Just as Vanitas was cuddling him, her eyes suddenly widened as if she had remembered something monumental. She pulled back abruptly, still smiling.
"Oh! I completely forgot, I got you some gifts, Kafka!"
Kafka froze mid-breath, his entire face shifting into that expression of weary dread he had perfected over time.
He knew this routine far too well.
Vanitas's 'gifts' were rarely ever simple things, her definition of 'small tokens of affection' could destabilize galaxies.
"Gifts again?" He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Mom, I've told you, you really don't have to give me anything. I'm fine. I'm happy. Please don't—"
But she was already waving her hand with delight, cutting him off before he could finish.
"Nonsense! You deserve everything this universe has to offer, my sweet boy."
Kafka sighed, bracing himself for impact.
The last time she'd said that exact phrase, she had literally carved his name into the moon and forced him to look at it through a telescope.
