Chapter Text
When Vil was a child, he would only walk where footprints had already been placed in the snow. To be the one ruining something so pristine, why, he would have never been able to forgive himself, but walking within what had already been tainted… well, nobody could blame Vil for that. Yet there he stood now, a trail of fresh footprints behind him as he stood on his father’s— as he stood on the doorstep of his home.
He locked the door behind him.
The foyer didn’t catch his attention, it had not changed since the summer in the slightest. No new paintings, no new anything. He took his boots off, hung his coat, and almost immediately headed to his room. He wanted to get unpacking over with as soon as possible, to be done before his father got home would be preferred.
It wasn’t as though he had much to unpack anyways, cosmetics, a few gifts from peers for the holiday season, and some clothes that he had decided were out of season. He rescued the gifts from his luggage and enchanted his clothes to unpack themselves. Not even Vil Schoenheit was fond of folding clothes, regardless of how diligent he typically was with chores.
To get a reaction out of Vil Schoenheit was something many desired, thus most of his peers had insisted he open the gifts in front of them. There were no surprises for him as he set the objects on his desk. He had had to feign many smiles to appease his classmates—exhausting, but all part of showbiz.
It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for their thoughtfulness, he just tended to lack expression on occasions like these. His father gave him anything he wanted as a child, it came with being the son of a celebrity. To make up for a lack of free time, his father bent to his son’s very whims whenever he was around. Perhaps gifts meant less to Vil than they did to the average person, but he was still grateful.
His room reflected the nature of Vil’s upbringing, it wasn’t the biggest; he and his father didn’t need much space, but expensive perfumes sat on the vanity. Signed copies of his favorite books lined his bookshelves. Why, just a single piece of clothing in his closet probably cost enough to buy an average family a week’s worth of food. Among the silk sheets, ornate mirrors, and pure gold jewelry, there were things that made the room more than just an extravagant display, things that made it feel like home.
Vil opened the drawer of his desk, carefully filed papers laid within, sorted by the year and the contents: poems, drawings, photos, and other anecdotes, all from a single artist. A drawer touched by someone who had never even entered his room. A semester’s worth of new works to add to his collection sat just atop his desk. He couldn’t help but reminisce on the first poem Rook had given him. Well, Rook didn’t exactly give it to him, he had shot it at him, making the first person at NRC to get a visible reaction out of Vil.
Rook improved drastically as an artist since then. Vil couldn’t help but wonder if acting as his muse sped up that process. Rook’s works had been the only gifts to bring a genuine smile to Vil’s face.
That was a lie.
Unfortunately, Cater Diamond had gotten him something that resonated more deeply than his classmate likely intended. A signed copy of a novel that his father had acted in the film version of. It wasn’t a good film, or even a good book, at least not according to the note Cater had left at the back of the book:
TBH kind of a shitty read but as the #1 Eric Venue fan I’m sure you’ll be able to enjoy it <3 (PS. We should hang out sometime over break :>)
Of course, Cater didn’t know Vil’s father was the Eric Venue in question, that information wasn’t common knowledge for a reason.
The true value was not held in the signature of the author, but rather, a photo on the inside cover. A picture of his mother and his father on the set of the movie adaptation, when they had been younger, before stardom truly took its grasp. They looked so happy. They looked unrefined, free.
He gently shut the book and placed it on the shelf, not wanting to become too lost in the photo while he still had other things to do.
Suddenly, a crash sounded from his closet.
He grabbed his pen from his bed, rushing to investigate.
A mirror laid on the ground, shattered.
It was a gift from Lilia, supposedly having belonged to the Fairest Queen herself, though Vil honestly doubted that. He had completely forgotten that he wrapped it in some of the clothes to prevent it from breaking. How ironic.
He picked the mirror up, thankfully, the frame—the only thing truly irreplaceable—was still intact, but the glass had shattered. Vil set the frame on his bedside table and returned to the walk-in closet. He allowed the clothes to continue folding themselves as he began to collect the glass to be disposed of.
Halfway through the process, his hands began stinging, but he didn’t think much of it until he noticed crimson droplets begin to stain the carpet.
There was a small shard of glass secured in his palm.
He sighed and debated finishing cleaning the floor before tending to the injury, but he didn’t want to stain the carpet even more. He made his way down the hall to the bathroom, being very careful to avoid getting blood on the floor. He didn’t flinch as he dislodged the glass with a pair of tweezers, though the sight of how deep the shard had gone made him feel slightly sick.
The sting of disinfectant hit his hand and he wrapped it up tightly enough to hopefully stop the bleeding. He was going to clean the rest of the glass with magic, he’d decided.
The living room was still empty when he exited the bathroom, not that he had been expecting any different. Of course the living room of an actor would look like a set, sleek modern furniture, fake plants… the paintings on the wall were the most atrocious offense, art with no soul completely lacked meaning, as an artist, his father should know that. The only signs of life in the room were the pictures behind the dining table.
The pictures behind the dining table.
Vil walked over to them without even thinking. Many of them were of him, him and his father, just his father, but there was an important one that sat in the center.
His mother: not the carefree girl in the book Cater gave, but a refined young woman. While her back was straight, her chin rested on her hand, leaving her short blonde hair, which she had clearly curled before the shoot, to frame her face at an angle. She looked powerful. It made sense that at a point, she was the parent Vil had looked up to.