Chapter Text
Faking a smile is as easy as putting some ink to paper. Draw from one point to the next, pull your lips up high, and there, a line with a curved edge that sets anyone at ease. Valerie uses this practice to the best of her ability in the face of the school secretary.
“I’d like to arrange a ranked match with the Queen,” Valerie says from across the desk, smiling placidly.
The secretary looks up from his paperwork, raising a brow. “I’m surprised that you haven’t heard, Valerie. We don’t currently have a Queen.”
Outwardly, Valerie doesn’t so much as blink. Internally, she’s screaming.
“What?” she says, voice deliberately small. The secretary is right, how has she not heard about this?
“She was dethroned a few hours ago—oh, that would explain it, you were at the honor roll luncheon for the quarter.”
“If she was dethroned, then why wouldn’t we have a new Queen?”
“Well—”
The door to the headmistress’ office bursts open, and out walks none other than the transfer student, the headmistress trailing after her in a show of distress that Valerie hasn’t seen on the school faculty ever.
“Verona—”
“Madam, I apologize for my bluntness—” Still, she can’t act like it to save her life. “—but I won’t be changing my stance. I’m not going to become Queen.”
Valerie can’t help it.
“What the hell?”
The secretary, the headmistress exiting her office, and the object of Valerie’s horror all turn to her at once. Unfortunately, the last of those three is also the first to process honors-student-Valerie being anything other than a sterilized wall in front of school administration.
“What are you doing here?” Verona asks, striding over as if she isn’t just ignoring the headmistress. Her eyes have lit up and Valerie hates her for it.
“I was trying to take over as Queen,” Valerie says numbly, still struggling to process everything the past sixty seconds have put her head through.
Through Valerie’s confusion, she can see the way the light in Verona’s eyes changes. Simple fondness becomes something sharper.
“Are you the Jack?”
“Yes,” Valerie says, settled enough to put some bite in her voice. How could this girl have dethroned the Queen when she didn’t even know that Valerie was the Jack?
Verona grins, pearly white teeth as sharp as a wolf’s. “Okay, let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
“I’ll become Queen,” Verona says, loud enough to make sure the headmistress can hear from where she stands, still shellshocked by the girl’s complete irreverence, “and you can dethrone me. How does that sound?”
In any other instance, Valerie would start lecturing her. “What are you saying?” “You’re being absurd.” “Do you have any respect for this school’s hierarchy? How could you say that so casually?”
In this instance, Valerie is off balance and annoyed. The choice seems clear, and one good look at Verona and how she carries herself makes her feel confident. “I was sure I could defeat the Queen before. Nothing has changed.”
Verona’s smile broadens. “Great. Whatever happens, no hard feelings, okay?”
“Of course,” Valerie says, her tone almost cloyingly sweet. The sugar belies the vinegar beneath.
Valerie became the school’s Jack near the end of her freshman year. While she climbed up the ranks, Vincent let himself fall further and further down, quickly gaining and proudly upholding a reputation as a habitual skipper and overall delinquent. He was a goddamn elite, only a few decimal points below Valerie, and he still couldn’t even be bothered to apply himself.
In short, Vincent was a stain on the school, their family, and Valerie herself. Just as Valerie expected, the trend continued going into sophomore year. There’s the incident with the transfer student, but it’s forgotten after a few weeks, leaving only a raised mark on her hand. Vincent is still pissing away his potential, Valerie is still one of the most respected people in school, and everything is in order.
Everything is in order, until it isn’t. If she had to pin down a specific moment for the shift, she would choose this one—faceup in the dirt at the school field, her uniform in shreds and her cardiovascular system feeling much the same. Neither condition really compares to the building pressure in her head, worsened by the refrain of I lost, I lost, how did I lose, scratching against the sides of her skull like silverware across porcelain.
“You don’t have to get up close and personal often, do you?” Verona asks, voice light and easy as she looks down at Valerie. “It shows. You’re a little too reliant on your ability to keep you safe.”
“Would you just… shut up…” Valerie chokes out, coughing up blood between words. She resists the urge to roll onto her side just so she can stop looking at Verona. Where Valerie is beaten and bloody, crushed into the ground, Verona stands over her having barely broken a sweat. The worst of her injuries are the ribbons of crimson wrapped around her arm and dripping onto Valerie’s tattered sleeves, and that is only recoil from her having shattered her barrier in one clean hit.
“I’ve heard you’re collected, but you’re also a sore loser, huh?”
Verona laughs, kneeling in the dirt so she can look her in the eyes. Valerie wishes she had the strength to punch, to kick, to even just try swatting her away, but everything hurts so much it’s difficult to even lift a finger. She settles for turning her head so she doesn’t have to look at her anymore.
“Hey, now,” Verona says, having the gall to act affronted as she nudges Valerie’s cheek with a bloody index finger. “You’re the one who didn’t keep your word. You said you were going to become Queen. It’s not like I want this position.”
Too bad, Valerie would spit, if not for the iron rolling bitter across her tongue, sliding down the back of her throat. If she tried talking, she might choke. You have it. Congratulations. Enjoy it while it lasts, because I’m taking it from you as soon as possible.
Verona nudges her cheek again and Valerie turns back, condensing all of her rage and indignation into a single killing glare. Again, Verona laughs, satisfaction and fondness and something more obscure dancing together in the vast blue of her eyes.
“Give it your best next time, okay?”
Valerie steps out of the infirmary after school alone with her thoughts and a busted lip. She’d been held back for a few hours to make sure the tonic did its job, what with the severity of her injuries.
And yet she is still injured. Shouldn’t her body have stitched itself back up by now? Shouldn’t the tonic work faster than this? Before she knows it, she’s scowling to herself as she makes her way out of the school. If classes were still in session, it would be another story, but now the halls are empty and dark. She can do what she wants.
Except, she can’t, can she?
No. She tried getting what she wants, and she couldn’t. Verona made that abundantly clear. God, Valerie gets angry all over again every time she thinks about the match. How could she have lost to someone like Verona? It was absurd, and now the source of that absurdity has been crowned Queen. What is this, Alice in Wonderland? Is Valerie going to lose her head now?
Memories of Verona during the match start to mingle with the memories of her mocking her in the dim light of the janitor’s closet. Of the look on her face like no other when she first saw her in that empty classroom and Verona wrenched her hand out and her eyes—
Footsteps on linoleum slow and then stop as gold light breaks through the dark.
Valerie bites her lip until it bleeds. Is it more or less bitter now that the dirt and defeat are only aftertastes?
Valerie can’t stand that girl. God, she hates her, and now she’s going to be stuck associating with her until she dethrones her (because Valerie is going to take the position, there’s no doubt in her mind about that). What kind of sick joke is this?
“Give it your best next time,” Verona said. Like she knew it was an inevitability that Valerie would try again. The look on her face had said that she thought it was inevitable Valerie would lose again, too.
She can’t even be mad, can she? Not after a loss like that.
("—you’re a sore loser, huh?”)
Valerie thinks that, but she still ends up kicking in the nearest locker door. The metal bends beneath her heel, wrought so far it breaks off its hinges and clatters to the ground. The sound echoes through the hallway, mingling with Valerie's shuddering inhale.
This is miserable, she thinks, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands as she forces herself to breathe out (and still she feels an ache in her chest as she does it). She has half a mind to give in, because really, hasn’t this whole display been pathetic enough as it is?
But, no. She’s better than this. She will be better than this.
She doesn’t have time for this. There are better things to do than throwing a tantrum like a child. “Maybe I really will lose my head,” she mumbles to herself as she pushes the doors open and steps out into the courtyard. She really must’ve been lost in her thoughts to not even realize how close she was to the exit.
“Oh? Mind if I join?”
Valerie turns on her heel and takes a step in the opposite direction from the voice. Her alarm melts into annoyance as ginger hair and gold eyes come into view from the dark.
“What are you doing, hiding in the dark like some mugger?” Valerie chastises. She looks down to see the joint held between his fingers and raises a hand to her temples, swearing she's got a headache coming on. This is not what she needs tonight. “Oh, great, you’re high. What, do you need money for snacks now? I’m not giving you any, so—”
“Turn down the hazard lights, stop yelling at me, and then we can talk.”
“What?”
Vincent—stupid, stupid, stupid Vincent, who clearly thinks she’s confused instead of appalled—raises the hand with the joint and gestures vaguely to his face. It takes a minute for her to realize that he means her eyes are still glowing. She sighs, rolling her eyes and forcing herself to refresh. Her aura responds in turn and the light begins to dissipate.
“There. Happy now?”
“Very,” Vincent says, nodding as he steps closer to her. She’s reluctant to let him. “Now. Despite what you may think, I’m not a mugger, and am unhappily very sober. My lighter just crapped out on me.”
“How terrible for you. Why are you still here?”
“I was waiting for you.”
There’s a pause. When it becomes evident Vincent isn't going to explain himself, Valerie prompts.
“Why?”
“You’re my sister?” He shrugs as if he doesn’t fully understand, either. “I didn’t want to leave you to walk home alone.”
Valerie can’t respond to the first half, so she latches onto the second. “I don’t need your protection.”
“I know that. I just—“ Vincent stops short, faltering and then glaring right back at her. “I get that you’re sulking, but do you need to be extra snippy?”
She recognizes the false bravado from a mile away. Despite knowing he probably wants to get something out of it, get a rise out of her, Valerie still bristles against the accusation. “I’m not sulking.”
“You got your ass handed to you, and that never happens. You’re sulking.”
“Oh, great,” Valerie says, drawing up another smile. Unlike the one for the secretary, this one is designed to scathe. “Now you pay attention to what’s happening in school. The one day I lose. Are you here to mock me now? If you think I’m letting you—”
“I’m just here to walk home with you. That’s all, Val.”
At the use of the nickname, Val(erie, she knows her name and that shorthand has never been it) goes quiet.
She’s still angry, and she still doesn’t want to be around him any more than she has to be. Hell, she would’ve pretended they weren’t related if it had been an option.
She’s also tired of being angry. It’s been a long day, and she doesn’t feel like going to the effort of getting Vincent angry too.
“Even if I were sulking, and I did say if, because I’m not, why do you care? Just leave me alone if I’m so liable to fly off the handle,” Valerie finally says.
“You’re my sister,” Vincent repeats, meeting her acid with sheer stubborn will.
Where did he go and get that? Valerie thinks. Outwardly, she scoffs.
“As if that means anything.”
The resolve goes out of him like the light in a gas lamp, the words a gust of wind knocking him back. The sight is a relief. Valerie starts to walk away, expecting to be left alone. The footsteps trailing behind her tell her that she’s wrong.
“Are you still insisting on coming with me?”
“We live together. Do you want me to take the long way or something?”
Valerie rolls her eyes. “We only technically live together. You spend more time off doing god knows what than at school or home. I don’t see any reason why that should be different now.”
“Well, I’m coming home tonight either way. The only difference is whether or not I do it through the front door with you, or through your window in the middle of the night.”
“Why does it have to be my window?” Valerie says, doesn’t groan, because she’s been immature enough for one day. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you came in through the first floor?”
“My sneaking around, my rules,” Vincent says succinctly. “Maybe I’d let you decide how I come in if you came with me once in a—”
“Not even if my life depended on it.”
“I figured. So, you deal with what you’ve got,” Vincent says, laughing softly. The sound is tender, soft. A little bit sickening. Valerie exhales through her nose and tries to ignore it.
They reach the end of the courtyard and go from the school to the sidewalk, steps falling into sync. The sky is already darkening to a blend of blood and shadows, but the streetlights have yet to come on, giving the streets and houses they pass by an unusual tint. While families spend time in warmly lit homes as vague silhouettes to catch glimpses of as they walk by, the two of them walk through the whole of this strange hour side by side.
It’s disconcerting. Valerie thinks she might like it.
“Sky looks nice, huh?”
She looks over to Vincent, a little startled by the alignment of her thoughts and his words, but unwilling to let it show. “If you like it so much, then you won’t mind me leaving you outside to rot,” she says. It’s up to Vincent to decide how sincere she’s being.
To Valerie’s confusion, he smiles in response. The expression is painfully genuine, soft around the edges and shaky in the way he always is. “I’m surprised you haven’t done it already, to be honest,” he chuckles.
You really don’t make any sense, she thinks.
“So am I.” Val’s brows furrow as Vincent’s smile broadens. “What are you so happy about?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar. You’re grinning. Did you do something that I’m going to have to clean up after?”
This time, Vincent outright laughs. “No, I didn’t! I’m just happy. We’re allowed to just be happy, right?”
“Who is we?”
“Me 'n you,” Vincent says easily, his steps slowing as they near an intersection. At the same time, the streetlights begin to turn on, warm colored lights flickering to life across the street. Though slightly dimmer than the rest, the one over the two of them still shines down, making it easier to see ahead.
“Don’t lump me in with you,” Val huffs back. She keeps walking after Vincent stops, out from underneath the light, but he grabs her hand before she reaches the asphalt. She glances back with her eyes narrowed.
“That’s not a no, is it?” he asks. His smile has softened again, hesitant as always, and he seems a little bit like wet clay like this—a face easily manipulated into a new shape by her actions. She could rip her hand out of his and tell him not to touch her (she may do the latter regardless, because she really can’t stand the feeling), and as easily as that, whatever spell this strange hour has will break. He’ll stop being so familiar, she’ll stop letting him, things will be normal again.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, Val sighs, letting her shoulders sag. “What on earth makes you think I would be happy right now? After today?”
Vincent pauses, more thoughtful than she thought he was capable of being. “Well, are you mad?”
“...Not especially." It comes out almost as a grumble.
Vincent hums contentedly. “Then that’s good enough for now. Baby steps.” He lets go of her hand, looks right-left-right, and then waits for her before he starts walking again.
“By the way,” Val says, falling into step beside her brother as they cross the street.
“Uh-huh?”
“Don’t touch me again. Your hands are cold.” Not nearly as cold as her own, she thinks, but also not nearly as warm as Verona’s. She doesn’t like that she can make such a comparison at all.
“Don’t cross the road without looking,” Vincent retorts without any bite whatsoever. Then, after a beat, he adds, “I won’t.”