the subdued air inside. The entryway stretches deeper before them yet there’s no one in sight. Noé feels the cold lick at his skin.

Then, Vanitas explains, “Operas are a source of entertainment by the nobles, but the plays that are performed have varying themes. Nowadays, the trend for genres is a comedy that has satirical jokes.”

Noé asks, “How is that related with what you said before?”

Vanitas sighs. An action that Noé somehow keeps on seeing. “It’s more on the history of the building. St. Stephen was a vampire who believed in Christianity, often held long speeches in the human world and criticized the believers of the Old Testament for their disobedience. Until one time, the crowd was angry for his blasphemy and he was stoned to death. When they figured out he wasn’t dying easily, they beheaded him.”

Noé slowly takes in this new knowledge. “So, he stood by his ideals then.”

“What?”

“He could’ve escaped to Altus but he didn’t…” Noé realizes something, “Wait. How did this not cause another war?”

“It was before the war, Noé,” Vanitas clicks his tongue.

“I see. Well, it’s admirable of him to have faced all that.”

“I say that is simply idiocy at its finest,” Vanitas rolls his eyes. “Although, it’s due to that the Opera de Saint-Étienne was built. A commemoration to his stupidity for ‘standing up’ and later on, became a symbolism of the opera’s nature to be driven by inspiration from the true state of the society while others say it’s blasphemy. Unlike with St. Stephen, opera groups are getting away with it because it will always be as it is—a play, an entertainment.”

“I see. So it’s a mirror to how St. Stephen stood by his perspectives despite others disagreeing with him.” Noé feels light-hearted, giddy, at this newfound knowledge. “You are excellent at this, Vanitas.”

“Anyone knows this, Noé. You are just simply an idiot.” Vanitas huffs. “Review your books, will you?”

The exhilaration he feels might have loosened his tongue because the words that come out of his mouth is too carefree. “Why should I? I have you.”

Noé snaps his mouth shut and feels ice in his chest. His tone might have been a jest yet it surely crossed a line between them, especially after their argument last night. He almost wants to turn around and abandon Vanitas if it’s to salvage whatever dignity he still has.

Yet here Vanitas is, barely sparing him a glance through his mask before looking ahead. If Noé’s hearing isn’t sharp as a vampire’s, he will miss the fondness tinkling in Vanitas’ reply: “Don’t make it a habit.”

It’s a Babel-class miracle how insignificant words have so much impact on Noé, how it instantly releases the oppressing weight off his chest.

“Who are you?”

A man’s voice pierces through his mood. It’s a stern and suspicious tone that has them cautiously turning around.

The person appears to have come from one of the hallways. His alert crimson eyes glint in clear hostility. Noé sights the papers crumpling in the man’s tightening grip.

“I’m Noé. I was hoping to see Mademoiselle Lucia,” he answers, truthfully.

The man raises an skeptical eyebrow. “What for?”

Noé dearly clutches at the basket of carefully arranged bouquet that he’s been holding on since they left.

“To deliver flowers,” Noé utters quietly, “From the de Sade family.”

He internally praises himself for not stuttering the lie. Well, not entirely a lie, as Domi suddenly shoved the basket to his arms, narrowly missing them at the servant’s gateway of the de Sade mansion. She’d murmured that it was for the soprano, a token of gratitude for the ball the night before.

It dawns on Noé then. She must’ve seen this coming.

The tension on the man’s brows somehow eased a bit. His gaze flitters to the side, where a masked Vanitas stands behind him. Noé attempts to think of an excuse yet nothing comes to mind, nothing that will not make him an obvious liar.

Despite this, Vanitas lowers his gaze and bows, eloquently introducing himself. “Vincent, monsieur, a servant assigned by Lady Dominique,” their gazes meet, “As Monsieur Noé often finds himself lost.”

“I don’t.” The retort comes habitually. Noé vividly spots the tiniest twitch in the corner of Vanitas’ lips.

A beat of silence echoes before the man exasperatedly sighs. “Can’t exactly turn away people from the de Sade family, I guess. Come, monsieurs.”

As the man leads them through the hallway, Noé can discern more of the man’s features. He has a ruffled brown hair cut short and highlighted by gray strands. Perhaps he’s coming off from a dye, Noé wonders. There’s a visible slouch on his rounded shoulders as he shuffles towards the end of the corridor where the noise is becoming more apparent. His facial hair is only beginning to grow and the man’s face is permanently set in a frown—in summary, the man has seen better days.

“May I ask for your name, monsieur?” Noé inquires.

“Jules.” His clipped answer.

“Well, Monsieur Jules—”

“Jules alone is sufficient.”

“Well, Jules—”

“Here we are,” Jules interrupts.

He presents them the bustle auditorium. They have entered through the entrance in the middle and is gifted by the overlooking sight of the members of the opera group moving around to design the stage. The vampires below look like ants with how large the auditorium is. Noé can barely perceive the seats, the lack of lights shrouding them in darkness, so Noé fixates himself to the heart of the hectic crowd—Mademoiselle Lucia stands out with her pink hair tied in one large braid behind her.

The noise booms. Or rather, the orchestra does. With its powerful strings and wind instruments, it easily swallows every air in the auditorium and reverberates with its stunning melody. Everyone in the hall pauses to watch the rehearsal.

Then, Mademoiselle Lucia sings.

What Noé first thinks of is this: the role doesn’t match the person he met at the ball. Before him, a whole new person emerges. No more is the innocent and soft lady, only replaced by a seductive woman with an addicting charm and a captivating gaze. The most beautiful rose with thorns. Mademoiselle Lucia’s smile no longer curved bashfully, but now it grins with the sheer confidence of her attractiveness. It reflects on her voice: the way it reverberates in the auditorium is powerful yet sweet, like a coy melody that subtly plasters itself all over him like a lover. Noé finds himself thoroughly entranced.

As if sensing Noé’s gaze, Mademoiselle Lucia shifts their gaze to them.

“Jules!” Noé hears another sigh from the said man. “You’ve brought visitors!”

At the mention of them, the erratic auditorium rapidly muffles itself to look over at them. They break out in scattered murmurs upon seeing their group.

As Mademoiselle Lucia nears, Jules explains, “They’re here for you, Lucia.”

“Ah.” The soprano turns to them. She smiles, “Monsieur Noé. A pleasure to meet you again.”

Noé blinks at the sudden change of persona, a mask falling from her face. Before him is the same mademoiselle who waltzed with him in the gilded ballroom last night—a lovely lady with a modest disposition.

“Good day, Mademoiselle Lucia—” he offers the basket of flowers to her, “—Domi asked me to deliver this to you, as a sign of her gratitude.”

“My, Lady Dominique surely precedes her admirable reputation. She didn’t have to do this gesture,” Mademoiselle Lucia remarks as she receives the flora. She motions them to a vague direction in the backstage. “Come. I’ll show you the opera house. So long as you don’t mind me putting these in the dressing room first.”

“Allow me to accompany you,” Jules immediately offers.

“No need. They need you here, Jules.”

The man is about to burst into complaints when a new voice speaks.

“Then allow me in his stead.”

However, for Noé, it’s not an entirely new voice.

Standing behind them is the same woman that Noé had accidentally bumped into before, effectively ruining her appearance with how disheveled she’d been. But now, her indigo hair is neatly tied in a low ponytail and she dons a simple dress, one that is likely designed to move with comfort. Most likely for rehearsals, judging the fact that she blends seamlessly with the crowd in the hall.

“Florence!” Mademoiselle Lucia cheerily greets, “Don’t you have any scenes to rehearse?”

“I am done for the day,” This Florence person replies curtly. Her gaze snaps to Noé. A magenta glare pins him to place and the hostility unnerves Noé that an apology comes automatically to him.

“Mademoiselle, I apologize for inconveniencing you last night.” Noé feels the prickling stare that Vanitas directs at him. A topic that will undoubtedly be brought up once they convene alone again.

“Florence is fine,” Florence waves off his apology. “Shall we go?”

Noé doesn’t miss the glance spared to Vanitas. Suddenly, he’s reminded by the idea that these two already know each other judging from how close they’d been in the ball. The thought settles uncomfortably in his stomach and pushes against his lungs.

“Of course, let us move on.”

Mademoiselle Lucia gently lowers the woven basket on the vanity. A single bloom is missing, courtesy of the soprano gifting it to her friend.

Noé is left alone with Mademoiselle Lucia as they have found their companions missing all of a sudden. Noé had mentioned that it’s a frequent occurrence among his peers—often getting themselves lost—to which Mademoiselle Lucia laughs in amusement.

“Florence will guide Monsieur Vincent well,” she assures him,“I have suspicions their personalities will complement well.”

Judging from their equal bitterness and spiteful antagonism with the world, Noé readily agrees with the assumption.

Noé inquires, “If you don’t mind me asking, mademoiselle, how long have you been in the opera?”

The opera singer thoughtfully hums, “In the past century, I believe,” she grins then, “I’m older than my appearance shows.”

Noé is clueless on what the correct response should be so he settles for another question. A query that’s been bubbling him since he witnessed her singing last night. “How can you sing so well? It’s so powerful too. I thought the only way to achieve a voice volume that loud is by shouting or screaming.”

“An inquisitive one, are you?” Mademoiselle Lucia hums, “It’s a combination of technique and maintenance of our voices. We’re very mindful of our throats and look after it carefully. After all, your career is ruined if you messed up your vocal chords.”

She gestures for him to follow her outside the dressing room for the actresses and skillfully leads him back to the auditorium, to the darkened seats and far away from the stage.

Noé asks, “But don’t our healing abilities fix such a problem?”

“It’s the same logic with scars. They heal yet not as flawless as it had been.”

At the mention of scars, Noé is reminded by the amount of scars decorating his partner’s body and think that despite how ugly the other views it, Noé still sees them beautiful and flawless.

Mademoiselle Lucia adds, “Although, I have been singing for years and faced no lasting injuries on my throat, the thrill of the opera is waning on me. It will be a lie if I say I don't regret parting with the company but I'm assured they will manage without me.”

The way she watches on the busy actors and actresses, the props men and seamstresses, as well as the staffs and stage managers, teems with fondness yet it’s mournful.

“Are you worried about them?”

“Not in the slightest. Soon enough, I’ll be replaced by someone better.”

“Who do you think it will be?”

Her face tilts upward, angling her gaze to one of the higher level boxes of the auditorium. There, Noé vividly spots the hourglass on Vanitas' ear and not far from him is Florence. The two postures themselves as if they’re already acquainted—the chemistry from last night seems to have deepened.

In the dark, Vanitas' gaze shifts to meet Noé's. He breaks it away to face an amused Florence.

“Florence will,” Mademoiselle Lucia answers, confident and sure, “She’s a talented singer, although not exactly approachable.”

Mademoiselle Lucia faces him then, she motions for Noé to be closer, wanting to whisper something to his ear. “I’ll tell you an insider secret, Monsieur Noé.”

Noé dutifully obliges to her whim. She whispers, “Florence’s been wanting to replace me for as long as I can remember.”

A rivalry?

Mademoiselle Lucia promptly retreats after and brings her finger to her smiling lips—a gesture of secret. “I guess it’s natural if someone new took your promised role.”

The soprano doesn’t seem inclined to entertain any queries so Noé forgoes any comments on it, drops the topic altogether by asking the one question him and Vanitas took all this trouble for.

“Please answer me honestly, Mademoiselle Lucia,” Noé whispers, “Are you a curse-bearer?”

“This again, Monsieur Noé?” Mademoiselle Lucia tilts her head and smiles. The same way adults do when humoring a demanding child. “I am not curse-bearer.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Mademoiselle Lucia asserts, “Ah, please send Lady Dominique my gratitude over the flowers.”

("You're the one who sent the letter," Vanitas says.

"Astute," Florence—contrast to her barbed, unveiled, and unpleasant personality—smiles, "Vanitas."

"Then, why lie?"

"What I claim is the truth: Lucia is a curse-bearer," Florence shrugs, "She hides it so well with that facade of hers because she fears it will ruin the pinnacle of her career that should've been mine."

Vanitas' eyes narrow. "What do you get from this?"

"Monsieur, you are well-versed in the language of aristocracy. You know how it operates," Florence takes a deliberate step towards him, "Curing her reveals that she's curse-bearer, destroys her credibility, taints her pure image, reveals that she risked the lives of everyone around her, especially of the elite, of Lord de Sade."

Florence regards him with a studying gaze.

"I know of an Archiviste and it's not your dear Noé." At the mention of his partner, his sight seeks Noé. The vampire looks back at him from the seats below.

This is where Vanitas commits his vital mistake.

"You want to help him uncover his origins, don't you?"

A hook, line, and sinker. In the face of it, Vanitas knows he's caught.

He doesn't like it.)