Victim
What it is to love is a strange thing, truly. Influenced by so many things, love can be the most complicated thing ever. Sometimes, it is not right for two to love, sometimes it is so right, it feels wrong. That is the nature of love, and there is no way to explain it's complication, but there are ways to believe in it. For example, God. God creates love for us s we can fill that void that consumes us, but God knows what is right and wrong as well. He understands that two boys or two girls kissing is disgusting, and there is only one possible way for two genders to unite. Chasseurs made sure that idea was buried so far into Vanitas' head that he'd never doubt it, so when he first saw Roland and Olivier being affectionate and flirty, it confused him.
Sure, he knows that love is not a choice, and he chooses not to believe in most of the teachings from the lab, but they're meant to believe in God and respect all of his wishes, so why would they neglect God's wants and ignore what he believes? Two chasseurs, in love, how could that be? As simple as it may seem to ask the two, it would not be without cost. Roland is far smarter than he lets on, so to ask him how he disobeys God's few rules directly would open up a tunnel in the Chasseur's mind to Vanitas' past, and that's quite frankly the last thing Vanitas needs.
He could ask Olivier, sure, but he doesn't know Olivier well, so he couldn't really predict what he would do about it. Thus, this leaves Vanitas stumped. How should he uncover the reason for their misbehavior if he doesn't know anyone dimwitted enough to tell him, well--anyone dimwitted and religious.
He heaves a sigh, exhaling through both his mouth and his nostrils. He's currently on the rooftop of Hotel ChouChou contemplating the idea of same sex love. How pitiful that seems, judging that he was taught to dislike it. However, when he looks at a pretty boy, his heart jumps the way it does when he sees a pretty girl. Not a thought of love, just a pleasing image that causes him to brighten. But when he hears other men talking about beauty, he never hears a man's name slip from their lips. It's always about a girls boobs, or her ass, but is that all that defines attraction? Are the male and female bodies just molded to feel connected to the opposite sex's body parts? How is it that attraction follows the simple pattern of boy liking girl or vice versa with only rare breaks?
Perhaps the reason for the lack of same sex love is the thriving homophobia of their era. Vanitas is not one to say he dislikes those who feel connected with people of the same gender, he doesn't really care enough. Love whoever you will, that does not matter to him, but he supposes it should. Moreau told him so. But he doesn't like Moreau, he hates him, he hates everything about that man, so why, why, does his opinion matter? Maybe it is because it is God's opinion and not Moreau's? No, that cannot be true either, as Vanitas couldn't give two shits about religion.
A breeze whips past his face and pulls him back out of his thoughts, his now messy ponytail brushing his face ticklishly. His brain is normally so well organized, but for whatever reason, it is failing on him now. It is so confusing how his brain ceases to work whenever he needs it to.
Ah, how unreliable the human organs can be.
A cough stirs in his throat, an indicator that it's time to go inside. With his hands, he pushes himself up, collecting uncomfortable rubble on his gloves that he brushes off quickly. He tightens his ponytail a bit by pulling harshly, in hopes of straightening its looks.
From out here, he can hear the beginnings of morning, the townsfolk waking slowly. Birds chirp and wind blows, it's peaceful. From up here, he can see a large area of Paris, and it's beautiful, decorated in all of its light. Early risers and shop keepers already crowd the bustling streets with laughter and talk, decorating sidewalks with petticoats and vests. The people here are so sophisticated, which isn't odd for a time period like the current, but it certainly is remarkable.
With a huff, Vanitas jumps down and swings through the window, keeping himself steady with his hands. Once inside the room, he is met with a still slumbering Noé. Snores echo through the room, followed by the soft 'clack,' of the window closing. The pane hits the sill dully, blocking the cold breeze from invading the room. While he's kicking his shoes off, Vanitas can see Noé start to stir just the tiniest bit. His skin glows in the light, and his features seem all the more captivating. His eyelashes lay across his cheeks, undisturbed by the blow of the air conditioning. Beautiful white hair lays messy around the shape of the vampire's face which adds a characteristic similar to humanity to the ethereal being laying on the bed.
And with that, he's back into the rabbit hole.
In the bathroom, his gloves off, the ugly blue mark on display, he stares at himself. How does one go through such a mood change? The vampire, a vampire, makes him feel safer than he feels with himself. That's so ironic, if it weren't so sad it could be laughable. Vampires. They ruined his life. They killed his family, forcing him to be taken to the lab. No. It wasn't the vampires, it was bad luck. Bad luck that led that snake to touch him down there. Bad luck that led to those experiments. But worst of all, bad luck led to who he is as a person. What kind of man cannot handle touch?
God, he hates having emotions, they bring nothing but insignificance. Yet... maybe it is not only emotions. Maybe it is the feeling of permanent hands on his thighs, whispering sweet praises kind enough to bless a god. Praises that he refused to believe, praises that he can't accept to this day. If someone says he's beautiful he must fight back tears, if someone says he is obeying, he must hide the fists he makes of his hands.
That god awful man, those... cold.. bony.. hands.
A deep breath, a sting in his eyes. He composes himself, gripping the marble counter harshly.
"I am not a victim," he says into the mirror, while those cold, dead eyes stare back at him.
"Are you not?" That sickeningly sweet, high-pitched voice that could only belong to one doctor rings through his head, and he freezes. He is no victim. He has had nothing happen to him that is injustice. He is selfish, and sensitive. The victim is not he, but those that know him.
Why has he continued to live if only for arrogance? They say happiness is key, and it is only human to wish for happiness, yet he doesn't yearn for it so. Is he even capable of being considered human? He cannot do this anymore. This skin he wishes to thrash across with blades of steel keeps his body whole, yet he feels bugs pouring out from the cracks, the cockroaches of the bunch crawling into his mouth.
Oh, how disgusting he is.
Isn't it so wrong of him to not feel that he should change? To not feel that he is capable? To feel that he is deserving of the pain? And he knows that happiness is supposedly a saving grace, yet if arrogance is equal to happiness why should he believe it is just? If it is so great that he lies to himself and say that he is good and capable of being good, then why is he told it is wrong.
"You're a bad person, Vanitas." He knows that all too well. He's been told his whole life, so of course it can only be true. To see through his eyes is to see through the eyes of an asshole full with nothing but self-centered narcissism. He looks through these eyes that he so badly wishes to rip out, and he thinks of how hard it must be to see him every day. How does Noé put up with him?
Speaking of.. what was that earlier with Noé? He cannot love his best friend. Actually, that is so unfathomable, that it is disgusting that it even appeared in his mind! Why would his twisted brain remind him that he is nothing but sin itself?
He cannot be the only one who hears his thoughts, the only one who hears those little voices in the back of his head, screaming at him that he is insolent.
Oh, this is insane.