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They did this, sometimes.
Always unspoken of. Never pre-planned. Certainly, the way in which Rook’s heartbeat lulled Vil to sleep come the late nights of meticulous planning was a bi-monthly event at most… ah, didn’t every prefect do that with their vice?
April was an awfully busy month for the two of them. The first day of school, their third year and the swarm of first years brimming to adorn themselves in the purples of Pomefiores cherished robes. Whilst the façade of perfection was well-maintained in the eyes of watchful students and teachers alike, it took hours into the dead of night to ensure that every rule was cemented and every newcomer accounted for.
Whilst without the severity of Heartslabyul in their dedication to rule upkeeping, the pursuit for perfection was a race in which Vil intended to win. One that Rook would assuredly fight dirty to see him reign victorious.
Yet, in the midst of chaos brewing on the horizon, sleepy mornings were a rarity.
They had found respite in the clutches of slumber in the early hours of the morning. Three AM, to be exact. Sat by Vil’s desk, signing a plethora of papers for student amenities, curriculum requirements and student excursions respective to their dormitory. Discussions of uniform requirements and standards to maintain were aplenty, filling the silence of a late night with Rook’s occasional laughter and scribbling of a pen. It just so happened that, in the very depths of their fatigue, had the two of them opted to rest their weary heads a moment upon Vil’s bed. After work was finished, of course.
Had Hell freezed over, Vil would not leave that desk until every initial was signed and every expectation was outlined.
Sleeping soundly, forehead mere inches apart from his companion, was Vil. Rook knew him to truly be asleep, as the soft heave of his chest and occasional twitch of the eyelid was an indication of it. Had he the gall to shift his arms across the man and ascertain a slowed pulse, the huntsman’s suspicions would be confirmed. As for now, Rook would relish in the warmth of silken sheets and ignore how every now and then Vil’s phone would brighten with notifications.
Such a phone was bound to be burnt out in due time. Always on, albeit, silenced – eight hours of sleep when capable was something the both of them held in great importance. Alas, the birds that chirped their waking song paid not a care towards the two sleeping beauties – two hours of sleep must suffice for now.
Rook did this, sometimes. To awaken mere moments prior to Vil, and gaze upon him with the admiration held towards the Beautiful Queen herself. His eccentric means to going about things were known by Vil, and whilst grumpy when awakened, he would not bat an eye to the feeling of Rook’s fingers against his neck.
Maybe it was strange. Yet uniqueness was simultaneously endearing and alarming to all whom encountered the vice prefect. For now, he relented, tired arms draped lazily across Vil’s midriff and extending to his back. No, they hadn’t spooned before – but these gentle touches were never mentioned, either.
“Rook?” came a tired voice. A tidbit hoarse, violet eyes meeting emerald ones. Vil’s hair draped across his face, obscuring his vision as stray strands rested atop of a finely sculpted nose. Such decorum (the woes of messy hair) would never be witnessed by public eye. It was these expressions of vulnerability that ascended the confines of physicality. Whilst Vil was rendered as oblivious as a baby deer in his slumber, perhaps an image of the man just waking up and circulating online would be more damning than an arrow wedged between his ribcage. “I had thought you’d wake me, rather than just stare at me.”
A small, thin-lipped smile formed on Rook’s face. “Ah, you needn’t worry one bit…” He shifted his arm so to maneuver his hand to Vil’s face, lifting the long wefts of hair in the process. “I had only just awoken myself moments ago.”
Well, they both knew that to be a lie.
“Hmph,” Vil allowed Rook to hold his hair for a moment. A tired gaze meeting one that had been awake for some time now – it was laughable, to what extent Rook took in hiding the reality of things. A peculiar contrast to what lengths the Pomefiore vice took in hiding all other aspects of his personal life. Certainly, Vil could not see the photos that adorned his walls behind removable wallpaper… but Rook made no attempt to hide his alertness despite ‘just waking up’. “Well, good morning.”
“Good morning, roi de poison. Did you dream, by any chance? You twitched a fair amount…” Rook paused. “More often than usual. I certainly hope they were pleasant dreams.”
Had Vil dreamt of him? What a lovely reality that would be.
“Non, non. You haven’t a minute to waste, I understand.” Rook moved off the bed and stood, with a flourish. Even in his dressing gown did he maintain the poise prim and proper that was expected of him. “Let me see… what awaits our beloved prefect today?”
Vil sat for a moment, winking away the sleep heavyset against his eyes. Forever was he one to hold himself to damning expectations, and were he not so vigorous in his self-care, he’d certainly fizzle and burn out.
“An audition,” Vil grabbed ahold of his makeup case, sifting through items upon items. Never ending, there was a fair amount of product contained in such heavy bags. Reliance on makeup artists was not something Vil enjoyed – a select few managed to encapsulate his image and radiance in the ways he liked. That’s how Rook understood it, anyways. “Niege intends on trying to secure the protagonist role in an upcoming play. I’m to be punctual and audition before he can even make it to the studio.”
How Vil got that information, on the schedule of his rival, was beyond Rook.
“My, my! A packed day indeed, hm?” And by the time Rook had made it over, Vil had already applied the base of his foundation and had begun on the eyes. “Then, I’ll assist you where possible. May I?”
Rook tapped his fingers alongside the eyeshadow palette, resting against Vil’s thigh. Usually, he would decline – to shake his head and continue with the (to some) agonizing process of carefully set brush strokes and arduous blending.
Vil paused a moment, dabbing the remnants of his contour against his chiseled jaw. “…I suppose so, yes.” Lithe fingers presented an eyeshadow brush to Rook, white bristles darkened purple in the classic colour scheme Vil was most notable for. A colour of elegance, royalty and riches. So very pigmented and bold. Some may call such colours cold and intimidating – but Rook reasoned that they hadn’t just gotten to know them first. “Move quickly. We’re ahead of schedule, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“Of course, of course.”
Thus, Rook set to work, hands gliding atop of Vil’s to claim the brush as his own. His companion had such cold skin compared to the warmth of his own.
Thumb and forefinger gently grabbed ahold of Vil’s chin, tilting him forwards for a firmer grip upon his canvas. Vil’s skin was barren of blemishes, discolouration or any ‘unseemly’ factors that would undoubtedly garner the model’s ire. With or without hundreds of dollars of product finely applied, there was a certain beauty to it all. “Rook?”
…
“Rook.”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring.”
“Is that so…?”
“It’s unlike you to get distracted. We haven’t got time to hang about. I’ll do it, if you’d prefer to get yourself ready.”
The truth was, to be on such close quarters with Vil was a liberty in which Rook hardly exercised often. That is, to hold him. Standing by his side was a position Rook was almost always in.
Perhaps some may title him as lovesick, or others to say that he was merely over-dedicated in expressing his adoration for all that Vil was. In all honesty, no matter the three years in which they spent together, the constrictive feeling that welled in Rook’s chest was a monument. A monument to affections that he knew could never realistically be returned, lest Vil sacrifice his image.
Idols, actors, models… they could not be seen with a lover. Nor could they spare them the time of day to go on dates, share milkshakes or rest their head so lovingly against their partners shoulder in a warm embrace that—
“My apologies, roi de poison. I was caught up in your beauty!” Rook laughed. Something pained, something soft, something undetected. It caught Vil for a moment, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly as the sound wavered to trained ears. “Allow me.”
“…If you say so,” came Vils response as his eyes slid shut. Rook spared no hesitance in his application of the product, thumb readjusting its grip to rest lightly beneath Vil’s lip. Well-manicured nails pressed against pink ever so lightly, all movements of the hand ever so purposeful. Like Rook was trying to savour the hold of Vil, the apple of his eye, like he’d never have such an opportunity again. “I don’t usually allow others to do my makeup. Though, I’m certain you know this.”
“Then, why have I been given such a liberty?” Rook spoke in a hushed tone, fingers tending to ever so carefully placing colours against colours. “Fufu. Because we are friends, non?”
“I suppose friends is an understatement. You’re someone… important to me.” Vil felt Rook move to the other eye. The wetness against his lash was an indication the eyeliner had been applied, and Rook was finally moving as quickly as he promised. “An asset, surely. If any were to stand on similar levels, it would be you… but calling you an asset seems rude.”
Vil tensed, if only for a moment. Verbal displays of affection, this vulnerability, had him re-erect every cement wall he had formed in all the years behind him. Rook knew this well. That he did not declare his appreciation for his dormitory through words, but rather, actions. In tending to cuts garnered in Rook’s hunts, to draping a blanket over him in the rare instances he had dozed off by his desk in exam week.
To the second-year prom, where they went together. Not as dates, as companions on similar levels. However, still with matching corsages and ties.
And how, in their holidays apart, they would write to one another. Where Rook would mark every note with ‘much love, Rook’… and how Vil would simply sign off with ‘yours, Vil’.
But, one time, amidst eraser shavings clung to matte paper were the indents of ‘with love’ written in cursive. Did Vil think of it as too bold? They were just friends – and friends did all these things, all the time. Surely.
Vil did not verbalise his affections in the ways Rook did. Whereas Vil would run a tight ship of expectations with a cold (yet knowing) gaze, Rook would greet their students with a smile. They were opposites in every sense of mind, yet simultaneously could not exist without the other.
“Then, what am I to you, if I may?” Rook inquired, finalizing Vil’s eye makeup with one last sweep of liner.
“What are you, to me? I’d rather ask the same question to you first.” Vil responded.
“Fufu. Of course you would turn the question onto me…” Rook sighed fondly, shifting his hand away from his chin and to rest against his cheek - instinctively brushing his thumb across Vil’s cheekbone.
For now, Vil didn’t tense. Like he would allow himself this private moment. The huntsman knew that these things never came easily to his beloved. If he could even call him that.
“To me…”
“To you.”
“…Aah, there isn’t any reason to hide it. We both know it by now, non? To me, you are…”
Ding. Vil’s phone lit up.
REMINDER, 5:00 AM: Meeting. Two hours from now.
Ding.
MANAGEMENT, 5:00 AM: “We’ll be picking you up from outside the station in thirty minutes.”
Ding.
UNREAD NOTIFICATIONS : 99+
"Vil, you look so g..." "Keep up the hard w..." "10/10!!!!" "Are you sing..."
"Cool sponsor." "omg stunnin..." "Better than Nieg..."
Rook looked over to his phone. What amazing eyesight he had, to read the comments of adoration and favouritism Vil’s fans had. He wasn’t jealous, no, he agreed tenfold with every kind sentiment shared. But, perhaps in the depths of his soul, he felt a pang of… want. A want to be honest and truthful. To sign those letters with more love than words can express.
Alas, Rook could not be genuine with Vil. Not yet. Matters from the heart were best ignored, for the sake of career opportunities and to avoid schoolyard rumours.
Anything for Vil. That was his reason.
“…Someone who should be up and dressed by now, hm?”
…
Vil relaxed against his hand a touch more, hair weaving between Rook’s fingers. “It seems so.” He spoke after a minute. “Let’s continue this conversation another time, Rook. Whenever the opportunity arises.”
“Oui, oui! Now, I suppose I’ll duck down to my room before anyone else awakens.” Rook leant forward, smelling the distinct perfume that sat against Vil’s skin. Such a notable, florally scent. “Do message me when you arrive safe and sound, would you?”
“Naturally. Really, you hardly need to fuss. I’m more than capable of caring for myself, you know.” Vil spoke, meeting the warm hand against his face with a cold touch. Digits wrapping around his vice prefects, they stayed there a moment. There was a longing to it, in how Vil handled him. Perhaps it was Rook’s tendency to analyse body language as if he were reading the morning paper, but… it really did reek of a desire to stay. If only for five minutes more. “I appreciate your concern, nonetheless. Stay out of trouble while I’m gone – I’ll be back before the welcoming ceremony.”
“Mhm, mhm. Take care now, roi de poison.” Setting a gentle kiss against his cheek, Rook was grateful to not have had applied lip gloss and left an unsightly mark. Such a gesture was a goodbye in other cultures, so it wasn’t odd. “I will be cheering for you from here.”
And with that, Rook took his final step back with a bow. There Vil was, flawless in every way. Of course, Rook was to give him the privacy of getting dressed before making his way to the station.
“The same applies to you. I would appreciate it if you didn’t bother Kingscholar while I’m out.” There was a lining of amusement, finely masked by authority, to Vil’s tone.
“No promises!”
…
Click. Rook left, and the door was shut.
What had felt like mere minutes of separation soon became hours, as the huntsman tended to sprucing up Pomefiores hallway in ways he deemed fit. Water the flowers, tend to shining the mirrors, prepare an adequate breakfast in which he’ll undoubtedly ensure the other students ate, too.
Rook was not one to do things without a certain glamour. A man to exaggerate his movements wherever he went, as his presence was oft one announced and expected. Rarely did he stand in the shadows to observe – bar his hunting expeditions.
Yet, there was a certain gentleness in how he shifted about Vil’s room. How their tired mornings together were their little secret; kept finely between two students and hushed whispers. It was an oddity to Rook. If Vil truly felt as if it was nothing more than two dormitory leaders falling victim to slumbers embrace in rather peculiar places, then why did he seem to relish in these fleeting moments?
Rather than spring from bed with a fierce determination to don his robes and be out the door with two hours spare, he sat – he waited. He took an inkling more time in his routine, whether it be resting by Rook for five minutes more or only chastising him a little bit for the time Rook took in applying his makeup. All whilst such beautiful eyes were marred with an uncertainty of what to say.
Ah, he got an email. Against his lockscreen (a rather lovely image of the Afterglow Savannah, personal work!) was something from Vil.
VIL SCHOENHEIT, 6:40 AM: Rook, see to it that our robes are ready by tonight. I attached a scan of the induction ceremony speech we’ve prepared – I’m already halfway to the station, so this’ll have to suffice. Yours, Vil.
ROOK HUNT, 6:42 AM: Of course. I’ll have them ironed in my room, hm? You could have just texted me, you know. Aah, unless you’re using your managers phone again. Much love, Rook.
VIL SCHOENHEIT, 6:58 AM: Correct. It looks like my charger broke and failed to work on my phone overnight. Take care, and remember what I said regarding Kingscholar. Much love, Vil.
“Much love?” Rook couldn’t help but read the last line aloud. He clutched his phone to his chest for a moment, eyes fixated on nothing in particular. Such words held weight, to a man who knew well to bit his tongue.
Alas, hunters did not mind to play the waiting game - given that their target was doing the same. “Much love indeed, roi de poison. If only you knew."