Chapter Text
It's the middle of the night. In normal circumstances, he would be asleep; most would be, too. Most couples would perhaps be asleep, or doing something, or...fornicating, for lack of a politer term than that. Most couples...but most couples don't include a model with a strict sleeping schedule despite his chaotic working one. Most couples don't include a hunter who comes along with his many secrets, many thoughts, and an odd schedule that grants him sleeping flexibility, if not strong-armed by Vil into the bed.
In the middle of the night, perhaps Vil should be the one awake, as he slowly swings his legs off the bed, careful of his little belly. Six months with thin legs makes him slower than he'd once been, walking through snow with heels, but it can't be helped, as he blinks into the darkness, summoning his magestone to him and holding it up when it brightens. “Rook? Rook Hunt?”
He finds the hunter by the bay window, seated with his legs folded in the lotus style. Seated with his hands resting loosely on his knees, before they now fluster, upon seeing Vil. Rook's always a little more flustered, lately, but in truth, Vil won't break like glass. He's more than alright, easing himself onto the ledge, but he lets Rook busy himself over him, until he finally grabs the hunter's hands, pulling him back down to sit.
“You're awake, mon amour.” Rook says it, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. Like the hunter wasn't the one to first leave the bed awake. “Is it nous bébé? Is that so?”
“No, she's sleeping fine.” He shakes his head. “I just suddenly realised my back was empty; that you had left the bed. Is there something on your mind?”
The hunter nods once, absently, before he shakes his head in quick succession, as though to cover up for a moment of slow reflexes. Slow reflexes for a hunter who can dodge a lion mid leap, a dragon right before its fire breath.
“You're a terrible liar, you know.” Vil ends up chuckling. “How ever did you spend decades watching theatre, but still fail to hide the minimal expressions?”
“It's...it's because it's you, mon amour.” Ah, sweet words. “I could not possibly lie to you, or your face.”
“And you lie again.”
Rook bites his lips, a wavering smile on his lips as he avoids Vil's eyes again. Avoids Vil in general, staring out of the windows.
“Well?” The model straightens, sighing. “Are you or are you not going to tell me what's wrong with you, Rook Hunt?”
Rook twitches again, but he gets no answer, again.
It's been like this for four months, at least — he's going to go mad.
Rook, well. Rook loves secrets. Not as in that he goes overboard with them, except he does, sometimes. Sometimes the hunter forgets some things don't have to be secrets. Sometimes he thinks so much about them that he forgets to open his mouth and spill it. Sometimes Rook simply just keeps secrets so that it'll irk Vil. All of them, none of them, the cycle keeps going.
He still remembers when Rook suddenly went quiet one day, a few months ago. Cocked his head to the side and went very, very quiet. Then started grinning, but refused to answer at all. Refused to walk properly the entire day, his footsteps completely erased from the hallways, alarming Vil so often that the model gave up and retired back to the room early in hopes of getting Rook to stop his soundless paces.
But Rook had then spent the whole night laying on his lap. Like the hunter had become a cat, that day, lying on his lap and looking up at him, or rather his phone case, when he set Neige's show for Rook and started scrolling Magicam. Only to find out that oddly enough, his husband had decided not to watch those latest two episodes of Neige's drama, only to stare at him for almost two hours.
Then a month later when he first threw up, stumbling into the toilet: Rook had frozen outside for a good moment before the hunter had rushed in, pulling his hair back and petting his back, easing him. He'd asked for tea, and there'd been this weird look that overcame the hunter's face, before Rook asked him if warm water was fine, or even hot cocoa. Or oatmeal, or juice.
He'd managed to weasel it out, eventually, after a few more rounds of the illness. Rook had mumbled a response, then blurted it, blushing like he did something wrong — which, in fact, he did not quite do anything wrong. The doctors were simply appalled that he knew it for so long despite how early it had been. They'd been even more appalled to know that Rook had said nothing.
But Rook not saying things has become somewhat of a habit, now. Aside from back when they'd first learnt of the news, when Rook had panicked and worried that he might not believe it, might get angry, and hence said nothing to him about his pregnancy. For the most part, Rook comes clean about things he needs to know. Or things he doesn't need to know — two years ago he didn't need to know that Neige had started dating. Vil didn't need that picture of Neige kissing, thank you.
“Rook.” He can only sigh again, and their daughter tests his acting skills, because it hurts where she's kicking right now, hard against his ribs and some spot under his skin. He knows well enough that if he shows anything now, or if he reaches to cover anything, Rook will only hop on the chance to usher him back to bed, and continue mulling soundlessly. So it's a gamble, now. Even if his stomach decides to take things up a notch, and he can feel the cramp building up, fake but nonetheless painful enough. “Rook, please, I'm tired. Let's get this done smoothly, alright?”
The hunter looks at him evenly, before Rook says, in a somewhat entirely calm voice.
“Roi des Neiges.”
Certainly it presses a breath out of Vil — something about Neige again is a good thing. Bringing back some of that old hyper fixation, perhaps, is a good thing. “Hm? What about him?”
“He's just released a statement to say that...he will be leaving the industry. Permanently. For at least the next five years.”
Five years isn't permanence, but it is enough to erase one's traces of existence from an industry refreshing every second. In an industry like theirs, five years is something Vil wouldn't even try, unless there are bigger things...like, perhaps, his swollen belly. They have things to discuss but never a good time, because sometimes he just has to get out of bed to find Rook sitting on the bay window.
“You're upset.” When they were seventeen, it had been very infuriating, how Rook could read him so easily. But now years have passed and it has changed, perhaps, the hunter becoming the one whose thoughts are more convoluted. “You're upset that he's leaving.”
“I am happy that Roi des Neiges has found a direction he wishes to follow. I have sent him my well wishes; he has sent his, as well, addressed to us both. The three of us.”
The three of them indeed. Hard to ignore the persistent barrage of attacks against him right now — it's like their daughter knows that something is awkward in the air. “Is that so, now?”
Rook nods, and then silence resumes, only that now the hunter hugs his knees to his chest. A move that Vil used to like, before now their daughter proves more than just an obstacle to that particular action.
“Come here.” Vil sighs, in the end, spreading his arms and shifting closer. One of them has to give in, and so he's the peacemaker, when Rook leans over, immediately going for his abdomen, like a habit, now. “Are you trying to hold back tears? Is that why you're out here?”
The hunter doesn't answer, but soon he feels something wet against his ankle, and he strokes his fingers through Rook's hair, toying with the abrupt edge at which they end. “It's a tiring life, Rook, you should know that. You've been with me for so many years. We may be used to it, but it's tiring. And Neige, well. This job was lucrative, and he had every prospect in place. But it's his choice. I know you're upset because you were exposed to theatre through Neige's performances, but—”
The hunter shifts, suddenly, the same time as pain races through his stomach, and Vil doesn't manage to stop that gasp in time, his fingers curling into a handful of Rook's hair. Immediately the hunter is alert and upright again, massaging his back, rubbing his stomach and speaking in low words, then tugging him off the bay window when his eyebrows are still creased.
“It's been happening for a while.” Rook says. It's his turn to frown, now. “You didn't wake up entirely because I left the bed.”
“And you have all the right to sound accusing, Rook Hunt?” He asks back, sharply, but perhaps it's too sharp. Rook avoids him once again, but the annoyance only rises to a peak, when he grabs a glass of water to cool down. “Forget it, this isn't a good conversation. Where were we?”
The hunter hesitates to reply, but eventually Rook looks back up at him. “Roi des Neiges is leaving the industry.”
“And the fact that you're moping without telling me.” He rinses the glass and puts it back, water dripping from his hands. “Rook, I don't like this. This non-communication.”
Rook mumbles something about worrying him, then avoids him again, like a dog bowing its head, with its tail between its legs. “That's no basis for you to not tell me things. We've been over this, Rook Hunt. I don't have a problem with you keeping secrets as long as you feel comfortable, but clearly you're not comfortable, and it's starting to put me off too. Do you understand?”
His husband nods, still like a child after some wrongdoing. “Come here.”
Rook shuffles over obediently, again. Letting Vil lift his chin and kiss him, after a mild struggle, from the gap between them that Vil alone can't close, nowadays. It manages to make Rook smile, which is a win, as he leans it, too, letting his husband peck him on the lips once, then letting Vil kiss him a little too deeply the second time, when he feels a warm tingle, and Vil immediately looks down with a mischievous smile. After all, the model didn't get pregnant purely by chance. It was a lot more of...skill.
“Is everything cleared up now?” Vil asks him. Deliberately now tracing down his abdominal muscles, then creeping, tugging on his waistband, teasing. “Or are there more things to settle?”
“We cannot, mon amour.” He reminds — though whether it's himself, or it's Vil, he's not sure. He remembers an offhand remark about increased sex drive, too, and debates making it up to Vil...soon. After all, the peak of fertility exists right after...right after—
“Then I want no more uncomfortable secrets.” Vil holds his hands, swinging them lightly. “If you're not happy keeping them, then share the burden with me. It takes two to carry some things, sometimes.”
He opens his mouth to bargain, but Vil beats him to it. “Furthermore, it's not two of us. It's three of us, now. Soon. We can definitely manage it.”
“Mais, mon amour, that's not...”
“If my reasoning doesn't make sense, then neither does yours.” It's always about burden. “Now, you have two options. You either agree, kiss me, and we go back to bed together, and if I'm still in a good mood, you can roll up my shirt and talk to our daughter like you like it. If not, I'm going to make us sit here until you finish spilling all your secrets — and never should you forget: I have the means to accomplish what I've just promised.”
If he does the second option, they may well be here until Vil goes into labour. And, clearly, there are still some secrets he wants to keep. Like he didn't tell Vil he still has some life-sized standees of Neige, back in his old house.
“I'll get the cream.” He offers, and Vil finally smiles at him, relieved, tonight, as they shuffle back into the room. Like another ordinary night, they both fall asleep again, together, this time neither waking till dawn.
Just like another normal couple.