[ Vanitas holds his cards close to his chest in every aspect of his life, because to him, love and war would be the same, except love isn't a game he's willing to play. His affection for Jeanne is something he wishes he could shove down into the abyss, because the thought of it makes him feel so twisted and hideous.

(Why, then, was it so effortless to say that he and Noé were...?)

It's easy to latch onto Noé being a fool, though. That is something familiar, easier to navigate than anything involving feelings. Ugh. ]

That's the third night in a row you're asking me to make you tarte tatin. [ But Vanitas has obliged every time. ] Isn't there anything else you care about?

[ He lowers his hand from Noé's shoulder. ]

Whatever. You're lucky I have the time to make it now.

[ And he just starts walking to the kitchen without warning. Time for another night of baking... ]