#how this boy pretended to himself that Noé would be able to kill him?

[izartn]

Btw in tCSoV the way Louis explained things to Noé and how Vanitas does now is such an interesting contrast?

It's both of them looking at Noé naivety and good will with endearment,

but Vanitas recognizing Noé needs to know how the world works for him to thrive and not be taken advantage of and explaining to him what is what without sugarcoating but with gentleness (for him that is, but it's striking how soft he comes across for Noé)

and Louis being a young teen in a sheltered lost in the woods castle, who probably doesn't see the point of shattering Noé's illusions when he himself is so unhappy with his knowledge of how the world works and they won't ever be free of Grandfather/Master for Noé to need to know better.

I see what your doing MochiJun.

[astxlphe-fics]

let me live (let me die)

Astolfo meets with Antonio, the head of the Florence chasseurs. It doesn’t go well.

Chapter 3/ ?

< Chapter 2 || Chapter 4 > 

Content warning : mentioned character death, mentioned Moreau 

This whole affair is, to Noé, quite reminiscent of his days with Vanitas. The entrance to the chasseurs’ headquarters is, just as in Paris, under the cathedral, though they don’t access it, this time, through a hidden switch. 

No, it’s a plain old wooden door, which he supposes is the main entrance, and since Astolfo has a key on him they don’t have to sneak in. 

It’s also an old key, and the state of it makes Noé thinks it’s at least thirty years old, maybe even older. Scratched and damaged, though not rusty, it looks well taken care of. Remnants of an old cord looped around the bottom of it shows that it might have been worn as a necklace once. Yet, old and scratched as it is, it does the job it’s supposed to do and opens the door, revealing stone steps going down in the darkness.

Astolfo leads him down the stairs and to the city’s underground. The quiet whispering of the city at night fades into the background, leaving them with a strange, unsettling silence filled only with the sound of their footsteps. 

It’s almost as if the whole place is empty. 

Astolfo seems to know his way, walking with confidence and speeding through the hallways like he’s done this every day of his life. 

“You have been here before, haven’t you?” 

He nods stiffly. “I grew up here. The chasseurs in my family were historically based in Florence. My father took my sister and I to headquarters many times when we were children." He falls silent as they turn into another hallway, leaving Noé to guess. 

As children. Noé catches himself thinking of a young Astolfo, smaller and rounder faced, running with an even smaller girl along those cold, empty stone corridors. Laughing, maybe, even though he has trouble imagining what Astolfo's genuine laughter sounds like.

Then, Astolfo stops walking, eyeing another door at the end of the corridor. He stares at it, before turning back to Noé, hesitant. “You keep quiet,” he ends up ordering, keeping his voice low. “I don’t want a vampire to ruin my chances to get information, and I don’t trust you not to wander off.” 

Noé doesn’t need to be here when Astolfo is negotiating, but he remembers the look on his face as he asked if he was sure the chasseurs would help. As Astolfo hissed that he had friends, defensive, in a way that makes Noé think it's much more complicated than he pretends. To be perfectly honest, Astolfo is difficult to like on his best days, and Noé has a hard time picturing him having friends. 

So, he simply acquiesces, though the former chasseur eyes him suspiciously. 

There is no denying there is something reassuring in having backup when being about to have a talk with Antonio, of all people. 

Antonio used to be family. Astolfo remembers, as a child, the man lifting him and carrying him up on his shoulders, then the two of them racing his father and Marco down the headquarters' corridors. He remembers with clarity playing hide and seek with Louisette, Isa, and Antonio in the archives, squeezing himself into small spaces, holding back giggles, waiting to be discovered. Antonio and Marco coming over for diner as guests of the Granatum household, hugging his mother, clapping shoulders with his father.

He’s been tempted, several times, to go looking for the Granatum family house, where his parents and Louisette are buried. To this day, he still hasn’t gathered the nerves to actually do it. To walk back on this old path, to look upon his abandoned, probably now decrepit home, to stand before what remains of his family, is something he doesn't feel strong enough to do yet. Maybe, once he's done, while the vampires he led into his own house as an overly trusting child are dead, he will be able to stand before their graves.

Still, somehow, after everything, Florence feels a little like home. The soft chatter of the crowd around him in his native tongue is familiar, the city's air lifts his spirit and takes him back to simpler, happier times.

A distracted grunt answers Astolfo when he knocks. He takes it as an invitation to come in and pushes the door open, slipping into Antonio’s office with the vampire behind him. 

Antonio sits behind his desk, in full uniform, sword resting against the arm of his chair, which means he's ready to leave, either for a simple patrol or a larger operation. He quickly riffles through several papers, which he settles to the side when Astolfo comes in.

It feels like forever since he stood there. Yet it was only six months ago, though their meeting was brief and the consequences dire. Before that time, he was twelve years old when he was last called into this office, just a few months after losing his family, right before leaving for France and not expecting to set foot in this room ever again.

Antonio was not happy to see him months ago, after the mess in Paris, and he will not be happy to see him today, that much is obvious. Astolfo shoves his gloved hands in his pocket, nervous, trying to reassure himself. 

Friend, he called the man when talking about him to the vampire, but it’s a bit of a stretch considering how their last conversation went. Considering everything . He tries to look surer of himself than he really is in front of the Archiviste, but he will not be surprised if Antonio is mad at him. He has good reason to be — and, to be fair, Astolfo has a good reason to be mad at Antonio too.

But Antonio is also the only one who can point him in the right direction so Astolfo swallows his pride, hoping he’ll share what he knows, if only to get him out of his office faster. 

“Good evening,” he says. 

 “I’m glad to meet one of Astolfo’s friends!” The vampire smiles brightly. I’m Noé—” he stops himself when Antonio looks up, and scowls.  

“You again?” He also raises an eyebrow at Noé Archiviste’s presence, though doesn’t comment on it, focused on Astolfo. “What do you want?” 

If Astolfo isn’t surprised by the tone, the vampire falters, smile dropping, and he sends Astolfo an uncertain glance. Are you sure?  it seems to wonder. 

“The same as during our last meeting: the last known whereabouts of the Chevalier Ténèbre.” 

The man tenses, standing it up and walking around his desk. He’s tall — way taller than Astolfo, probably taller than the Archiviste — so he has to tilt his head back to keep looking at him in the eyes. Being on his shoulders used to be like sitting on top of the world, his head almost brushing against the ceiling and his forehead knocking on the lowest doorframes by accident.

“Do you realize what mess you’ve caused here, Astolfo?” 

This time Astolfo winces, and he feels the vampire tense up at his side. 

“Astolfo��” he starts, but Astolfo shakes his head no. He stays quiet. 

Marco and Antonio were always, to Astolfo, very similar. First, because they were brothers —he can still find Marco’s gentle features and kind disposition in Antonio. They also both were among the first to give him the chance to have his revenge, to support him when he asked to be a chasseur. 

Antonio signed the papers that would send him up to Paris. Marco, unable to stand seeing him leave on his own, followed. They both saw him, at twelve years old, determined to become a chasseur. Now, at nineteen years old, Astolfo stands before Antonio, a vampire in tow. 

“You knew where to find him six months ago; can you tell me where he is now?” He stops for a second or two, then adds: “Please.” 

“I don’t know,” Antonio drawls out. “Are you planning to go after him on your own, ruin a chasseur operation several months in the making, and come very close to getting yourself killed? In that case, it’s a no.” 

Next to him, the vampire startles, but before he can try to say anything again Astolfo snaps back: 

“I’m healed now. I have— I can take him. Just tell me—” 

“You’re not a chasseur, boy. You were stripped of that title for a reason . Good God, the only reason you are walking free is because someone insisted you were a child and were manipulated and chose to do the right thing in the end.”  He scoffs, and Astolfo is sure he can hear traces of rage and grief in his voice and can’t blame him for it. “Leave it to people who actually know what they’re doing.” 

“That’s—” 

“Quiet,” Astolfo cuts him, shoving his elbow into the vampire’s ribs. His stomach turns and his breath comes out short, and his eyes burn with frustrated tears, because Antonio is, ultimately, right. 

Astolfo trusted the wrong people. Astolfo made the wrong choices. Astolfo lost his title as a chasseur and thus every way he had to find his family’s murderers and it is his own fault.  

Astolfo got Marco killed. 

He can’t let it stop him. Not now, not after all these years — after all, what sense does it make to stop now? None. His revenge has been his goal for so long, past the vampire elimination and past the church's teachings.

“You know what,” he decides, turning to his vampire companion. “Wait for me in the corridor.” 

“But—” 

“This conversation doesn’t concern you.” There are so many things he doesn’t want him to know, some things that will be brought up today and he would rather not have to explain. Not now. Not ever. “I don’t want to talk about it.” This the vampire seems to understand, and he nods, although reluctant. He leaves the room, though not before sending Antonio a suspicious glare. "And don't wander off," Astolfo calls after him.

Once the vampire is gone, he faces Antonio again, who simply watched the exchange in silence. “A new friend, then?” 

“Travelling companion,” Astolfo corrects. “One I can’t seem to shake off.” 

“A vampire.” 

“Don’t change the subject.” He takes in a deep breath. “You owe me this, Antonio.” 

“How dare you?” Astolfo takes an instinctive step back as Antonio snaps at him, glowering. “Not only I already answered you once, and after you promised to be careful you still interfered. And even before that— After everything I did for you—” 

Once again, Antonio is entirely right, but there is nothing in the world that'll make Astolfo admit it out loud. “I'm talking about Moreau," he snaps, and Antonio hesitates, paling. "You did not send me to Paris to become a chasseur and we both know it — I earned that title, through my own skills — because you were just as opposed to it as Roland! You sent me because Doctor Moreau asked.” He grimaces thinking back on what he saw and heard down there.

Thinking about ghostly boys, skinny and bruised. About the screaming.

Astolfo had been lucky. His marks, in a way, saved him.

The truth, and the point, in the end, were that Antonio lied. Antonio pretended to support him, pretended to understand why he needed to become a chasseur. 

Antonio only sighs, tired. “I’m not going to argue with you on this now, Astolfo. I don't have the time. Now, leave the city before you interfere in another operation. If you want to argue, we can do it later.” 

“I'm not going anywhere before you tell me about the Chevalier."” 

Grabbing Astolfo’s arm, Antonio pulls him back towards the door. “Leave now,” he says again. “I don’t want to end up with a dead civilian on my hands. I don’t want you dead.” 

“Don’t say that—” 

The door slams shut behind him and Astolfo is back in the corridor, frustration making his blood boil. He has half a mind to turn around and kick the door down, but he forces himself to settle down. 

Fighting more with Antonio won’t help. At least he didn’t take his key. Maybe he doesn’t even know Astolfo still has it, or he knows Astolfo won't separate himself from it. It's precious, not only in its usage — opening the door to the chasseurs' Headquarters — but also in its significance — the last thing Astolfo's father ever gave him, whispering in a conspirator's tone that one day, maybe, when he's bigger, he'll find some use for it.

“Let’s go,” he tells the Archiviste, and stops, staring out at the empty hallway. One if his eyebrows twitches. “Is this a joke?” 

He walks back the way they first came from. He isn’t even sure the vampire knows how to go back outside, but hopefully he has the presence of mind not to wander off in here, of all places. Maybe he had to leave to avoid being caught — but then again it doesn't make sense, all he has to say is that he's with Astolfo, or that he wishes to meet with Antonio. 

His pace quickens as he speeds up the stairs and leaves the building, only to find himself alone outside, on the side street where the back entrance is. Looking around, he still can’t find the vampire. 

“Hey!” he calls out. No answer.  

Maybe he finally understood that Astolfo doesn’t need him and he left. 

The thought doesn’t sit that well with him. 

He could have at least told him he was leaving.

“Noé?” He hates how hesitant his voice comes out. 

Still, no answer. “Fine!” he snaps, stomping his foot on the ground in anger before striding back to the main street, not caring about sounding childish. “Good riddance. I don’t need you, and I hate you anyway!”  

The main entrance of the cathedral is a little more crowded, with only a handful of people mingling around due to the late hour. None of them is the vampire, and Astolfo lets out an annoyed huff, leaving the square to walk back to the hotel. 

It’s fine. 

Tomorrow, he’ll find another way to get the information on the Chevalier Ténèbre and kill him on his own, like he’s been planning to do from the beginning. 

It is fine. 

“Well, isn’t that—” 

The voice catches him off guard and he freezes — it’s not a voice he’s about to forget. His breath stutters and, when he looks up, it’s to a tall gentleman whose face is overshadowed by the brim of his top hat. 

A pale hand gently pushes Astolfo’s hair back behind his ear, before flicking at his fang earring. It dangles without a sound, and the man grins. “That’s what I thought — I noticed it last time, but I couldn’t be sure.” His fingers close around it. 

Sharp, stinging pain makes Astolfo hiss between his teeth as the jewelry is ripped off his ear, and he slaps the man’s hand away. His heart speeds up, echoing in his chest like it’s in a hollow cave, in a mix of fear and rage and excitation. “Chevalier.” 

“This,” Jean Ténèbre simply says, charming smile still in place, holding the fang between now bloodstained fingers, “belonged to my brother. But I assume, Astolfo Granatum, that you already knew this.”