Vanitas doesn't notice directly what Bruce is doing, or reaching for, because he's scowling down at his eggs like they're the source of all his problems— even though in reality the object of his rage and envy had never even been in Beacon. It isn't until the shadow of his arm crosses the plate and he hears the soft sound of the glass coming off the counter that he jerks his head up with much more dramaticism than the situation calls for. Half of that is accidental— and he feels his head throb in protest with the sudden movement.
He has two hands, but Vanitas drops the fork with a clatter and reaches for the bottle. Bruce might be baiting him, but the fact is, Vanitas has never been playfully baited before. He hardly knows what play means in a context that doesn't end in discipline. To him, Bruce is really going to take this thing away from him.
His hand closes around the bottle above Bruce's, and he forces it back down to the counter with a soft thunk. It leaves them both holding it, though Vanitas' own grip is a little too tight— possessive, but also just because judging his own surroundings is a little off.
It would bother him more, maybe, if he were alone. If he were with anyone but Bruce. He doesn't yet recognize the significance of that fact.
But then, as the moment stretches, Vanitas' gaze goes from the bottle to Bruce's face— and he lets go of the bottle like it's burned him. Something molten crawls up his spine, then. It comes to him white-hot, and makes his stomach turn, equal parts nausea and the shape of the emotion. He wants that drink. He wants the way it made him feel, like nothing really mattered; the way it chased all his pain into the edges and made it numb, the closest thing to peace he's felt since tucking up with Sora in his stupid hammock. Since feeling that gentle let go of letting life go.
Bruce says I suppose you're finished with this, and Vanitas is reminded that he isn't supposed to have those things. He's reminded of his Master, of I suppose we're done here, when Vanitas hadn't lived up to his expectations. Normally, his barriers are much stronger than this— but that tremble is still under his skin, the vestiges of too much booze and the way it wracks at the body. Inadvertently chastised, Vanitas flushes hard, his cheeks flaming up.
"I'll just take it when you aren't looking," He bites, but there's something brittle in his voice; he can feel the thickness of it, choked up by the Unversed that it wants to crawl out of him as. He picks up his fork again and stabs into a piece of sausage, putting it into his mouth and averting his gaze.
no subject
He has two hands, but Vanitas drops the fork with a clatter and reaches for the bottle. Bruce might be baiting him, but the fact is, Vanitas has never been playfully baited before. He hardly knows what play means in a context that doesn't end in discipline. To him, Bruce is really going to take this thing away from him.
His hand closes around the bottle above Bruce's, and he forces it back down to the counter with a soft thunk. It leaves them both holding it, though Vanitas' own grip is a little too tight— possessive, but also just because judging his own surroundings is a little off.
It would bother him more, maybe, if he were alone. If he were with anyone but Bruce. He doesn't yet recognize the significance of that fact.
But then, as the moment stretches, Vanitas' gaze goes from the bottle to Bruce's face— and he lets go of the bottle like it's burned him. Something molten crawls up his spine, then. It comes to him white-hot, and makes his stomach turn, equal parts nausea and the shape of the emotion. He wants that drink. He wants the way it made him feel, like nothing really mattered; the way it chased all his pain into the edges and made it numb, the closest thing to peace he's felt since tucking up with Sora in his stupid hammock. Since feeling that gentle let go of letting life go.
Bruce says I suppose you're finished with this, and Vanitas is reminded that he isn't supposed to have those things. He's reminded of his Master, of I suppose we're done here, when Vanitas hadn't lived up to his expectations. Normally, his barriers are much stronger than this— but that tremble is still under his skin, the vestiges of too much booze and the way it wracks at the body. Inadvertently chastised, Vanitas flushes hard, his cheeks flaming up.
"I'll just take it when you aren't looking," He bites, but there's something brittle in his voice; he can feel the thickness of it, choked up by the Unversed that it wants to crawl out of him as. He picks up his fork again and stabs into a piece of sausage, putting it into his mouth and averting his gaze.