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Epel is having a less than stellar day by all accounts. It started earlier than normal because he made himself wake up early today to finish studying for the exam in Professor Trein’s class and he couldn’t handle doing that without getting dressed and binding. He looks extra girly today and would rather die than have his classmates see him like that more than they already do. A few extra hours shouldn’t hurt that much.
Trein loves doing tests on huge swaths of information at one time, so Epel finds himself searching through page after page of notes on the past unit, trying to get all the information that he swears he understood at one time to stick once again. Nobody taught him magic history growing up aside from a few stories from his grampa and mee maw, so he feels leagues behind everybody else in this subject. He’s still cramming over his desk when his “LEAVE FOR CLASS NOW OR YOU WILL BE LATE” alarm sounds and he scrambles to pack everything he needs for the day.
If he went as fast as he could, he could probably leave later in the morning, but walking the way Vil instructs him to, with a straight back and strides that aren’t too big or too small, cuts his speed basically in half, and the greetings from various Pomefiore students who try to make small talk about exotic carpets or fancy restaurants or other fancy stuff that flies way over his head slow him down as well.
His binder feels hotter and more suffocating than normal today. Perhaps it's the spring weather? Or maybe the fact that he slept poorly last night, his regular nightmare of dark purple fabric and overwhelming crowds forcing him to wake up several times in the night and stare out his window until he calmed down into sleep once again. Either way, slight discomfort is worth the continued acceptance at the all-boys school.
He made it to class just barely on time, taking one of the last available seats next to Jack. They don’t talk much, but he’s so strong and manly that Epel sometimes can’t help but steal glances and wonder about a world where he could look like that.
Epel can’t focus at all during the test. The windows are open and the breeze on the back of his neck is chasing all the proper historical facts out of his head. He knows Vil will get on him for another poor grade in History of Magic, but no matter how tightly he grips his pencil, his brain doesn’t want to be under his control today. He knows the material but can’t seem to express it in words, and that damn cat keeps staring at him too.
So History class sucked.
P.E. wasn’t much better. In his hurry in the morning, he hadn’t packed his sports bra so his only option (that doesn’t leave his skin crawling with doubts and perceived glances from the other students) is to bind through the pushups and laps that Professor Vargas ordered. And because this is usually the only place Epel can show his strength, of course, he wants to take it and he pushes himself as hard as he can while his lungs can’t open fully and his skin simmers with the extra heat of the garment. He gets winded so much quicker, he honestly feels like he’s back in middle school when his classmates would tease him for his low stamina during jogs and his P.E. teacher would say he needed to man up if he wanted to be seen as a boy. He feels like everyone is staring at him, noticing how incapable and weak he is today, and it makes him want to scream. His vision is getting fuzzy along the edges from his own jogging before Idia calls him over with an “Epel-shi” and requests his help with stretching. He’s not sure what makes the 3rd year ask Epel of all people, but he helps where he can. The lower-intensity exercise is a lot less stressing so he makes it through the class.
He doesn’t see the concern and knowing look in Idia’s eyes.
Epel’s back hurts by lunch, which is usually the first sign that he’s been wearing his binder for too long. It's a sharp pain in his upper back that flares every once in a while. He normally can handle a full school day of wear but today it makes everything inside him sit strangely. Nobody asks to sit with him which is a small blessing. He always makes himself follow Vil’s eating rules more when he’s directly observed. Stupid processes that he doesn’t need in order to eat a damn sandwich.
He actually has a minute to himself in the classroom before alchemy starts. Not even professor Crewel has made his grand entrance yet as he cloaks himself in the lab coat that’s always been a bit too tight to be comfortable and rests his eyes in the sun like a cat.
He awakes to the chatter of a full classroom and a hand on his shoulder from Jack. He nods his thanks before doubling over in a coughing fit that makes his chest burn. He can’t get enough air into his lungs to cough properly so they devolve into wheezes. The whole class is looking at him. God, they probably think I’m some twig with “poor constitution” who gets sick at the slightest breeze. He mumbles his apologies when he finally catches his breath and tries to focus in on the list of ingredients and plants in front of him over the constant buzz of soreness in his back. Just this class and then magical theory and he can go back to his dorm and nobody else has to see him today.
It's a miracle he manages to keep up the soft facade through the end of the school day. Every time he’s asked a question he wants to snap in full dialect and tell the person to fuck off (yes, even if it's a professor). But he doesn’t. His personality is pressed down until his heart hurts like his back and he’s definitely looking a bit gloomy by the time he starts to return through the Pomefiore mirror.
He just wants to lay in bed for a few hours and then write a letter to his family back home, but as soon as he’s passing the common room, his hopes are dashed by a piercing call.
“Where do you think you’re going, my baby potato?”
Vil
“I was returning to my room to work on the essay that was just assigned by Professor Crewel” A partial lie, but Vil will accept his escape better if it's hidden under schoolwork.
“So you forgot we agreed you would do dance practice with me when that barbaric lion lets you off of Magift practice?” Vil spits the word magift like it's dirty.
Oh shit. He was so stuck in the views of his classmates and the ache of his spine that it completely slipped his mind.
“I’m sorry housewarden. Today has been very busy and it slipped my mind. Could I return to my room for just a moment and change before we begin?” His back spasms and his posture slips for just a moment. He hopes Vil doesn’t catch it.
“Fix your posture Epel, we can’t have you looking unsightly. And you should have your gym clothes with you, correct? You can change in the bathroom by the dance studio. I will see you there in 10 minutes. I trust you will not make me wait further.”
And Vil is walking off, his heels clicking on the floor as he moves away before Epel can even try and argue. Epel sticks his tongue out at Vil’s turned back.
So Epel has two options
- Run back to his room and put on his sports bra. There’s no way he makes it in time for Vil and he would be disobeying a direct order. Plus he always feels like shit doing Vil’s girly dance routines without binding.
OR
- Keep the binder on, suck it up, and hope Vil goes easy on him today. Will probably be painful, but at least Vil won’t be mad at him.
Choice 2 it is.
Epel hurries to change, moving as gracefully as he can through the halls to the dance studio and putting on his gym uniform. He tries to take a few deep breaths but nothing sinks in the way it should.
You’re strong enough to make it through this Epel. He says that to himself repeatedly as he walks into the studio.
“I see you managed to make it on time. Now get to stretching. I am not having you dance without being properly warmed up” Vil then claps twice, the sharp sound echoing in the space, and Epel starts moving.
He knows this routine. He stretches his arms and legs while Vil watches like an overly manicured hawk and then when he sits down and tries to lean forward, Vil swoops in and pushes him impossibly further forwards, causing a stretching and burning pain in his thighs. Today, however, his back protests when Vil puts his hands on it and Epel has to bite his tongue more than usual to keep his complaints to a minimum. He still grumbles slightly so that he can maintain his dignity, but not so much that Vil gets upset and makes him do more work. It's a balancing act that he’s gotten upsettingly good at over the past few months.
The dancing itself he’s adapted less to. Each time he thinks he gets a move right, Vil critiques his execution, saying he needs to do it “more delicately” and “cuter”. It makes Epel want to be sick when he finally does get the rare compliment. It makes him feel like he’s progressing backward, to the small toddler that his parents dressed up in frilly pink frocks before he was able to protest in the way he wanted to.
And it's exhausting. Epel has more physical stamina than he did in middle school, but repeating the same section of a routine over and over drains him until he’s panting on the best of days. So today a single rep has him winded, trying to keep his gasps quiet and ignoring that the pain has moved to the front of his torso as well.
At one point Vil asks if he needs another break. He normally can handle this. He’s usually strong enough. He shakes his head and they head into the difficult part with the jumps again.
He tries to put all his effort into it, he’s sure his soft expression has slipped but he can’t be bothered to fix it. The moves have more power than usual because he can’t manage them, and he jumps extra high at the key move.
And then he lands.
It feels like the scaffolding holding the world around him up shakes and falls apart. The dull pain in his chest, right by his lungs, becomes a sharp stab, and all the air leaves him, like that time he fell out of one of the trees in the orchard when he was young and he landed on his back.
The wheezes he was trying to keep quiet rush out of him full force, but somehow, despite his frantic breaths, it feels like no oxygen is reaching his lungs. His arms prickle with goosebumps yet his lungs burn like he held his breath too long while cleaning the barn.
The fuzziness in his eyes from P.E. class has returned but it’s worse this time, the wooden floors of the dance studio coming in and out of focus, covered by a soft black light every other flicker.
“Epel” Someone’s saying something. There’s a hand on his shoulder. When did he get this close to the ground?
“Epel!” His eyes finally turn themself to Vil’s face. He looks…concerned?
“What’s going on?” The sound is muffled through quick and shallow breaths. Epel hacks and shakes when he tries to answer. What was he even trying to say?
“You’re okay. Take your time. Can you squeeze my hand once if this is asthma, twice if it’s anxiety, or three times if it’s something else?” Vil’s voice has dropped its normal command in favor of soft tones that slip through the cracks of Epel’s conscious better. His hands are shaking but he finds the offered hand.
Three shakes, alternating between feather-light and bone-crushing as a spasm goes through his chest. His other hand is pawing at his jumpsuit. He knows he needs to get his binder off, but how can he tell Vil that? Can he do it himself when the air stings like tiny lightning?
“Okay, well I need you to try and breathe for me. I know it feels hard right now, but I’m going to count to four and I want you to try and breathe in that whole time, okay? One squeeze if you’ve got it, sunshine”
One squeeze. It hurts to breathe but Epel tries anyway. He sputters out halfway between two and three.
“That’s okay, you’re doing great. I’m just going to keep counting until you can tell me what else I need to do, okay?” Normally Epel would object to being treated like a child, being talked to like he can barely understand. But right now, with the room swirling around him and his chest begging for air and freedom, he relishes in the soft tones and simple language.
They sit like that, just breathing for a bit. Epel starts making it to the four-count but his chest still burns. His vision clears but he knows he needs to tell Vil something.
“I-” a small cough. Vil rubs his back comfortingly “My tank top…it's too tight. I needa get it off”
Vil looks puzzled. “The top that comes with the school P.E. uniform should be loose and tailored to your measurements” He leans in towards Epel and pinches at the fabric until he spots the second layer underneath the blue garment.
A gasp. Epel cowers further, his breath regaining some of the earlier speed.
“Epel, honey, how long have you been wearing this? You should never wear something like this during exercise, it can hurt your lungs.” Vil’s tone gets more intense, but it’s not angry, instead laced with frustration and…concern?
“All day” another cough “I wanted to change earlier but you said I couldn’t go back to my room”
Vil’s eyes fall. “You should have explained your situation to me, I would have been willing to wait longer if it ensured your safety. Who do you take me for? A slave driver?”
Epel just wheezes a few more times, his mind still catching up. Vil’s not mad that Epel’s been keeping secrets. Vil’s not threatening to kick him out of Pomefiore. The only thing Vil is mad at is that…Epel didn’t explain himself? He’s dumbfounded. Nobody at school back home would have been this understanding. Nobody outside of Harveston had ever quite understood it.
“We’ll talk more about the accommodations I will be making for your situation in the future. For now, would you be okay with me helping to remove your binder? I can avert my eyes if that would make you more comfortable.”
Epel just squeezes Vil’s hand again. Speaking would be hard right now even if he didn’t feel like his own lungs were trying to kill him.
Vil moves quickly and efficiently. One moment they are crouched on the floor, and the next the binder is being expertly removed and Epel’s jumpsuit is being fully zipped up without a single stray glance from Vil. The black binder is folded and Vil is back at Epel’s side before the first year can even process the events.
“Now take some deep breaths. When you can stand I need you to stretch your arms and back. Those muscles can be hurt by improperly binding, alright?” Epel just nods. He feels exposed, even with the jumpsuit fully closed. The room feels too big and Vil’s eyes too intense.
Standing makes him wobble for a moment as blood rushes from his head, but a nimble hand from Vil keeps him steady. His breaths still hurt like hell, his ribs are probably bruised, but he can take full sips of air at last and the sharper of the two chest pains relaxes its grip. With Vil’s piercing eyes watching, he does the arm and back portion of their normal warm-up stretches. It hurts like hell but his muscles appreciate the freedom after being constrained all day.
“Now, my baby potato, you have two choices. I can take you back to your room, where you will lay in bed and rest, or I can drag you to the infirmary for endangering your body. Either choice will eventually have you explaining everything to me so that I can support you properly as housewarden.”
Epel looks dumbfounded as if Vil has taken to spouting Rook’s french instead of clear and commanding English.
“Come on now, you made a stupid physical decision but you are fine mentally are you not?” Vil’s voice still has some of the concern, but he’s largely returned to his normal self it seems.
Epel nods “Can I just go back to my room?” his voice is too hoarse to sound the way Vil has instructed him, but the phrasing avoids his dialect at least.
“Of course” Vil then grabs Epel’s hand and they are marching through the halls of Pomefiore. Vil’s legs are longer than Epel’s so it’s a bit of an awkward drag, but they make it to Epel’s door at the end of the hall in one piece.
And Epel expects Vil to leave him there and go strut off to some other business. But instead, Vil prances into his room, deposits the binder in the bottom left drawer of his armoire, and pulls back the multicolored comforter on Epel’s bed before looking at Epel with raised eyes.
“Come on. I am not letting you stand in your condition a moment longer” Epel remains stupefied as he climbs in bed, only for Vil to move the poison apple pillow closer and tuck Epel’s sheets up to his chin.
“Now you message me sometime later tonight. If you are feeling better, we can have dinner or tea, or if you don’t feel up to that, I can come back here so we can chat. But I will spare you from having to bare your soul when you are this exhausted” Now Epel IS exhausted, a pain and a weight in every limb, but it makes something in him spark to hear Vil say it.
“I’m not that tired” he grumbles “But I’ll message ya when I feel like it”
“Now tiredness is no excuse for unclear speech, young man” Vil prods, but he simply pats the top of Epel’s head and is out the door in an instant, as if he was never there.
Epel stares at the door for a long time before his eyes slip shut.
At some point, he will have to explain himself to Vil. And at some point, he will have to be more comfortable showing vulnerability, both related to his gender and otherwise. But for now, he is allowed to sleep, and to be unsure about it. He is still a young boy afterall.