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“There. Flowers are in. Give me a shake?” Vil stood beside a seated Jack, the two of them tucked into a corner of the Pomefiore ballroom.
It would’ve been easier if they could get their “models” in hair and makeup at the greenhouse, where they’d be confined, than doing it at the dorm and risking magical chaos on the walk over. If Grim suddenly had a rampaging hunger for tuna, it’d be better that no one wearing stark white linen got in his way. Trapped between a feisty cat and thieving fae, however, Vil was far more confident in his ability to grab Grim by the scruff if need be.
Jack shook his head, not with the vigor of a wet wolf, but with the caution of someone dubious of the pins kissing his scalp. The flowers adorning his silver mane held, securely in place. Of course they held. After all, Vil was a professional.
“Good. Let’s do your eyes now. Chin up for me,” Vil instructed, slipping a tube of eye primer from the makeup brush belt slung around his waist. He’d finished dolling up Ace earlier, giving the Heartslabyul spudling time to practice his sleight-of-hand. Ortho took care of himself, and Crewel was helping Silver. Jack had his full attention at the moment, and it was Vil’s every intention to make him stunning.
Not that he needed much help. Jack wasn’t a model, but he was more than good-looking enough to turn Vil’s head. Their morning runs together grew more and more distracting every week…
The primer went on smoothly, but as soon as Vil tried to run a kohl pencil across Jack’s eyeline, he jerked back.
“Sorry,” Jack muttered, blinking a few times before adjusting his posture and sitting up, straight-backed. “Ready.”
Vil was gentler in his approach the second time. He was used to helping the Pomefiore boys with their makeup—most of the spudlings, like Epel, were helpless when they joined—but they hardly ever moved. Perhaps it was because they were frozen in terror, or in awe, of their housewarden. Regardless, Jack had no such hangups and jumped again when the pencil neared his waterline.
Vil pulled back, his lips quirking at the corners, expression torn between a frown and a smile. “Why does your knee keep jerking up?”
“It, uh, it tickles,” Jack said, reaching up to rub at his eye. Vil promptly smacked his hand away, lest he smear the perfect line above his lashes. “Feels weird and makes my thigh spasm.”
Cute. Too bad cute wouldn’t restore the school’s dysfunctional weather system.
“Do you want to do it yourself?”
He shook his head, squinting the partially-lined eye shut. “Don’t know how.”
Vil arched an eyebrow. That’s what all the spudlings said day one. Don’t know how. That excuse didn’t fly in his dorm past the first night, but since Leona didn’t prioritize appearances, he supposed it held up in Savanaclaw. If it were anyone else not in his dorm, he might let them get away with it. It wasn’t his job to chase around the stragglers. But, Jack would listen. Jack always listened. “What about the ceremonial makeup?”
“I do that with magic. Ruggie gave me the spell. It’s faster and less… pokey.”
Less pokey, that was one way to put it. Vil chuckled and flipped the pencil between his fingers, ready to pocket it if need be. Magic, while convenient, never looked quite as good as the manual product of someone who knew what they were doing. It was common, and understandably so. Most of the Heartslabyul boys used magic for their card markings, so others using it for ceremonial makeup was a given.
“Do you want me to do this with magic?” Vil asked. If he swapped the pencil for his pen, they’d be done within moments. His magic would leave Jack flawless, even if it’d drop disappointment into the pit of his stomach. He’d been looking forward to making Jack gorgeous by hand.
“No. You can keep going.”
“No flinching?”
“Can’t make any promises.”
At least he was honest. Vil leaned in, one hand caressing the side of Jack’s handsome face and holding him steady, the other directing the kohl pencil. Jack directed his gaze up, body palpably tense, but the second the pencil tip touched his waterline, his right knee jerked and pitched all of him back, away from the liner.
“Jack!”
“Sorry!”
If they weren’t on a strict deadline, Vil might’ve been amused. The wolf who’d taken out half the farmer team during his very first Beanfest was scared of a pencil. He hadn’t even broken a sweat protecting the harp from Yuu and their shockingly well-coordinated assault team, but here he was—intimidated by makeup. “Sit still.”
“Trying to.”
They didn’t have time for this. If Vil had known it’d be a problem, he would’ve pulled Jack into his room the day before and dedicated the whole evening to teaching him how to do his own eyeliner. Maybe after the gala was over, and the school wasn’t caught between freezing snowstorms and sweltering heat.
“Alright, let’s solve this problem then,” Vil huffed and swung a leg over Jack’s lap, straddling him. He let his weight rest on Jack’s thighs, smirking when the bridge of Jack’s nose turned Scarabia red. “Now you can’t kick. Hold still.”
Jack went stiff, frozen in his seat. This time, when Vil shifted close and inked kohl along his lash lines, he didn’t move. His golden eyes took aim at the ceiling until Vil finished, but as soon as Vil pulled back, his gaze dropped to lock onto that of the man perched in his lap. He didn’t say anything, blinking away the discomfort that came naturally to anyone not used to wearing makeup.
Vil waited a moment, but when no tears materialized, he moved on with a satisfied hum. “Good boy. Much better.”
The blush tinting Jack’s tanned skin persisted. “You do this every day?”
“My makeup? Yes.”
“But you don’t need it.”
Vil smiled, uncapping a vial of liquid silver liner. “You’re supposed to be charming the fairies today, not me.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. I don’t do it because I think I need it. I do it because I like it. I like playing with my look, and I like how soothing it is to spend a bit of time in the morning entirely on myself,” Vil explained, voice low as he painted and blended silver accents around the kohl accentuating Jack’s eyes.
The ceremonial makeup looked heavy on most students, Jack included, but this… this was perfect. With the silver jewelry and trimmings on his gala outfit and the glitter in the flowers adorning his hair, he was stunning. Gala couture would look good on anyone, but there was something about how the soft elegance contrasted with Jack’s gruff strength. Like this, if Jack were the lead for a spring showcase, Vil would order the whole line on the spot. “And right now, I really like how this makeup looks on you.”
“That’s cause you’re an expert.”
“Obviously.” Vil smiled, tipping back a fraction to admire his work. It was the right call to go with Jack. Sure, Leona would’ve been breathtaking, but Leona was also a stubborn pain and not worth the effort. Plus, it ran the risk of him slinking off to nap in his usual spot and costing them their window of opportunity. Jack, despite his initial hesitation and doubts, had tackled the assignment with earnest effort. And that’s why, in Vil’s mind, Jack would always be the superior Savanaclaw member. No tricks, no shortcuts, all honest work. A rare gem, in this school.
It was with a twinge of regret that Vil slipped from Jack’s lap, unable to linger with the excuse of makeup completed. He tucked the silver liner into the brush belt and grabbed Jack’s shoes from the wardrobe set nearby, getting down in front of him. “A queen doesn’t kneel just for anyone, you know.”
“Why am I so special, then?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Jack smiled, expression soft as he let Vil slip the heels onto his feet, waiting patiently for him to lace the straps around his calves. He’d told Vil the first day of gala practice that he appreciated how the straps secured the otherwise precarious heels, so Vil made sure to tie them snugly.
Outfit on, hair done, makeup flawless, and heels set to strut. Jack was ready to steal the show.
Vil pushed himself up and admired the end product. “Look at you. Gorgeous. Stand up?”
Jack sprang up, obedient. And perhaps, a bit too enthusiastic because he wobbled, his balance giving out under the shift of the high heels. He caught himself on Vil, grabbing onto his shoulders to steady himself before he could fall.
Vil was a model. And as a model, he was tall. Jack was taller. With the boost from the heels, Jack towered, almost a full head over Vil.
Vil wasn’t used to looking up at people. However, with Jack sparkling in gala couture and pressed close against him, his hands wide and firm on Vil’s shoulders, he found he had no complaints. “Did you practice in these, like I instructed?”
“I did. Gimme a second,” Jack muttered, correcting his center of gravity. He slipped his hands off Vil’s shoulders, but instead of dropping them, he raised them and cupped Vil’s face in his hands. The touch was gentle, his thumbs skimming across Vil’s cheekbones and brushing back loose strands of hair.
The only thing that kept Vil from leaning into those comforting, calloused hands was their pressing schedule. “We’re on deadline, Jack.”
“You should be the one doing this,” Jack said, ignoring the warning. “When you asked us before, what we thought of that was beautiful to each of us… It’s you. You’re the most beautiful thing I can think of. Not a fairy or human in the world that’d look at you on the runway and not be stunned.”
“But then, who’d whip all of you into shape? I know everyone thinks I’m strict, but if it were Crewel on his own, he’d skin us all,” Vil chuckled, his lashes fluttering shut as the warmth and security of Jack’s caress chipped away at better judgment. “Besides, my usual thing doesn’t count as a transformation, does it? Now, come on, walk for me. We can flatter each other after we get the magestone.”
For a fleeting moment, Jack lingered. Then his hands fell away, his coarse fingertips leaving Vil’s skin. “Right. Watch me then.”
Jack turned, rolling his shoulders as he straightened his posture and assumed the starting stance. He strode with confidence, walking forward without a hint of a wobble. He wasn’t too quick and was obviously more relaxed than before. Overall, his gait remained more butch wolf than floating fairy, but it was passable. Masculinity had its place on the runway and Jack sold it better than anyone.
There was the added bonus of how fantastic his built calves looked, flexed from the push of the heels and emphasized by straps wrapped around them.
“Good?” Jack asked, glancing back for judgment.
“Acceptable,” Vil replied, receiving a smile in response. Jack strolled back to him, the second run better than the first. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. Vil didn’t know about fairies, but his own standards were high and he knew he wouldn’t be able to look away. He touched the silken fabric of Jack’s obi, fingers drifting across the lower line of the belt. “You should let me doll you up more often. In private, next time.”
“Are you pups finished yet?” The sharpness of Crewel’s voice pierced between them, splitting them apart. On the opposite end of the ballroom, their professor had Ortho, Silver and Ace with him, the three of them looking nervous but ready. “It’s almost showtime.”
“Nearly. Give us one moment!” Vil called back and dug into his brush belt for a travel-size vial of cologne. He sprayed it on the inside of Jack’s wrists, dabbing a few drops behind his ears and along the hollow of his throat. He kept it light, since heavy perfume had irritated Jack during rehearsals. “There. Done!”
Jack sniffed the air, his mouth turning to a frown. “This isn’t the same one Ace and Silver are wearing.”
“No, it’s not,” Vil confirmed, pocketing the cologne. “Theirs is specific to the gala, to go with the flowers. This one is… mine.”
Jack blinked, and his nose twitched. A heartbeat passed silently between them, and then he laughed. The blush was back, painting his skin, and Vil could feel the same heat in his own face. “You’re scenting me?” Jack asked, amused.
“I am not.”
“You put your cologne on me. Isn’t that the same? Marking me with how you normally smell?”
“Hush now,” Vil scolded. “Are you complaining?”
“I’d never.”
“Then don’t bully me.”
Jack grinned, positively wolfish. “You know I’d never.”
“Schoenheit, Howl. Less fraternizing, more hustle. The clock ticks.” The stolen moment was stripped away—and rightly so—by the arrival of Crewel and the three others. Ace had a replica magestone that he was passing back and forth between his fingers, making it appear and reappear with deft equivalent to magic. Silver’s lashes were fluttering; no doubt he’d dozed off while Crewel painted his pretty face to perfection and was still waking up. Ortho’s new wings hummed, iridescent. A ragtag group, but with their efforts put together, they’d pull this off.
“Everyone ready?” Vil confirmed, glancing at the monitors Idia had set up for them, his drones broadcasting live footage from the greenhouse. Twinkling music already played, the fairies entertained by the opening performance of craft fae. Their group was up soon.
His question was met by nods, perhaps not as confident as desired. They had determination on their side, though. That and desperation.
“Then we’re off. Heel, pups,” Crewel commanded, directing the group out of the ballroom.
Vil caught Jack’s sleeve, holding him back just long enough for the others to get ahead. He wasn’t wearing lipstick today, just a balm. So this wouldn’t mess with the gala makeup. Before Jack had the chance to ask, Vil tipped up and pecked his cheek, his lips skimming plush skin. He dropped away just as quickly, clearing his throat. “Good luck. You’ll be fantastic.”
Jack stared, his jaw slack. The blush crept back, stark and beautiful over his tan.
From the hallway, Crewel clapped his hands, demanding their presence.
Jack jumped to attention, squaring his shoulders. “Right. I will. Won’t disappoint you.”
With that, he marched ahead, straight-faced, ears perked, and his tail wagging madly. Vil muffled a laugh into the back of his hand and followed along.
Perhaps, once the gala concluded, he could teach Jack what it meant to dress down after a rousing party.