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A little over the distance, the shrill billow of Coach Vargas’s whistle pierces through the air. Epel watches students—those of Class 2E—climb onto their brooms and go through the drill, taking turns flying while Coach Vargas yells advice at them from the ground.
It’s only expected that the second years have a good grasp on their brooms and seem to stay on effortlessly, but there are a handful of students that Epel thinks could use a little help.
Not that his criticism would be taken seriously considering he’s still a first-year, but he thinks even a non-mage could see the way Jade Leech is clinging to his broom for dear life with the most vacant expression on his face.
Truthfully, Epel doesn’t have a habit of people-watching. It just so happens that someone on the field caught his eye from a stray glance and he’s been unable to look away ever since.
Riddle’s standing there with his broom floating by his side as he’s rolling up his sleeves, the loose fabric bunching up at his elbows in that unintentionally funny way that reminds Epel of that time Riddle admitted that he had hoped to grow into the uniform one day.
It’s a little silly to see Riddle’s usual intimidation dampened, but more importantly, it’s cute. Riddle hardly looks bothered adjusting and readjusting the length of his cuffs. Epel has to wonder if there was ever a time Riddle had gotten annoyed by it. There might’ve been. And if he ever gets the chance to ask, he’ll make sure Riddle spares no detail.
He looks like he’s just waiting for his turn again. It’s the third cycle of flying they had to do ever since Epel started watching. Flying is more about magical prowess than physical strength and considering Riddle’s proficiency in practical magic, it’s no wonder he looks as calm as ever.
The only sign of disarray might just be his hair, at least from where Epel can see—and even then, it doesn’t look all that bad. Just a little windswept. A little bit unkempt.
The whistle blares again and with Riddle in front of the line, he confidently climbs back onto his broom and launches into the sky without a moment’s hesitation, zipping through the sky with the same mastery he has over horseback. He does loops and spins and Epel’s convinced there’s no bigger show-off in NRC than Riddle Rosehearts himself.
He smiles a little, the very tips of his finger tingling alight with the urge to grab a broom and join him. Maybe then he can catch his smile up close, and he’ll find the erratic beating of his heart to be nothing more than the adrenaline of being so far from the ground.
Riddle lingers in the air for a few more seconds before descending with the grace and dignity of a queen. He slides off his broom and—since it’s Riddle—he crosses his arms and is completely unable to keep back that smug look on his face.
That’s my darlin’ right there! Man, he’s so fucking cool—
“Epel, stop ogling the second years.”
Epel snaps out of his stupor. “... Hm? I’m not—I’m not looking at the second years,” he says dismissively. He meets Vil’s unimpressed gaze with one of nonchalance, holding it for a moment before glancing back at the field.
Rook hums and leans into Vil’s ear, pretending to whisper, “If I may infer, Roi du Poison, I believe there’s only one particular second year our little apple is gazing upon…”
Epel whips back around with a warning glare. “Rook…”
“Oh, Riddle,” Vil says.
Heat rushes to Epel’s face with his housewarden’s careless reply. His grasp on his books slackens in surprise, almost dropping them. He yelps and hastily fixes his hold.
When he glances back up at them, the fluster flares into indignance because even if it was only for a second, he sees their faces and he knows they know. They’re smirking at him for god’s sake—! Rook is, at least. Vil looks unimpressed as he always does. His snide frown and perfect brows do nothing to hide his thoughts.
“I was not staring at Riddle!” Epel hisses.
Vil’s expression shifts ever so slightly, going from apathetic to irked. “Inside voice, potato.”
“Oh, no need to be ashamed, Monsieur Pommette!” Rook coos, waving his hands about in a Rook-esque manner—which is to say grand and liable to inconvenience anyone that comes too close. “It is only natural to gaze upon what you hold dearest, and if you find that the most beautiful rose in the garden is none other than the Roi des Roses himself, c’est magnifique!”
“Yes, but your love life is frankly none of our business,” Vil says. “Moreover, I can tell you haven’t been listening to a thing I’ve said once we began walking past the field.”
They stop walking.
“Why is it that you’ve become more inattentive lately?”
Epel pointedly avoids Vil’s glare and instead tries to look for Rook to help, pushing down the visceral need to crawl out of his own skin while he frowns and silently begs him to get Vil off his back.
Rook smiles and looks away.
He grits his teeth. Biased motherfu—!
“Epel!”
“Yes!” Epel yelps, jolting out of his stupor as he tentatively turns back to Vil.
“There you go again. Listen to me while I’m still being nice,” he seethes. “You can’t control your volume or your expressions when you’re irritated. Look at you, you’re glaring at me right now. It’s unbecoming of a student from Pomefiore to show people any mode of vulnerability. Fix it right this instant.”
Epel huffs and forces his expression to relax despite how his brows struggle to unknit or how his grimace can’t seem to be straightened out.
Rook gently brushes a stray hair from Vil’s face, tucking it behind his ear. “Deep breathes, mon amour.”
Vil sighs. One calm breath is all it took for the irritation to slide off his pristine features. “See? How can I trust you to your whims when you can’t even manage something as simple as calming down?”
“I’m trying,” Epel mutters.
“You must relax your breathing first.” Rook finally turns back to him, tutting. “How to do that is entirely up to your discretion but… Ah! Thinking about something pleasant does the trick.”
Epel bites the inside of his cheek, furrowing his brow. “Seriously?”
“Oui.” Rook smiles.
“... Okay.” He looks away from them, closing his eyes and trying to picture something nice. Harveston doesn’t even take a second to come to mind.
He can already feel the wonderful spring breeze carrying the zest of citrus and sprouting wildflowers across the fields, taking him back to the days he’d spent rolling in meadows with his parents when there wasn’t a lot to do.
He remembers their warm smiles and how they’ve caught him tumbling down hills without fail—that kind of security he can only feel in the worn quilt sitting over his fancy upholstered bed back in Pomefiore.
Great. Now he feels homesick.
“It’s not working.”
“Well, you’re not scowling. It’s an improvement.”
Epel’s eyes snap open. Vil said something nice? He should’ve been recording. Holy shit.
“But what you’ve done now is only the standard,” Vil says as he narrows his eyes, “at least try to exceed the expectations. I’m not asking you to act a role out.”
He takes it back. He takes it all back. Vil can choke on dirt.
Rook smiles and clasps Vil’s hand into his own. “Now now, Vil! Epel tried his best. I believe at least one line of praise is overdue, non?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? Any more and I’d be coddling our little muddy potato.” Vil’s sharp expression softens around the edges. Not completely, but noticeable enough for someone like Epel who’s spent countless hours on the receiving end of such pointed looks.
Before he’s given the chance to cringe at Vil’s “I’m-so-so-so-in-love-with-my-boyfriend” face, he feels something gentle land on top of his head.
He blinks, surprised. It’s only a second before that gentle thing begins resembling a hand softly combing through his hair, sifting through the strands and carefully brushing away the ones that come too close to his face.
Rook coos. “See? Is this not a beautiful bonding experience between a housewarden and his protégé? Ah, my heart is fluttering at the sight!”
Well, Epel isn’t sure about the beautiful part, but Vil’s talons aren’t scalping him and the sensation's nice. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever felt. Still, it's a little weird that Vil decided to pet him all of a sudden, but then again he’s always found Vil a little weird.
Vil sighs. “That’s the look I’m talking about,” he says.
Seemingly satisfied with himself for pulling out the result he wanted, he withdraws his hand and resumes walking. Epel falls into place at his left with Rook at his right.
Epel doesn’t really know what to say about that, so he decides to play it safe and not say anything at all, opting to keep his hands clasped in front of him while he straightens his posture, trying to remember what his face possibly looked like earlier.
“Epel.”
“Yeah?” He glances over.
“At least try to be discreet when you ogle your boyfriend. I’m sure you think he looks dashing while on that broom, but he might find the sentiment nicer if you say it to his face.”
“Dagnabbit, Vil! I was not—!” Epel buries his face into his hands and groans. “Ugh. What’s the point? You’re not even listening to me.”
“There isn’t much to gleam, Monsieur Pommette! After all, that adoring gaze you’ve been casting onto Roi des Roses is like a gentle sunbeam admiring its favorite flower. It’s hard to miss!” Rook muses.
Vil tsks. “Exactly. Now, chin up, potato. If you’re worried about how red your face is, take it as a lesson in controlling your expressions.”
“Let’s just hurry up and get to the Film Research club, please...”
It was already sunset by the time Vil let him go. Epel decided to take the same path they took earlier, passing by the field—only to stop in his tracks when he sees Riddle walking towards him, still in his PE uniform.
“Riddle?” he blurts out.
“Epel,” Riddle says, a soft smile on his face. He settles at his side and they continue walking.
“Why… Why’re ya still here?”
“I was practicing my handling on the broom. I still tend to get a little airsick so I thought I’d go through the motions again before returning to Heartslabyul to study.”
Epel stifles a chuckle. "You work so hard…” He smiles, clasping his hands behind him. "I wanna know how ya do it, but I'm 'fraid your studiousness just goes beyond mine," he says, a hint teasingly. "Do I have a chance of being better at flying than you, at least?"
"Hm, perhaps." Riddle hums. "Shall we see one day? I might be free this weekend..." he trails off. "Wait a moment. Why aren’t you back at Pomefiore?” he asks, brows furrowed.
“Hm? Oh, uh, classes ended earlier than usual since Lucius wouldn't let go of Professor Trein's wand. Vil 'n Rook heard about it so they wanted me to help the Film Research club."
"Really now? Well, how did it go?"
"Just paintin' props, carrying stuff… Not a lot." Epel glances over. He blinks.
This close, he can see a faint dusting of dirt over Riddle's PE uniform. And even more, he notices the slight tilt of his head, the light flush on his cheeks, and this curious little glint in his eyes.
If Epel's memory serves right, he hasn't seen a single pot of cream or even one bottle of moisturizer in Riddle's room. Nothing but eyeshadow. And a brush. Besides that, Riddle's concern for appearances sticks to the basics. Nothing too fancy.
He wonders if Riddle's chances of being sorted into Pomefiore were just as great as it was for Heartslabyul. He'd make it either way. Maybe it was because Riddle wasn't very particular about appearances.
Riddle is very particular about his grades though. And flying. And… maybe…
Riddle blinks at him, looking a little amused. Epel might even think he's been charmed by his speechlessness.
Maybe he did find Riddle dashing on the broom. It's not-so-mortifying to think about when it's just him and not-so-intimidating Riddle with his silly baggy uniform and cute hair.
His hair. Epel pauses. … It's messy.
"Wait, let me fix that," he mumbles under his breath, reaching up to Riddle's head before he could catch himself and he indulges himself in this little whim.
His hair is so soft and surprisingly silky even after Riddle had been tumbling through the wind just hours prior. It's all tangled and holding a few tiny leaves hostage, but he doesn't mind being a little more thorough and returning Riddle's hair to its neat state. Well, as much as he could without the help of a brush.
Epel finishes up quickly, but he finds himself lingering on the top of his boyfriend's head, an inch or two away from the two strands drooping down to form a heart—which he also lovingly calls his 'insect antennas'—and mulling over a quiet whim.
He doesn't think Riddle would mind.
"Ep—?"
He heavily pats the top of Riddle's head, carefully avoiding his little antennas while combing through his hair with each stroke.
Epel watches how Riddle's face gently flushes red. Something akin to satisfaction flutters in his stomach as a little grin clambers onto his face, delighted.
It's downright darling. Riddle's sharp features soften quite well, he thinks.
"There…" His hand slides off. There's a tingling sensation left feathering over his palm to the tips of his fingers—a lovely and heart-trilling feeling.
It takes a moment, but eventually Riddle jolts as if taken out of a trance and clears his throat.
In the wake of Epel's little gesture, Riddle's embarrassment melts into the corners of his little smile. A soft chuckle slips past his lips and it's a pity he hides it all behind his hand. "Thank you, Epel."
It’s unfair. He’s too pretty.
Unable to control his expression, Epel makes a little sound of acknowledgment and looks away, his cheeks warming up. "... You're welcome," he says.
He’s smitten. It’s horrible. His insides won’t settle right whenever he can feel Riddle look at him but can’t see how he’s looking at him. It makes him nervous. Nervous? Is that what it is?
Fuck.
He doesn’t know how it’s come to this. When did he crave attention so badly?
He chances another glance at Riddle.
Epel thinks his heart jumps and lodges itself right into his throat when he catches the way Riddle's eyes curve in amusement. "I meant to say this earlier, but it's impolite to stare." He crosses his arms.
Epel shrugs, trying to play it off as coy. He grins and he hopes Riddle is convinced, blind to the way his hands fidget behind his back, pulling at his frilly cuffs. "I'm still working on my etiquette."
"Do you need an incentive to work a little harder?"
"... Depends on what it is."
Riddle stops. Epel looks at him. There's this fond look on his face like he just finds Epel positively and downright endearing.
Like that. Has anyone ever looked at me like that?
"Would this suffice?"
Riddle tilts his chin up and kisses him, slow and gentle. A garden flourishes in his chest, the stems and petals tickling his throat and strangling his breath as he watches through lidded eyes the way Riddle's lashes flutter shut.
It's perfect.