He could have kept it. He even considered it, weighed his options of coveting that stolen feeling for himself. It wasn't like Quentin had forgotten it, after all. None of these memories raining from the sky were stolen ones— they were just playback, like those moving pictures Peter talked about. Quentin wouldn't have even missed it, if Vanitas hadn't said anything at all.

Giving it back isn't some altruistic attempt at doing something good. It's only because Vanitas doesn't want the pain that follows after he watches it, the bitter resentment of thinking he'll never be able to feel so full as that on his own. Why he didn't just throw it into the lake or discard it otherwise... well, maybe in some way, he didn't want to share what he'd discovered.

It's kind of like a secret, that way. There's something alluring about that. Friends kept secrets. Even if he and Quentin aren't that.

Vanitas looks at him, his yellow eyes luminescent under the dancing green light up above. People have said that before. That he has a choice, that he can choose something different. He doesn't know how to explain that he can't choose anything different from the Darkness. But he is learning that Darkness isn't as one dimensional as he thought it was.

He stands up wordlessly, then, with Quentin's words rattling around in his head, percolating into the shattered remnants of his heart, and walks back out into the commotion of the celebration.