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#astonoé
astxlphe-fics · 3 years
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let me live (let me die)
The end of the fight with the Chevalier, and the start of something between Astolfo and Noé.
Chapter 5/?
< Chapter 4 || Chapter 6 >
Content warning : character death (OC), violence, mentioned character death, implied medical abuse (? Doctor Moreau is talked about)
Noé wants to ask Astolfo many questions, specifically regarding Antonio. Something is bothering him, but it’ll have to wait.
Right now, their focus is the Chevalier Ténèbre.
He still can barely believe that anyone would, on their own will, murder someone’s whole family. There has to be an explanation, a truth neither of them is aware of.
They let him come to them, and the Chevalier has no trouble finding them.
From his perch on the roof, Noé glances down at Astolfo, hiding against the wall at the street corner, a flash grenade held tight in his hands. He is utterly still, for now.
“This is getting rather tedious, though not entirely unexpected,” the Chevalier says. “The Granatums have always been a plague upon vampire kind.”
The glow of his eyes is bright enough that Noé can see it. The shadows move around him, muting his footsteps. It seems to lose some of its density when hit by the moonlight, though not entirely.
So, their suspicions are correct.
Astolfo rips the pin off the grenade, arming it, and lets it drop in the street, where it rolls down the pavement. At this time of the night, when people have either gone home or run away from the fight already, the sound it makes is too loud.
The Chevalier’s head snaps towards it and recognizes it with ease. He takes a few steps back, trying to protect his eyes, but it blows before he has the time.
Noé covers his face, closing his eyes as the bright flash of light explodes through the streets. It feels like it burns through his eyelids still, making him a feel somewhat dizzy, though not as much as if he took the full brunt of it.
The Chevalier isn't so lucky.
He screams, the light snaps his control over the formula, destroys the shadows around him, and Noé winces in sympathy. Having been subjected to an earlier version of the Aegis grenade, he knows it isn’t a particularly good feeling.
Not to mention, any chasseur out and about will be attracting to the flash like moths to a streetlight.
Astolfo darts out of his hiding place, quick enough to come close to the Chevalier while he’s still distracted. Meanwhile, Noé shakes his head to get rid of the lingering nausea, waiting for it to fade before joining the fight.
It looks like Astolfo doesn’t truly need him, though he won’t bet his life on that. He is fast on his feet, striking quick and getting out of range even quicker. Without the distance advantage a spear usually gives him, he has to force himself into his enemy’s space, push him to act before he can think.
Astolfo always was a smart fighter, though Noé supposes he has to be when.
Finally, his vision clears, and reinforces his body before he lets himself fall from the rooftop. His knee collides with of one of his shoulders, sending him tripping forward.
“You’ve brought a friend,” he hisses. “Afraid of facing me on your own?”
The shadows still have trouble reforming around him. The Chevalier’s hands shake as he tries to get them back under his control, and they shift and bubble while Astolfo dashes again. The Chevalier manages to avoids him, but barely, staggering,
Still, Astolfo staggers as well and seems to have forgotten all about Noé’s presence as he turns on his heels and runs straight into him. Noé’s balance wavers, and he grabs onto Astolfo to avoids the both of them stumbling over each other. “Be care—“
But Astolfo shoves his hand off. “Out of my way,” he snarls, pushing him away, “I’ll gut him—”
Noé shoves him out of the way as the Chevalier, having found his lost balance, comes at them. “Be careful!” he calls out again.
“Let—”
Noé’s hands grabs on the Chevalier’s wrist. “A vampire?” the Chevalier says, “no, worse, an Archiviste , helping a Granatum, of all people? Well, I thought I had seen everything.”
“Did you—” The Chevalier tries to rip his wrist out of his grip, but Noé is barely shaken by the struggle, his prosthetic arm holding on tight. “Did you kill his family?”
All Noé needs is a word — a single word that would suggest this man did not do it on his own volition, that something else is at play. Then maybe— then maybe—
Instead, the Chevalier laughs . “And we did our kind a favor ,” he answers, lips curling into a smile. “They deserved it after the what they did —”
And Noé shoves his knee into the vampire guts before he twists his arm until its bends. Then, he kicks his legs, throwing him down on the ground.
The shadows, back in his control, writhe and wrap around his ankles. Noé tries to move to pin him down but they trip him and he almost falls.
Running past him again, Astolfo drops on the Chevalier’s stomach, forcing him to stay down, raises his blade and plunges it deep in his chest.
The vampire howls and trashes, almost throwing Astolfo off but the younger man holds on and, with all the strength his human body can muster, stabs him again — and again and again and again and again , until he stops trashing and the shadows at Noé’s feet fade.
Still, Noé doesn’t move, staring wide eyed as Astolfo doesn’t stop. Blood sprays his face, seeps between the cobblestone squares of the street and his face twists with rage.
“Astolfo,” he calls gently as he pulls on the young man shoulder. “We need to go.” He can hear footsteps coming their way — the chasseurs. If they’re caught here, they’ll be in trouble. But Astolfo doesn’t react, dagger dragging out of the Chevalier’s body with a squelching, wet sound that sends a shiver down Noé spine. “Astolfo, he’s dead!”
He pulls harder at Astolfo’s shoulder, dragging him back on his feet, and the younger man stops. He jerks himself out of Noé’s grip, his blood-streaked face relaxing as he wipes it with his sleeve.
“He is.” His tone flat, he stares, unblinking.
Noé’s eyes linger on the very bloody, very dead vampire on the ground, nausea coming back full force.
Maybe following Astolfo around isn’t Noé’s brightest idea. He isn’t quite sure how many brutal murders he can handle, and as he sends Astolfo a sidelong glance he can’t help but focus on the splatters of blood on his clothes and in his hair.
Astolfo looks back at him, eyes dark — darker than every time the younger man has snapped at him in the past few days, darker than when he’d exploded in anger. But he hides his trembling hands in his wide sleeves and his lips quiver and his shoulders shake as if he’s about to retch so Noé asks:
“Are you okay?”
It takes almost a full minute for Astolfo to answer:
“He killed my mom.” Very audibly, Astolfo gulps and takes in a deep breath. “That night someone — someone was holding me down and I watched him murder my mother. She was— she was screaming and begging and he—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Noé has a pretty solid guess.
She was screaming and begging and Jean Ténèbre laughed.
Then, swiftly, Astolfo kneels back down. He shoves his fingers into the vampire’s mouth as his body starts turning into dust, ripping one of his fangs out with ease. “Let’s go back,” he says when he stands back up, slipping the tooth in his pocket. “I need to clean up.”
-------------------------
With a sigh, Astolfo allows Noé in his hotel room.
Back inside, with the lights on, he looks even worse — dirty and bloody, eyes tired. He drops his dagger in the sink and shrugs of his coat, while Noé sets his own, along with his hat, on the back of the chair.
Soon enough, Astolfo disappears into the bathroom, leaving Noé alone with his thoughts.
In all their years fighting alongside Vanitas, he never killed anyone. He always knew he was capable of it, and made sure it didn’t happen, even by accident. He never settled for Vanitas’ justifications of “it’s too late”, always believing in an alternative. But those vampires were cursed, they did not control themselves. It had not been their fault.
The Chevalier Ténèbre is not one of those vampires and, thinking back on the smug grin stretched on his face, on Astolfo’s exhaustion and despair — to the point of asking someone he dislikes for help — he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man they left dead out in the night.
Someone knocks on the door before Astolfo gets out of the shower, and Murr hisses in warning. Still, Noé stands and opens, finding himself face to face with the old chasseur he’d barely the time to great earlier that day.
He’s wearing his uniform, a sword very much apparent at his hip, and doesn’t look pleased at all.
Noé’s heart speeds up, and t. What is he doing here? How did he find them? Is he here for Astolfo? He glances back at the bathroom door. The water is still running, and with all the blood and grime, it’s unlikely Astolfo will have finished cleaning up soon.
In the end, a form of anger or annoyance prevails at the memory of his exchange with Astolfo, how he talked and looked down on him.
“Good evening,” Noé still greets politely, wondering if he should be ready for a fight. The formula around him crackles and shifts slightly, unnoticed by the human, and strengths builds up in his limbs.
“It’s very much not a good evening.” One of his hand rests on the handle of his sword. “I’m here to see the boy.”
“He’s not here?” Noé lies, terribly so.
Antonio pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you tell me he’s dead I will chop your head off, vampire.”
“He’s not!!” Noé immediately affirms, shaking his head quickly for emphasis. “He’s unavailable, but alive and mostly unarmed!” Antonio doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight, but he still doesn’t let go of the formula. “And my name is Noé.”
So many people showed up before him seemingly peacefully and the night still ended with beating the shit out of each other.
Antonio looks him up and down critically from behind his glasses. He notes Noé’s guarded stance, the metallic glint of his wrist peaking between his glove and his sleeve, Murr’s raised hackles, the weapon in the sink. “So, you are the one who killed Jean Ténèbre.”
“Uh? No, I —” he hesitates — would it make a difference? The accords between humans and vampires are still recent, less than a year old, and some terms are still being discussed by the Senate, so he isn’t quite sure yet what would happen to Astolfo if they realize he’s the one who killed the Chevalier Ténèbre.
He could claim it was in defense of his life, which would be close enough to the truth and difficult to prove wrong.
Turns out he doesn’t have to think about it for a long time.
“What are you doing here?”
Noé didn’t even notice Astolfo coming out of the bathroom. He looks fresher already, wearing clean clothes and his wet hair a mess, though his eyes are red and somewhat puffy.
He scowls as he sees Antonio, narrowing his eyes as if to hide that he’d been crying. “What,” he repeats, “are you doing here?”
“Someone,” Antonio answers just as coldly, glaring at Noé, “killed a vampire we were planning on arresting and handing over to Altus Italy, like the new accords stipulate .”
“I’m the one who killed him.” His scowl deepens. “It appears that I didn’t need your assistance in finding him,” Astolfo goes on, chin tilted up. “He came to me on his own, and attacked me. I merely defended myself.”
“You stabbed him seven times in the chest in self-defense.”
“Exactly.”
He stares at Antonio, challenge in his eyes, daring the man to refute him. But his hands, closed into fists, shake slightly and tension settles in his jaw, so Noé steps up, moving closer to Astolfo.
��Unless you have something else to tell us,” he says, “I think you should leave.”
Antonio stays quiet for a short moment, before he sighs. "First of all, I wanted to apologise for some of the things I said to you yesterday. It was—" he pauses, looking for the right word. "Unecessarily harsh." Astolfo doesn't comment on that, simply crossing his arms, face blank. "And I promised you a talk. About Moreau.”
Blood pounds in Noé’s ears at the familiar name, and he pulls on Astolfo’s forearm, dragging him closer. He clearly remembers the man, the experiments, the way he referred to people as numbers, what he did to Vanitas and Mikhail.
Was Astolfo another one of his test subjects?
“What about Moreau?”
“I thought— he was interested in your marks —”
“So you thought it was an excellent idea to send me over to him so he could study them up close.”
“Do you really believe I wouldn’t have chosen another solution if there had been? You are my best friend’s son ."
Astolfo somehow met the doctor, Astolfo somehow got into grabbing distance of the doctor, and it was this man’s doing.
“No one in the world knew better how vampires worked, how marks worked. He said —” The man falters, and for a moment Noé can see his walls fall apart, see the anger and the guilt. “He promised he would find a way to erase them—”
“And you believed him?” He crosses his arms, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.
“No one had any reason to suspect him at the time — and he was the only option that didn’t involve making my twelve years old godchild a soldier.”
That...makes sense, actually. At least, to Noé it does, but he’s not the wronged party here and it’s not his place to say so. Astolfo hisses under his breath and takes a step forwards, seemingly ready to go for the man’s throat. Noé’s hold on his forearm tightens, so he settles for glaring at the man, not trying to fight Noé’s grip.
“I think you should leave,” he says again, though not as friendly. He bares his teeth, and Murr snarls.
Antonio glances between the three of them and shakes his head, resigned. “You should leave the country as well. I’ll do my best to come up with a slightly more believable story. Be grateful, there won't always be someone to cover for you.”
“We will manage.”
He doesn’t slam the door behind him but might as well have. The silence following his departure feels loud, and Noé doesn’t dare ask Astolfo about anything.
Astolfo suddenly relaxes, his shoulders sagging, and as he drops down on the bed Noé lets go of his arm. He stares up at Noé, wide eyed, shaken. “I didn’t want you to hear this.”
“Is it something you talked about earlier?”
The younger man nods. “I didn’t want you to—”
“I know, and I didn’t want to be here when you two aired your dirty laundry and yet here we are.” He sighs. “I thought you were going to attack him.”
Astolfo’s nose wrinkles as he grimaces. “I suppose I must thank you,” he mutters, and falls silent again. “For your assistance against the Chevalier and for holding me back.”
"You're welcome." Noé sits down on the desk chair, still facing him, and he lets out a small, closed eyed laugh. Astolfo narrows his eyes at him.
“What is it now?”
“You said we too .”
“Excuse me?”
“You said we would manage,” Noé says again, and grins. “As in you and I .”
“I—” he stops himself and sighs. “I guess I did say it.”
“I’m glad.” He is , truly, because it means that Astolfo has accepted his help, that he’s willing to let Noé work with him for the time being. “We should rest, then decide what to do next.”
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astxlphe · 5 years
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The second chapter of my Astonoé fic is giving so much trouble ;u; It’s been months and I barely have a hundred words
And also I have two other wips (one VnC and the other DGM) that are going way faster I hate myself haha
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astxlphe-fics · 3 years
Text
let me live (let me die)
In which Noé wanders off and meets someone new. Meanwhile, Astolfo faces Jean Ténèbre
Chapter 4/?
< Chapter 3 || Chapter 5 >
Content warning : mentioned character death, violence
Of course, Noé wanders off — he wouldn’t be Noé Archiviste if he doesn't wander off. He’s curious and restless, and no matter how long he tries, he just can’t stand there and wait.
So, when he’s kicked out of the room, Noé starts wandering off.
This Antonio doesn’t seem willing to just give out the information they need, so maybe Noé can find it himself. In the past few years, he learned that sometimes, the best way to get information is to avoid asking, but sneak around and find out by yourself.
Better apologize later than ask for permission and being told “no”.
Murr in tow, he goes to explore.
He, somehow, manages to find the archives they passed a few minutes earlier. It’s quiet, and he takes the opportunity to look quickly through the shelves, hoping to find something on the vampire they are looking for.
There are records about him, but nothing recent enough. All he finds are reports upon reports, spanning decades , of a former Chevalier gone rogue with his brother, a thief and conman with a taste for blood, human and vampire alike, who was last seen 6 months ago near the coast, though the operation targeting him failed due to “outside intervention”.
“This is what Antonio referred to earlier, right?” he asks Murr, who sends him flat look, and Noé's eyebrows knit themselves together in worry. The file with the details is missing, along with several others, leaving several empty spots on the shelf, so he can’t be sure, but this is definitely something Astolfo would do.
“Anyone here?” someone calls out from deeper into the archives. Noé winces. He didn’t think anyone would be here, but now that someone is calling out to him, he realizes that archives should have an archivist.
He puts the files back where they belong and, accidentally knocking a chair down on the way, sneaks out of the room, turns at the nearest corner and finds himself into another.
This one seems to be the guardroom. It’s empty and, not for the first time, he wonders where all the chasseurs have gone. They are, though, several pieces of spare equipment in the closet, some which are small enough to fit in his pockets. He takes several, just in case.
He breathes in deeply. Everything is okay, he hasn’t been—
A yelp catches him by surprise.
— caught.
He turns on his heels, hands raised. “Wait, I—”
Another order given in Italian, which he is sure means “ don’t move”, or at least something along those lines.
He stares at the young woman in front of him, her skin a warm brown and dark hair shaved short, a file tucked under her elbow. She stares back at him, black eyes narrowed, then she swiftly slips something out of the sleeve of her white coat and points it at him, still speaking to him in Italian.
Something about not moving, again.
“I’m not an intruder— I mean, yes I am, but I came with Astolfo and I— uh — got lost?”
She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, lowering the blade — a scalpel, Noé notices. “Astolfo? Astolfo Granatum?” When he nods, she lowers her makeshift weapon. She raises her free hand to about ear level, and changes language to French. “Are you sure?”
Is he sure he is with Astolfo? What kind of question is that? “He’s about this tall,” he says, hand raising up just a little under his shoulder. “With pink hair?”
“God, I can’t believe Astolfo is back.” She nods, tense, and her weapon disappears back in her sleeve. Then, she shakes her head from side to side. “Although I’m terribly sorry for the rudeness, if I had known...” She shakes her head again, pinching her lips. “In my defense, I’ve never seen you here before, and who would except him to bring a friend —”
“We’re not,” Noé corrects and when she glances at him with a raised eyebrow, he explains: “We’re not friends, I don’t even like him, we are simply travelling together for a while. He’s meeting with someone called Antonio.” He smiles at her, reassuring. “So, don’t worry about the rudeness, mademoiselle. I wasn’t very polite myself, intruding into your headquarters with no warning. I’m sorry.”
“He’s meeting with Antonio?” she repeats, all offense forgotten, her lips pulling down into a concerned frown. “This can’t go well. They haven’t been getting along, lately.”
“It wasn’t going well when I was kicked out.” Noé sighs. “He told me they were friends, but it doesn’t look like it.”
“They used to be close, but not anymore, not since—” She grimaces, and her shoulders slump. “Astolfo has changed a lot since he went to Paris, in good and bad, and when he came back a few months ago—” She trails off, and goes quiet.
“What happened when he came back?” Noé asks. The woman doesn’t seem willing to elaborate, and she looks at him again with renewed suspicions.
“Why do you want to know?”
“We’re working together.” It doesn’t sound like enough of an explanation. “He’s looking for the Chevalier Ténèbre, and I want to help.”
Hearing those words, she makes a face. “Oh no. I—” She grabs the files she keeps under her elbow. “Since they’ll be moving out against him soon, I’ve been studying those to prepare for the next round of injuries. I’m Isabella, by the way, I’m the doctor here.” She draws out her hand, and Noé shakes it, hesitant. As if she senses his unease, she goes on: “Don’t worry, I'm a regular doctor, I don't do experiments.” Her eyes take on a determined gleam. “I think you will understand better if I show you.”
Taking the file as she hands it out to him, he flips it open. It’s a report, stamped with a bright red “archives copy”, and the medical report attached has Astolfo’s name on it – a word is scratched out with black marker where his first name should be, an “Astolfo” written by hand in a big, looping handwriting just above it. It’s probably the files missing from the archives’ shelves, and Noé can’t believe his luck.
It’s curiosity that pushes him to look through it. Another page confirms his suspicions with heavy injuries and near death and descriptions of bloody wounds and torn flesh and an infection.
“That idiot ,” he mutters, the worry quickly shifting to frustration, and Isabella hums in agreement.
“He really is. It didn’t look pretty. I’m— I’m the one who took care of him, it took days before he was well enough to get out of bed and he left before I discharged him.” She glares hard at the words printed on the papers. “I hadn’t seen him in at least six years. Can you imagine? Your friend leaves for over six years, doesn’t even send a letter, and then – when they brought him in, I thought he was dead ." Her voice breaks slightly on the last word. "I had never seen Antonio look so scared, either.”
Of course, Astolfo didn’t tell him. He has no obligation to do so, Noé knows, but he can’t help but feel the slightest resentment and frustration at the memories of Astolfo’s claims of being able to handle himself when there is definite proof that he can’t .
But no, he’s Astolfo Granatum and doesn’t need anyone for anything. He is just going to keep walking straight to his death until he actually dies.
“Antonio?” he asks. “I didn’t think he would be so worried for Astolfo.”
“Are you kidding me?” She snorts. “Don’t let his attitude make you think Antonio doesn’t care; he seems to believe that the harsher he is, the further away from here and the Chevalier Astolfo will stay. It doesn't work, obviously." No, it doesn't look like it does, it just seems to make Astolfo more persistent. "Additionally, he has just been so angry since Marco died.” She pauses, looking at him quizzically. “Have you heard about Marco?”
“I’ve met him a few times.” He didn’t know him well, but he seemed kind, at least kind enough to somewhat temperate the explosive Astolfo.
She frowns. “Wait, how long have you known Astolfo?” Her question about Marco, Noé figures, lets her appraise how close he is to Astolfo, but his answer isn't what she expected, so she must have assumed they met in the past six months. Noé admitting to knowing Marco though, gives her a different time scale and more questions about their potential relationship.
“Three years.” When her eyebrows raise in disbelief, he elaborates, running a hand through his hair and smiling sheepishly. “We hated each other at first. We still don’t get along, but I think we’re past the attempted murders and limb cutting phase.” He wiggles the fingers of his left hand, and the joints click and clack with the movement.
“The what now?” she groans. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s always strange to hear about what he got up to in France.”
A door slams shut in the distance, cutting him off before he can answer, and he skims through the rest of the file, trying to find anything useful on the Chevalier before he regroups with Astolfo.
“You said they were going to move out again soon?” he asks, trying to get them back on track.
Isabella nods. “Uhm — yes— it’s supposed to be tonight. In a few hours. Hopefully, Antonio will get Astolfo out of the city before it starts.” She looks up to Noé with severe eyes. “You two need to leave.”
She’s the second person who isn’t so happy to see Astolfo back, but it’s the gravity of her tone that makes it click. “He is in Florence, isn’t he?”
The Chevalier Ténèbre has last been seen in this very city. In Florence. All the chasseurs on duty are patrolling the area before he makes more victims here, which explains the headquarters’ persistent silence.
He is way closer than they thought.
Noé needs to find Astolfo, and fast.
He grabs both of Isabella’s hands in his own. “I’m very sorry, but I need to go now. Thank you so much for your help!”
“You’re going to help him, right?” He nods, so she continues: “He won’t listen to us, but maybe you will: I know he says he’ll be okay, but he can’t fight the Chevalier on his own.” She looks straight at him with gravity. “He will die.”
“He won’t. Not on my watch. I promise!”
And she bites her lower lips, unsure. “I hope you’re right. Do you need help finding your way back to Antonio’s office?”
Noé stops right at the door, hesitant, and Isabella laughs. “Come on, I’ll guide you.”
“Thank you!” He turns to Murr. “Let’s go.”
The cat looks up at him in exasperation.
“Sorry,” Noé tells him with an apologetic smile, though he can feel the worry building up inside him. “But we need to find Astolfo, before he runs into the Chevalier Ténèbre on his own.”
Knowing Astolfo, he could very well stumble upon him by accident.
“It won’t go well if he faces him alone.”
This seems to decide Murr, who sniffs disdainfully and starts walking.
-------------------------
Without Louisette, or more generally speaking, a spear, and the enhancement drug the chasseurs usually have, Astolfo can’t fight as well as he used too. He’s always been smaller than the average boy, both in terms of height and weight. He made up of for it, back then, by choosing a long-range weapon and relying on speed, dexterity and high mobility. With it, he could make his size an advantage, even though it also allowed his enemies to throw him around with more ease if they grabbed him.
The spear allowed him to hit his target while staying away. Now, all he has is his own natural speed and a short weapon which requires him to get in his enemy’s arm reach.
The dagger rips through the Chevalier’s clothes and nicks at his skin, but the vampire grabs him by the collar, pulling him off his feet, and throws him away. His back hits a wall with a thud and, as he falls, he sees stars, the pain spreading through his body in short waves.
He pushes himself back on his feet and picks his weapon. He grins, the rush of the fight coming back to him, warming him up. His focus is solely on Jean Ténèbre, and the humans running away, the chasseurs he is sure are on their way, Noé Archiviste’s departure — all of this is nothing but background noise. None of it matters .
Jean Ténèbre here stands in front of him and this time, nothing will stop Astolfo from taking his life.
Adjusting his grip on his weapon, he lunges, intentionally leaving his side open. The Chevalier takes the bait and Astolfo dodges, slipping under his arm and aiming his ribs. The vampire stumbles when Astolfo’s blade lodges itself right between two of them and he swings his arm, elbow hitting the side of his head.
Astolfo manages to roll away, once again out of range. He breathes hard already, but he can’t stop smiling, face flushed, his weapon bloodied.
“I failed to end you once,” he tells him, laughter bubbling at the back of his throat. “I will not fail again tonight.”
He remembers that night very clearly — every detail of it etched in his mind forever. The night this vampire and his companions slaughtered his family and laughed.
Just as Astolfo prepares to attack again, something catches on his leg, making him tumble down on his knee. He pulls, hard, but his foot is rooted on ground, something dark swirling around his ankle. He tries to pull it off, but it’s immaterial.
“You don’t learn, do you?” The Chevalier’s eyes seem to glower in the darkness, pupils shifting to strange, eerie spirals.
He cannot touch it and no matter how much he tries; it paralyses his ankle. He stands again, trying to force his leg to move, to wrench it off the ground, but it only spreads, keeping him from bending his knee until he’s immobilized all the way up his waist.
Around the Chevalier, shadows twirl and swell, growing more solid, more textured under his power.
All vampires have the ability to alter the very nature of this world, the formula. Some of them learn how to control this power, and some of them specialize. The Chevalier Ténèbre, staying true to his name, decided on darkness .
It wraps around him, taking a hold of his arm, squeezing his wrist until it cuts the skin and makes him drop his weapon. The dagger clatters uselessly on the ground.
“You come to me, in the middle of the night, when I am at my strongest, and you can barely put up a decent fight.” He sighs, sounding disappointed, standing just in front of him. He pats his cheek with a barely there smile that Astolfo wants to rip off his face with his bare hands. “To think my beloved brother lost to that. ”
The touch would make Astolfo shiver if he could move at all and he grits his teeth. He hasn’t changed at all. He is still, without the chasseurs, a weak and helpless child.
Once again, he realizes, Antonio was right. He keeps overestimating himself, trying to make himself believe that he’s still strong enough to take the Chevalier like he took his brother years ago.
Move , he tells himself as the Chevalier’s shadow creep up. Move , as he tries to push it aside. If he doesn't, Astolfo will be hacked to pieces by disgustingly solid shadows, and he can’t even move . Like six months ago, and like when he was eleven and pinned down by those same shadows as fangs dug into his skin.
The thought is what finally kicks him into action.
Astolfo snaps his head, catching, between his teeth, the fragile skin between the Chevalier’s thumb and index finger, and bites down. His teeth sink in. Blood pours out, staining his lips and chin.
The Chevalier yelps, his focus shifts, and his control snaps. Astolfo pushes him back, throwing his balance off. He dives to the ground to grab his weapon and drives it down into the vampire’s foot, before putting distance between them.
His chest rises and falls with his heartbeat, fast and uneven, and he wipes his face with his sleeve, spitting out the blood on the ground.
Then, snarling, the Chevalier comes for him again, faster, and Astolfo won’t have time to move out of the way — but before anything can happen something grabs him around the waist, pulling him off his feet and out of the way.
“Are you alright?”
And he finds himself carried like a sack of potatoes over Noé Archiviste’s shoulder as he turns several street corners, until they lose sight of the Chevalier.
“What—”
“I learned the Chevalier Ténèbre was here so I came looking for you. But you found him without my help, it seems.”
“I—” Astolfo lets out a strangled sound of surprise, before he truly realizes what position he is in and kicks his feet in the air. “Let me down!”
“Oh, right.” He puts him back on his feet. “There.”
Now back on the ground, Astolfo regains his bearings and huffs. “What took you so long?” he demands as if he hasn’t been scared out of his mind, in a difficult position just a minute ago. “Did you wander off again?”
“What do you mean, again ?” the Archiviste protests. “I even brought something that could be useful.”
He rummages through his pockets and takes out several pouches, which Astolfo easily recognizes. “Are those chasseurs belt pouches?”
“I found them in the guardroom in the headquarters. I figured you could find some use for it, since you don’t have access to those anymore.” He looks back over his shoulder, making sure the Chevalier Ténèbre isn’t catching up yet. “You can’t fight him on your own, Astolfo. At least not without some extra weapons.”
The "you’re a regular human now" hangs between them, unsaid.
“Look—”
“Mademoiselle Isabella showed me what he did to you last time.”
There is something in his tone and in his eyes looking too much like a mixture of fear and worry that make Astolfo want to give up arguing.
It's not like he’s up for an argument anyway. He’s tired, from the last year’s search, from his previous encounters with the Chevalier, from the argument with Antonio, and from the fight, so he just takes the pouches without a word. He doesn’t ask how he even knows Isa, and opens them. They all contain Aegis flash grenades, brand new and polished, warm under his fingers.
All in all, they have four of those.
“This is what you disappeared for?”
“Well, it wasn’t what I was looking for but—” He rubs the back of his head. “Sometimes you take what you have on hands.” He points at the cat still sitting across his shoulders. “Murr helped too.”
“I—” he gulps. “I was under the impression you—”
I thought you left for good .
“You thought what?” the vampire asks, confused.
“Nothing.” He looks away, face pink in embarrassment, recalling his rather childish outburst.
“Are you sure?”
He nods, and focuses back on the equipment Noé brought back. He picks one of the grenades, weighting it in his palm. “This will be useful. The Chevalier Ténèbre can control shadows,” he explains.
“We will be able to counter it with those, then.”
Astolfo blinks, taken aback. He always imagined himself facing the Chevalier alone, fighting alone until who or whatever is in front of him kills him. “We?”
"Yes, we." Noé takes off his coat and hat, which he neatly places on a windowsill, before he sets Murr next to them. His sharp fangs glint in the moonlight as he grins, flexing his fingers, and Astolfo is suddenly reminded that, under his sweet exterior, the vampire is as much as a fighter as any chasseur. “I’m your shield now. You can count on me.”
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astxlphe-fics · 3 years
Text
Let me live (let me die) 
Noé and Astolfo arrive in Florence and talk about the next steps. (They’re going to warm up to each other at some point, I promise)
Chapter 2/?
Content warning : mentioned character death 
< Chapter 1 || Chapter 3 >
“What kind of lead do you have in Florence?”  
Astolfo sends the Archiviste an annoyed look over his shoulder and goes back to watching the world fly by underneath.  
His lead isn’t a fresh one. It’s several months old, and it’s not the first time he goes to Florence for it. But you must do with what you have, and since almost everything he collected during  his time as a chasseur was lost with the Paris Headquarters, he has no other choice.
A year ago, the part of the catacombs housing the Paris chasseurs’ HQ collapsed. In Astolfo’s memories, the dust falls, and when he tries to breath he coughs — it’s getting in his nose, his mouth, his eyes, he can’t breathe right. He frantically searches for someone in the crowd, trying to distinguish people from each other, looking through faces after faces, men and women in uniforms but he can’t find him. 
“Where is Marco?” 
“Astolfo?” 
“Where is he, Roland?!” 
His heart pounds as he spots more uniforms sticking from under the rubbles and suddenly, he realizes he just lost everything all over again. 
A hand on his shoulder. Astolfo jumps and his surroundings change. He’s in the airship, flying high above the French countryside, and the vampire looks at him, his eyebrows drawn together in worry. 
“Are you okay? You look pale—” 
“I’m fine,” he snaps, and waves him off. “Why do you want to know about my lead?” 
The vampire’s face goes a little red. “I was curious and, maybe I could help—” 
“I do not want your help,” Astolfo cuts. “I am unsure of how many times I will have to say it for you to understand, but I don’t need your help.” 
“Don’t want or don’t need?” 
Astolfo falls silent, and his side aches where a months old injury still feels recent. 
It’s not the first time he follows this lead, and it has made him realize how weak he truly is, how little he is without the chasseurs. The man he is looking for was seen in Italy a year ago - and was still there six months ago when Astolfo went to check if the information was still accurate.
If he isn't still in Italy, at least he knows someone who can tell him where he went. He knows a chasseur — another blow to his pride, having to rely on them after being unceremoniously kicked out, after never being wanted in the first place.
He doesn’t answer the vampire's question. He doesn’t want to answer, because he doesn’t want to admit the vampire is right, that no matter how many times he refuses help he’ll always need it. 
Anger — at himself, mostly, and at the Archiviste — courses through him, as he thinks about his own weakness.  
“I said what I said,” he snaps. “Leave me alone, I’m skilled enough to get by on my own.” 
The vampire goes quiet, but glances at him when he thinks Astolfo doesn't notice like he can see through his every pretences and Astolfo hates him for it.
They land in Florence about a day later and Noé knows, in the way Astolfo keeps pushing him away, that he is in need of help. Vanitas used to be like this, too. It’s when people like them, who try to be fiercely independent, who want to deal with everything on their own, start pulling away that you know they will need you the most. 
He wasn’t planning on sticking around once they arrived in Florence, but he doesn’t like the idea of Astolfo on his own, flirting with danger without backup. 
Vanitas would call him a bleeding heart. Maybe he is, but it doesn't bother him. He is not ashamed of doing his best to help people, even if they pretend they don’t need it. Especially, if they pretend they don’t need it. 
Not to mention, he owes it to Astolfo. They may not have parted on the best terms, but Noé still owes him large debt, and he intends to see it repaid, one day. 
(He can still feel, on the skin of his flesh arm, the pressure of Astolfo’s fingers clamped tightly around his wrist.) 
Maybe it’s now the occasion. Besides, what else is he going to do? Go back to travelling alone, sitting in trains and airships with no one but himself and followed by the ghosts of his friends ? 
“Why are you still following me?” 
“I don’t know the city at all,” Noé remarks innocently, smiling brightly. “Do you know a good hotel I could stay for a few days?” 
He asks, because since they arrived Astolfo’s steps are lighter, he moves through the streets with more confidence. The younger man tries not to let the change show, but it’s like he has an easier time breathing. 
“Fine,” he relents, with much less hostility than what Noé is used to. “I’ll take you to one.” 
As he leads him through this city he seems to know by heart, they pass by a plaza. Noé stops there, admiring the cathedral, and Astolfo’s good moods seem to make him a little more talkative than usual. 
"This is the cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore,” Astolfo explains when they walk past it. He stops, gazing up at the facade and its rose window. “The sturdiest building in Italy. It took over two centuries to build, and it survived Babel and served as a shelter for survivors.” He gazes at the building like it holds some sentimental value, and though the urge to ask is there, Noé stays quiet, afraid Astolfo will go silent if he speaks up. “It’s the very first chasseur headquarters in the world, older even than the Vatican.” 
They reach a small hotel, not so far off the cathedral. It’s so unlike what Noé thought Astolfo would choose that he makes a double take — but, to be perfectly honest, everything Astolfo has done since they set foot in Italy is so strange that he can't bring it up.
Immediately, Astolfo launches into a conversation with the receptionist, in Italian so quick Noé’s basic knowledge of the language doesn’t allow him to understand a single word of it. He’s unfailingly polite, smiling at him warmly even as he points at Noé and seems to ask if they need only one room — at least, that’s what Noé catches of the conversation. Still, it seems to work out, because he hands Astolfo a pair of keys. 
One of those makes its way into Noé’s hand. “Here is yours,” Astolfo tells him shortly, reverting to French, before shoving something else in his hands. “And a city map. Now, will you leave me alone?” 
Noé isn’t sure he wants to — both for Astolfo and for himself. Some matters are best not left alone. “Thank you,” he says, not putting his concerns into words. If Astolfo suspects Noé isn’t about to leave him on his own, he’ll try his best to escape and he doesn’t want to take the risk of losing him so quick. 
Besides, he seems to be in good moods, and he wouldn’t want to ruin it.  “Why this hotel?” he adds, trying to take advantage of said moods, since they make him more likely to answer questions. If anything, he'll get more details about what exactly he's looking for.
“It’s only a few minutes walk to the Cathedral,” Astolfo explains quickly. “I’ll be meeting with the chasseurs.” 
It makes sense — if there are people monitoring vampire activity in the human world, it's the chasseur. If Astolfo needs any kind of information, he'll probably be able to get it through them. On the other hand...
"If you aren't a chasseur anymore, how are you so sure they'll meet with you?"
Astolfo grimaces, and crosses his arms, clamming up. It’s the question Noé shouldn’t have asked. “It doesn’t mean I don’t have friends,” he hisses. “Are you done with the interrogation?” When Noé doesn’t answer, he nods briskly. “Very well. Goodbye.” 
Noé still follows him up the stairs, because their rooms are on the same floor, but Astolfo ignores him all the way up.  
When he’s alone, Murr glares at him like he’s at fault, and settles near the window. Noé follows him here, staring out at the unfamiliar city skyline. He wonders how many secrets it holds, and how many of them Astolfo knows about. 
Later in the evening, he and Murrs go to the restaurant area to get something to eat, starting to feel hungry. He orders a simple meal, and is just finished with it when he spots Astolfo crossing the lobby towards the exit. 
He doesn’t see him, but Murr is staring intently, and Noé quickly pays for his meal to follow Astolfo out of the hotel. 
If it was only a matter of travelling alone or in company, Noé could easily leave Astolfo to his own device and wait for him to be done here, but he can’t deny he’s worried.
Noé sure remembers how skilled Astolfo was in a fight, but the young man isn’t a chasseur any longer, and had to give up his weapon and the drug allowing him to reinforce himself when he lost the title. What if he gets hurt? Or worse? The local chasseurs may have been his friends, but considering the circumstances of Astolfo's departure from the chasseurs, would they allow him to fight by their side?
So many things can go wrong. Noé doesn't like Astolfo, he doubts he could ever truly like him, but he isn't about to leave him to die with no second thoughts. He's seen enough people killed because of him, because he could do nothing, and he's not allowing this to happen again. As long as he follows Astolfo around, Noé won't let him die, not like Louis, not like Vanitas, personal feelings be damned.
“Once again, why are you still following me?” 
He blinks. Astolfo is staring at him in affront, eyes angry and jaw tense, hands set firmly on his hips. That he barely reaches Noé's shoulders would make it cute if Noé hadn’t seen him commit numerous murders.  
“Are you an idiot? What part of goodbye did you not understand?” 
“How are you so sure the chasseurs here will help you?” He asks again, maybe because he needs to reassure himself, in a way, that Astolfo isn't walking straight into a death trap on his own. But instead of answering, Astolfo stiffens, pointedly not looking at him, and Noé understands. “You don’t really know, do you?” 
“The man I’m meeting is an old family friend. Since the Chevalier Ténèbre was last seen in Italy, he should be able to give me more details.” 
“The Chevalier Ténèbre?” Noé takes in chin between his fingers at the name, thinking. He is sure he has he heard it before, but he can't quite place it yet. Was Chevalier a moniker or an actual title. “This name sounds familiar—” 
“They were originally a pair of vampire brothers and thieves. Now there is only one of them left, thanks to yours truly.” He tilts his chin up, face twisting into a grim smile, and he tucks his hair behind his ear. The fanged earring sways and glints. “And Antonio can tell me where he is now.” 
“Do you want me to go with you?” 
Nowadays, human and vampire relations are slightly better than what they used to be, and Noé is fairly positive that he can walk into chasseur territory without being murdered on the spot, especially if he's with a human — as long as he doesn't cause too much trouble.
“We are not in Paris, remember?" He shakes his head. “Roland isn’t here to vouch for you.” He wrinkles his nose at the name, though it's only half-hearted.
“If I didn’t know you any better, I would say you’re worried." 
Astolfo’s mouth opens, and clicks shut, no words coming out of it. Then, he huffs. “Do as you like,” he snaps. “I don't care. Get yourself killed if you wish it, but do not get in my way.” 
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astxlphe-fics · 3 years
Text
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.” 
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astxlphe-fics · 4 years
Text
Let me live (let me die) 
Astonoé // Astolfoé 
A year after Vanitas dies, Noé and Astolfo run into each other again. Together, they run after the monsters of Astolfo’s past and away from the ghosts clinging to their minds.
Chapter 1/?
Chapter CW: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Future Fic (3 years later)
Chapter 2 >
It takes some time for Noé to get used to Vanitas being gone. 
There is just a moment, a step forward, as Domi calls it, when he just knows Vanitas isn’t there anymore. 
He hits a point when he doesn’t expect Vanitas to enter the room, to shake him awake for sleeping too long, to be eating snacks in a small corner of the building he’s found. He doesn’t see Vanitas in crowds anymore, with every long coat, long hair or blue ribbons. 
His mind seems, at some point, to just accept the fact that Vanitas is gone. A point where it instinctively switches from Vanitas is to Vanitas was.  
Noé knows this little fact is supposed to be reassuring, and that everyone around him is absolutely relieved to see him enter what they believe is the late stage of grief that is acceptance. 
But it feels awful, and Noé hates himself for getting used to Vanitas’ absence. 
He tries, at Domi’s insistence, to go back to Averoigne. He needs his rest, and it’s the only way she can be sure he won’t be alone dealing with this. With Domi, now the owner of the manor, as well as the less permanent residents Jeanne and Dante, it’s often populated with overly helpful people. 
Dante sometimes still tries to pretend he’s here half-heartedly, but he was just as shellshocked, just a wrecked as the rest of them. He is only at he manor every once in a while those days, having started to travel with Johann and Riche again, though he regularly jumps at the chance to come back.
And Noé tries, really. He tries to look like he’s fine, to play along with everyone, but it feels too much like they’re pretending nothing happened. Like Vanitas was never one of them. 
He ends up leaving.  
Two full years almost constantly on the road made him a restless person, anyway. On top of everything, he just isn’t used to staying in the same place for too long now. 
He sets off for Paris. Normal Paris, not Altus Paris. 
It’s because he’s restless and needs to move, and a big city is better for it than any other, he reasons. Or maybe it’s to get some closure. Or maybe he misses seeing Vanitas into crowds even though he isn’t there. 
Sitting on that train, watching the scenery go by, and feeling the car’s vibrations as the engine turns and turns and takes him away from a place he can’t call home anymore makes him feel more alive than he has in the past year. 
Murr curls up on his laps, and Noé’s flesh hand scratches him behind the ears. He closes his eyes, lays his head on the window, and tries to let himself sleep.
He wakes up as the announcer yells about being in Paris — “Ladies and Gentlemen we have arrived in the station of Paris - Gare de Lyon. This is this train’s terminus, make sure you do not forget your personal effects while leaving the train.”  
“Ladies and Gentlemen…”  
Noé blinks groggily and shakes his head. He gathers his things, puts his hat back on, grabs his suitcase, and lets Murr on his shoulders. 
The hotel he chooses is not Hotel Chouchou, but a small hotel, not quite in the center of Paris — while Count Orlok offered him a place to stay upon hearing of his return, Noé preferred to refuse. 
He’s here to figure out what the hell to do with himself now. Maybe rediscover the city, taking advantage of the fact that he is not pressed by time or need anymore. 
Paris used to be a base of operations — where they came back after hunting for yet another curse bearer, but they never stayed long enough in the city (or anywhere, really) to really appreciate it. It’s an opportunity, he thinks, to finally getting to really know Paris. 
It’s complicated. 
It revives memories. 
Every step seems to take him to a spot he has been before (with Vanitas), and brings back old memories (of Vanitas) in places he used to go in his free time for tea or otherwise (with Vanitas). 
He holds out two days before he decides that, no matter how he misses Vanitas, it’s enough. This trip, which is supposed to be relaxing, supposed to keep his mind off things, quickly turns into a painful reminder that Vanitas is dead.
Gone. Not dead, gone .  
Dead feels a little too final, especially when he hasn’t, actually, seen him die. 
Time to leave. 
He goes back to the station, reading the list of departures over and over again, looking for somewhere to go. Somewhere far enough, a trip that would stop his body from itching with restlessness and get his mind to focus on something that’s not…well. On something new. 
He briefly considers the south of France, maybe going to see the sea near Marseille, but another one catches his eye.  
There is an airship leaving for Rome in less than an hour. Yes, he thinks, this is where he will go. 
Italy.  
Rome. He needs to get a ticket to Rome and leave Paris as soon as possible. Roma has no memories in every street corner and no one and nothing he knows about. It’s perfect. 
The first step is to get to a ticket booth and buy himself a spot on that aircraft. The station is bustling with activity, and he finds himself having trouble locating the selling desk. 
Looking around with a specific purpose, he doesn’t really pay attention to the people surrounding him, and it’s only a matter of time before he bumps into someone. He apologizes, the man barely notices him, but Murr takes the opportunity to jump off his shoulder and disappear into the crowd.  
“Wait!” Noé calls. “Murr!” 
He goes after him, but Murr is running like a cat on a mission. He follows him for a few minutes before seeing him stop right at someone’s feet. 
“What the—” they say, looking down at the cat rubbing itself on their leg. 
“I’m sorry!” he exclaims. “He got away from me —“ 
“It’s no trouble,” he says, and Noé’s frantic apologizing trails off at the sight of the familiar light, almost pinkish hair. He bends down, gives Murr a scratch and picks him up. “I was only surprised — no harm done,” he continues, handing Murr to Noé. “Here—” He stops. “Oh.” 
Astolfo Granatum is probably the last person Noé expected to run into in Paris, of all places. It seems like the sentiment is shared, as Astolfo’s smile becomes a bit forced the moment he recognizes him.  
“It’s…you,” Noé manages to say. 
He hasn’t seen Astolfo in over a year, since the mess here, in Paris. They went on their separate ways after that, to everyone’s relief. Astolfo was not a very pleasant person to be around if you were a vampire. 
Several emotions pass over Astolfo’s faces in a matter of seconds, before he defaults to polite pleasantries. “Monsieur,” he greets, voice a little too sharp, tilting his hat. “Long time no see.” 
Noé nods, following suit. “True. So, how are you doing?” 
“Good,” Astolfo answers shortly, and Noé doesn’t believe him for a second. 
His voice his strained, and he looks drained. Like he hasn’t had a good night sleep in a year. 
Noé knows how that feels. 
There is a long, awkward silence, during which they stare at each other. There is no aggression or resentment in the way they look at each other, despite…well, they were never friends. Enemies, once, allies, at some point, but never friends. Either way, they hadn’t exactly parted on good terms, and it wasn’t completely Astolfo’s fault either. 
Maybe time has changed the way they thought of each other. 
Maybe they’re just both too tired for this. 
They somehow find themselves sitting in the same café, at the same table, while a waiter brings Astolfo the most concentrated cup of coffee they have. 
Noé never quite knew how to act around Astolfo. 
The young man was always volatile and easy to anger, and despite Noé’s efforts never completely warmed up to the idea of vampires as a whole. He got better towards the end, yes, but not quite enough to be friends. Astolfo built himself, and his career as a chasseur, around his hate of vampires, and it takes a while to unlearn something so deeply ingrained into yourself.
Astolfo stares into his coffee like it contains the truth about life, the universe’s formula and everything else. He looks like he has something to say, but Noé knows how difficult it is for him to open up. He told, once, some details of his family’s murder, but only because Roland told Noé and Vanitas about their death first. 
And well, Noé asked. Several times.
He won’t say anything unless prompted to. 
He also looks like he needs help, with the dark bags around his eyes and the way he slumps forward a little. And Noé isn’t the kind of person to ignore someone who might be in need of help. 
“What’s wrong?” he asks. Astolfo’s eyes snap up to him, and Noé actually wonders, for a second, when is the last time someone genuinely asked him such a question. 
When is the last time someone truly worried about Astolfo? Does he even have anybody left to worry about him? 
“Nothing is wrong.” He smiles again, that closed eyes smile that doesn’t ring quite right . “Last year has been a little stressful. I’ve been looking for the vampires who—” He pauses. “It’s more difficult now, because I’m not a chasseur anymore, what happened last year lost me all the resources at my disposal to find them.” 
“Do you need any help?” Noé hears himself asking, and he isn’t even sure what he’s offering. 
Astolfo’s face twists in a grimace “I don’t need help, especially from — ” His fingers clench around his cup like it’s a lifeline, something like regrets passes over his face. The coffee ripples in the cup. “I’m doing perfectly well on my own.” 
It’s a lie. 
“You aren’t,” Noé corrects. 
Astolfo stares at him, hard, trying to make himself look bigger, better than he feels, but Noé isn’t fooled for one second. “I’m good ,” he insists.  
“All right,” Noé concedes, unwilling to make him angrier, and changes the subject: “Where are you going?” 
“Why do you want to know?” 
“I’m going to Italy,” he goes on, and Astolfo’s eyes dart away for a very short second before they focus back on Noé, an excuse or a lie ready to leave the younger man’s lips. However, over the past few years Noé has gotten better at reading people — Vanitas gave him a lot of practice, and a lot of Vanitas’ most annoying mannerisms are reflected in Astolfo. So, before he can speak, Noé says: “I take it’s where you are going as well.” 
“Yes,” he admits after a short, resigned silence. “Italy. I have a lead there,” he adds like it puts more weight on the affirmation that he is doing fine without help. 
It still gives Noé an idea. 
“Let’s travel together, then!” 
“Excuse me?” 
“Until Italy, I mean.” He drinks some of his tea and smiles warmly at the younger man, hoping to ease the idea into him. “Once we are here, we can go on our separate ways, of course!” 
“And why would I want to travel with you?” 
“I don’t know.” Noé stares at his tea, thinking about how different traveling is without Vanitas. Nothing is the same, no quiet conversations on night train and pulling at the other’s arm to avoid being late and falling asleep on each other. “It’s better than traveling by yourself, isn’t it?” 
Traveling by yourself is lonely. Astolfo is lonely. Noé is lonely. The solution seems so simple.
Astolfo’s mouth sets itself in a thin, severe line. He finishes his coffee in one go and puts his cup back on the table, making the spoon tremble. He stands, putting his hat back on. “Florence.” 
“Uh?” 
“I’m going to Florence. The airship leaves in two hours, don’t be late.” He stares down at him. “Don’t think too highly of yourself, I’m not allowing this for your sake. I simply don’t like how pathetic you look asking for company.” 
Noé nods eagerly, barely believing his own enthusiasm at the prospect of a trip with Astolfo Granatum, of all people. ”I’ll be there!”
“You better, because if you are not on time I will not be waiting for you.” He turns on his heels, and walks away, dragging his suitcase behind him.
Watching him go, Noé takes a sip of his tea. He didn't expect the conversation to go so well — maybe it's a good sign. Maybe they can still become friends.
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astxlphe · 4 years
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If you still answer about "send me a character" thing, can I ask you about Noe, Ruthven or the Shapeless One? (and sorry for my English and possible mistakes)
Hello anon!
I was unsure of which one you were talking about so i kinda took the last character meme I answered and ran with it! 
Under a cut because it’s long af! 
Noé:
favorite thing about them: His stubbornness? He’s always doing whatever he thinks is best, no matter what people think or want of him.
least favorite thing about them: His lack of sense of direction. Idk, it’s a trait that annoys me, maybe because I feel like it’s used a lot for main characters in general.
favorite line: "I have no intention of following you. I'm going with you."
brOTP: With Vanitas!
OTP: I have 2 for Noé : Astolfo/Noé (astonoé, or astolfoé) and Ruthven/Noé (noeven!)
nOTP: Don’t have any!
Random headcanon : He can play an instrument? Probably the piano. Or the flute.
unpopular opinion: He should be able to say fuck.
song i associate with them: The Killing Moon, by Echo & the Bunnymen
favorite picture of them; That one where he and Domi are hugging!
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And also this one *looks away* ‘cause it’s hot (me, reading chapter 19: well I sure hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me)
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Ruthven
favorite thing about them: Absolutely everything this man is perfect
least favorite thing about them: …i don’t think there is one aspect of his character I don’t like?
favorite line: “Swear, one time only, when I wish it, you’ll obey my order no matter what it is” - Idk I just love the magic bite talk  
brOTP: With Chloé, I guess? They were great friends! I wish they could meet again now
OTP: Ruthven / Noé (Noeven!).
nOTP: uuuuhm…don’t know?
Random headcanon: he can’t dance very well but nobody ever tells him that. Also he likes romantic literature.
unpopular opinion: ????
song i associate with them: so far, none!
favorite picture of them: All of them. But I have a weakness for this one (*nervous sweating* i sure hope it doesn’t awaken anything in me, part 2)
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and the one when he’s young. He looked so happy and carefree back then.
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The Shapeless One:
favorite thing about them: How mysterious he is!
least favorite thing about them: uuuuuhm….I don’t really know? We don’t know him enough for me to have a least favourite trait?
favorite line : "I don’t want you to do anything in particular. You’re free to do as you please. I simply want to observe the process and result of whatever your will leads you to do."
brOTP: None, sorry, though I would like to see more of his history with Ruthven
OTP: Still none
nOTP: Sorry, still a no.
Random headcanon:
unpopular opinion: I don’t think he works with Naenia, or with anyone, I think he’s an independent party?
song i associate with them: none yet!
favorite picture of them: It’s probably the clearest image we have of him!
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