[ Vanitas is a teenager— or he appears that way, at least, beyond the hard look in his eyes. He'd been born, fully formed, ready for war— he's done nothing but fight from the moment he'd been torn from his other half's heart. Not a soldier, but a weapon— but anyone with an eye will see it's there in the way he walks. Evenly balanced, shoulders square and arms loose at his sides. He watches the doctor like he's either ready to defend or on the edge of attack.
What's less obvious, at first glance, is the humiliation he feels at being in this situation. It translates into agitation, which makes his tone almost accusatory when he stares the older man down, stopped more than an arm's length away from him. It's only when he needs to start explaining that his shoulders start to climb, betraying some of his embarrassment. ]
I haven't been hit, but my head hurts. And my stomach.
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What's less obvious, at first glance, is the humiliation he feels at being in this situation. It translates into agitation, which makes his tone almost accusatory when he stares the older man down, stopped more than an arm's length away from him. It's only when he needs to start explaining that his shoulders start to climb, betraying some of his embarrassment. ]
I haven't been hit, but my head hurts. And my stomach.