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“Vil? You’ve got something. A parcel, or something.”
“Is that so? Right, I’ll be out in a while.”
His roommate gives him a strange look for a moment, before pulling up his phone to check something, walking into the room. “Oh, right! It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“You can find that on the internet?”
That’s the second strange look he’s received so far. “Erm, yeah. You’re…you’re kinda world famous, yeah?”
“No one on campus really remembers until they see you walking around in the birthday outfit — I simply assumed that was how everyone remembered birthdays.”
“Fair,” The other boy chuckles awkwardly, digging through his things before pulling out a bar of chocolate. “Hey, uh, couldn’t get much beforehand, so, uh, happy birthday, yeah? Pretty sure some website said you liked them.”
“Is that on the internet?”
“Sometimes, when you know how to look in the right places…” The boy laughs even more awkwardly, twisting a blue ribbon attached to his bag — right, Ignihyde. He’ll put that aside, for now. Ignihyde students all know how to…stalk, one way or another. Idia used to be very good at it, anyway. “I’ll see you at the…uhh…later, yeah? I need to go to…er…yeah, bye!”
The door slams and he’s left alone in the room, holding a bar of half-melted chocolate. He doesn’t remember actually liking these, so it’s either a fan gave them to him once, or he fibbed it because it was the nearest thing during an interview. Maybe both. Maybe a fan gave it to him before an interview and he was asked about it and he decided to roll along with it. Sounds about right.
And yet he seems to remember which fan gave it to him. In fact, it wasn’t even a fan. If his memory does not fail him, it was even a bit of a joke, some quiet banter and laughs before a bar of chocolate was shoved into his hands right before he was supposed to make his entrance.
👑: Are you online?
🏹 is typing…
🏹: Oui, Roi du Poison, I was almost about to go to bed.
Right. The time difference — a frown squeezes onto his features when he remembers that Rook’s facility is halfway around the world and far, far from him. The hunter may well be sleeping in a tent, right now, pitched next to some architectural structure. He lifts his finger to type something, a text along the lines of “Oh, then you should sleep, Rook. Have a good night’s rest, and I’ll text again when you’ve woken up.”
He doesn’t even have the time to send that text before the hunter sends another message.
🏹: C’est d’accord, I was about to text, anyway. I was unfortunately occupied earlier and couldn’t send you a message promptly, mais joyeux anniversaire, Roi du Poison, beautiful Vil. Happy birthday — may your beauty grow with a flourish into your new age.
Subconsciously he smiles, and sees it in the reflection of his gradually dimming screen — it’s been moments since the message came through, and his phone grows weary of his foolish smiling. Hastily he revives it with finger taps, a message back to Rook that greatly undermines his own expression, when he catches his own eye in the mirror, and tries to wipe away his grin.
👑: Thank you. You should really be going to bed now, though, it’s getting late for you over there.
🏹: Ah, Roi du Poison…
He imagines a smile — a broad smile on Rook’s face, a grin as bright as his phone’s screen in the darkness of the tent, dim light as Rook’s tent partner sleeps soundly, unaware of the hunter’s late night shenanigans. He knows, for a fact, that the wallpaper of the chat Rook has with him is a candid shot of him. A glare from purple eyes and a hand outstretched, a white mask plastered on his face as he tried to swat away Rook’s camera while keeping his face impassive.
Good days, those were. He already misses Pomefiore, misses the second showers he put himself through when the hunter came back covered in dirt, blond hair matted into an eldritch nightmare.
Then comes a new message.
🏹: Have you received my gift yet, Roi du Poison?
Gift? Presuming it’s what his roommate says is outside for him, immediately he’s filled with a lot more enthusiasm than before, heading to the lobby of their hostel and fetching the package, before he heads back into his room and opens it.
🏹: I wish I still had the time for hundred poems, Roi du Poison, mais I have been busy, lately, and I find it hard to produce poetry of any quality akin to your elegance.
So he finds himself with a neat little necklace in a red velvet box, a matching red gem sitting in a thin chain of pale gold — a very long chain of gold, that is, so long that he realises it easily hides out of view, should he wear something that has a narrower collar. Rook, of all people, would know the speculations that arise with every decision he makes, even if it’s just a choice of wardrobe. A long necklace is, although odd, something he can wear a little more often than other accessories.
It’s not until he removes it from its ornate little box that he realises just how heavy it is.
It’s not heavy, per se, only a piece of accessory, but it’s much heavier than the jewellery Vil has worn for unofficial occasions. It has enough weight to compete with the ones he’s loaned before from exquisite jewellery companies for carpet walks, and now he’s seriously starting to remember that Rook is, supposedly, fortunate to have his own little mound of wealth somewhere, somehow, from generous ancestors in a line of work the hunter never details.
He’s almost hesitant when he sets it aside to text the hunter again.
👑: I know I said you should go to bed, and you can read this when you wake up, but how much did this cost you? Is it plated, or…?
Too quickly, his phone vibrates before he can set it down, before he can examine it closely.
🏹: Roi du Poison, I could not give you anything less than genuine, less than pure.
🏹: Do you like it? I worry that it may be too gaudy for your liking, too…brutishly inelegant. I am not sure.
He’s going to get robbed, if he hasn’t been robbed before. Granted, this little hostel has a fairly good security system, and if he’s never been robbed before, he’s not going to get robbed over one necklace when his shoes probably cost just as much, if not more. But, still, there’s an inexplicable sense of panic that spreads through him, the need to handle the new accessory carefully, carefully, because it’s expensive; even though he, too, is expensive.
Thing is, Rook has never given him things before. Vil treats Rook beyond that of a fan, instead like one would of a confidante, a close friend who understands him deeply, beyond the superficial level of world famous Vil Schoenheit. Rook knows who Vil truly is, and that’s why they’ve always mainly been past materialistic things, excusing the occasional bouquet or two after a performance, be it handpicked by the hunter, or ordered and designed specially by Rook from some unfortunate florist taking the complicated order.
👑: I can’t accept this. It’s too expensive, Rook, this looks like it could be a family heirloom, if the gem is a ruby, or even more expensive, a magestone. It’s far too…important.
🏹: Roi du Poison, I assure you, it is no heirloom. I have had it customised for you — does the magestone not somewhat resemble a human heart?
A what.
🏹: The Huntsman of legend failed to bring his queen a true heart, and I do think you would be horrified if I truly did procure a human’s heart for you. So I have made it a virtue to engrave a heart into the base of the stone, like I may present it to you, like the loyal Huntsman, and fulfil to my Roi du Poison what he could not to his Queen.
He can see it now, when it catches the light in a specific way, and faint lines are illuminated under the clear red surface. Rook has always had quirky ideas, and this may be one of his oddest yet, but it’s peculiar enough that Vil finds himself still smiling despite the somewhat grisly idea of adorning oneself with the physical heart of another. He’s smiling, lifting the heavy, thin chain, letting it dangle from between his fingers as he presses the red magestone against his chest and feels the coldness of the metal against his skin.
👑: Well, then, in that case — thank you. Sincerely, Rook, thank you. I cannot imagine how long it must have taken you to design this, though it certainly cannot be any easy feat, in our internship period. I shall be sure to cherish this necklace carefully, though shall we perhaps go out for lunch when you are next available? I feel somewhat misplaced, receiving such a solemn gift.
This time, the hunter takes longer to reply — perhaps Rook is already falling asleep, as he mentally curses that he should stop texting, a hypocritical behaviour to his intent of asking Rook to go to bed. The hunter’s internship is especially energy-demanding, considering they go galavanting towards excavation sites after architectural ruins.
🏹: Mais non! It is my pleasure, beautiful Vil, to offer you a piece of jewellery befitting your beauty. I’m glad you like it, that is all. Once again, joyeux anniversaire, Vil.
He habitually lifts his finger to send a sticker — a thank you, of sorts, but his screen twitches, and he realises what it was, when he searches for what exactly went off.
🏹 is offline.
Well, that’s…well, isn’t it? He told Rook to sleep, and the hunter obediently abided and decided to go to sleep. Hooray. It’s not often that Rook is so obedient, so much so that he feels a little thrown off, scrolling through their conversation again, wondering if he’s accidentally missed some kind of cue to a game, a hunter’s little game.
And yet there’s nothing. The chat log is drenched in nothing but overwhelming sincerity, and he’s left with his phone and a necklace, with some ebbing confusion.
He still has some interviews later he needs to attend, time taken off from his interview on this somewhat “special” day. For that matter, he hasn’t even opened his father’s messages, though perhaps it’s because he’s somewhat adamant to see his father’s hurried greetings, despite its genuine sincerity. Eric Venue is still a busy man, and while he sends nice gifts, again it’s been a while since Vil’s sat down to have a nice meal with his father.
Without much thought, ironically, a thought flashes through his mind — that he should treat his father and Rook to a meal together, since his schedule is pretty packed, too. And immediately, horrifically, he slaps himself out of it.
101 ways to get the paparazzi on your heels, and that’s if they assume you’re having a date. Who would bring their best friend to have a meal with their dad, if there wasn’t something going on? It’s like he wants to get on the headlines, thinking like that. No, it won’t do. It’s too stupid.
He tucks the necklace back into its cushion and sighs, before tidying himself up arbitrarily in the mirror, preparing himself for the mental war once Adela comes to pick him up.
It’s going to be a long day, as always.
“Hey, uh, you’re back?”
It’s almost dinnertime, but yes, he’s back, his roommate fresh out of the shower. “Yes. Has everything been alright today?”
“Yeah, a few more parcels for you, I collected them. Looks pretty good to me. You going for dinner? Want me to grab anything back?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay,” The boy shuffles. “And, eh, erm, I won’t be staying tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, my…my friend’s in town, I’m going over to his to sleep for a night.” There’s something suspicious about his behaviour, but Vil won’t press it, he’s too tired today, and it’s none of his business anyway. “The room’s all yours. I’m not particularly freaky about cleanliness, so, uh, chill out, I guess? You look tired.”
He is tired, but he manages that PR smile, and his roommate stumbles two steps back, knees weak. Clearly someone still isn’t accustomed to the fact that Vil Schoenheit is his roommate. “Yeeeah, so, bye?”
“Enjoy.” He returns politely, and waits for the door to click before he slumps onto his bed, still in his fancy silver suit. Two tugs in the right places and his barrette comes loose easily enough, even as he tosses it onto the dresser. He could really go to bed like this — long work days always have that effect on him. But he’s better regulated than that, okay, and the fact that there was something else on his dresser before he left revives him in an instant. He’s forgotten about the necklace. Is it still there? Is today the day that he finds out this hostel really isn’t that safe?
If so, the thief must be having a really tough time. He cursed the necklace to be burning to the touch, should anyone else remove it from its place without his permission, and thankfully it’s still there. Thankfully, as he holds it up, and contemplates putting it on.
But, no. He should really run himself a bath first, rinse off all the sweat and effort today, before he fawns over Rook’s gift like a child with their newest toy. That’s the best plan, but he lies on his bed and spends the next half an hour scrolling Magicam, anyway, uploading a post for today, thanking everyone for spending the day with him, while all that’s on his mind is whether he can get away with eating plain salad as dinner for the third day in a row. Salad in his mini fridge.
He finally gets up and prepares the salad, in the end, and he’s halfway through it when the phone rings, the phone connected downstairs to the reception and the security’s office. A late present, perhaps, those are very normal. He doesn’t even want to get started on how his fans found out which specific facility he’s at, enough to send their gifts all the way here. Sometimes it’s borderline creepy, but it reminds him of Rook, so he accepts the gifts graciously after checking them for bugs — thanks, Idia. That had been the other boy’s gift to him, one of the years.
“Hello?” The guy on the other end gruffly says something like present, I don’t know why there’s been so many today, this one has instructions to be delivered to you in person, would you like him to come up or would you like to come down. “Yes, I don’t mind having him come up, thank you. I trust that the cameras are being surveyed, am I correct? Yes, thank you.”
He’s not risking the journey down when he’s in half his pyjamas and half his glamorous outfit, long socks and fuzzy slippers. None of them are branded, just random comfort apparel he’s bought over the years, so he can’t quite be seen in them. He doubts a delivery man will take much notice, though, so he opens the door a crack without apprehension, only to be greeted with a comically large bouquet of roses. Great Sevens, he’s never been handed such a monstrosity before, but every year he gets more surprised than before, so he reaches his hands out in resignation, opening the door enough that he can cradle it in his hands, while he signs off on the receiver’s chit.
Only then does he realise who it’s addressed to.
Roi du Poison, I do hope you like these roses.
Because there’s only one person who would have the money and the gall to send him a bouquet like this. Of course it just has to be that one singular person.
“Rook?” He accidentally muses aloud, then glances up embarrassedly at the lowered visor of the delivery person. “Pardon me — do you know who sent this?”
The man nods, then shakes his head, showing his side of the order.
Le chasseur d’amour — four words ever familiar, ever etched into Vil’s memory, into his mind and his heart.
“Thank you.” He returns the phone to the man, who nods again, as he hoists the bouquet further into his embrace to avoid it slipping. “It must have been quite a feat, getting this here. Do you mind waiting a moment?”
The man shakes his head again. “Okay, give me a moment, then.”
He reappears with the bar of chocolate handed to him earlier, and internally he apologises to his roommate for handing away his “gift” like this — but he doesn’t like that particular brand all that much, and, similarly, it’s the only thing he has on hand to give as a tip, of sorts.
“Thank you.” He hands the bar to the delivery person. “I do apologise; it must have been tedious.”
For the third time, the man shakes his head, surprisingly mute, but just when Vil decides to step back in, he hears a faint laugh, a laugh echoing within the confines of that helmet, before the visor slides open.
For the first time in months, he’s greeted with a set of gleaming green eyes.
“Non, not at all.” The helmet comes off after a bit of nudging. “For you, Roi du Poison, not at all.”
He doesn’t know if he gasped at all, or not, when his face splits with a childish joy, an irrepressible grin stretching. He’s thankful he at least put the bouquet down, because if not, he’d be dropping it right now, even as he pulls the hunter into his room and slams the door shut.
“How did you get here?” He questions, in some mild panic of his own. Security will be up in a while, asking if everything’s okay, asking if they should chase the delivery person out — they don’t have much time. But his heart pounds in his chest, some sort of adrenaline rush, dopamine overload, and it’s unclear if he’s holding Rook, or Rook’s holding him, when he remembers to breathe, and lands a playful punch on the hunter’s shoulder. “Great Sevens, Rook, shouldn’t you be halfway around the world? What are you doing here? How did you sneak out of your facility?”
“Roi du Poison, that’s a lot of questions for very little time.” Rook teases, his hair plastered down with sweat. “Have you forgotten that my family owns a series of villas, Vil? It did not take me long to sneak my way here — though your roommate took me a while to convince.”
“My—?!” Purple eyes go wide, then narrow, with mild exasperation. “Whose house have you driven him to, Rook, whose house?”
“A nice little hotel room downtown, Roi du Poison, I did not abduct the poor man.”
“All these,” He brushes his fringe back, then reaches out to tidy Rook’s as well, those sharply cut bangs, a matching set with that sharp jawline, astute green eyes. “All just to entertain me on my birthday?”
“You have not looked happy in some of your paparazzi images.” Rook replies rather earnestly. “I have wanted to visit you for a while too, Roi du Poison. This was the best opportunity I could think of, so I did.”
He opens his mouth to ask about the paparazzi images — only for Rook to shake his head so sharply that his bob sways from its strength, the strength that closes the model’s mouth in perplexity. “Non, Roi du Poison, let me continue. I have something important to say, something very important. I have been thinking about it since our last days on campus, and I have been plenty frustrated myself in the recent months — how loath I am of myself, to have not told you before we parted.”
It’s not often he’s seen Rook so serious — there must truly be something urgent that the hunter wishes to convey. Already as it is, the security must already be wary that he’s pulled someone into his room — only a matter of minutes more, before they come by, demanding for the intruder to leave, demanding for his safety. “What is it, Rook? I’ve never quite seen you this anguished.”
“Anguished.” The hunter muses, with a wry smile. “It is a word correct for the turmoil of my feelings, feelings I have debated with myself about telling you. Did you understand them, did you glimpse my message, when you first saw that necklace? Roi du Poison, I am desperate, I am despairing — I am in the deepest trouble, deepest love.”
“Love?” Vil repeats, his mouth running dry. “You’re…in love?”
“Oui.” Rook affirms, quietly, then the hunter seeks his hands, gripping his knuckles firmly, but not tight. “And, Vil, it is you. I am most terribly in love with you — so ill that I fashioned a necklace for you with the shape of my heart, that I may give my heart to you. There is no other proper way I could have told you this through text, no better way to convey this somewhat morbid truth without seeing you in person, without your beauty to make up for the courage I lack. I am no better than the Huntsman’s failing courage, nothing without my Roi du Poison’s beauty. That necklace is my heart, my love, and I have given it to you. And I am here to implore you to do whatever you like with it, whatever you deem fit. Defenestrate it, if horror is what fills you at this revelation. I am helpless, I am on my knees, at your mercy. I am here to ask for your permission — to ask you to let me be your boyfriend.”
The words cycle endlessly in his head, and what’s the first thought that comes into his head?
Great Sevens forbid, have I just been somewhat proposed to while looking like a living fashion disaster?
That’s what’s on his mind, and he can’t help the small laughs that leave his lips, the small laughs that pull Rook’s already worried frown into a deeper, horrified frown. Is the hunter even breathing anymore? For his lips are pinched tight with the sheer fear of rejection, despite his bold words.
“Would you like some water?” He offers, and hands a glass to Rook anyway, shaking one of his hands free after some effort. “Rook, drink some water. You’ve been running about the whole day, haven’t you? Drink some water, breathe, else I won’t give you any answer at all, and the security will drag you out of here.”
This makes the hunter obey, at least, and Vil waits until Rook’s all done, before he coaxes the necklace from its resting place, holding it gingerly in his palms. “So this, Rook — this is your heart, is that so?”
The hunter nods, mute again.
“I’ll take it.” He whispers, however, pressing it into the palm of a hand so desperately clutching his fingers — fingers that are starting to go a little numb. “Rook? I agree. I’ll take it. Put it on for me, will you? Let me feel your heart.”
Perhaps he’s somehow overdone it, because green eyes are simply blown so wide, the hunter so silent, even as he takes the necklace and obliges, tentatively putting it on for Vil. The metal is cold at first touch, but gold warms up quickly, like the model’s own heart, as he raises a hand to grab the hunter’s retreating ones, turning around to face Rook again.
“You’re speechless.” He teases; it’s his turn, now. “Rook? Aren’t you my boyfriend now? What happened to that bold talk, that ardent declaration of your love? Where has that passion gone, Rook? Has your heart changed so quickly?”
All he gets is a long, quiet exhale. Almost tearfully, as the hunter laughs, in tremendous relief, shaking so terribly that Vil has to steady him. “Oh, beautiful Vil, I confess that I did not think you would agree so quickly, without further persuasion. Nor that I planned anything at all — I came here as a wreck, and I was expecting to leave as one worse than I came.”
“Ah, is that so?” He strokes his knuckles down the hunter’s warm cheeks. “Where has that confidence gone? I loved it dearly. I love everything, every little endearing decision, every finicky detail that no one else would bother with, none other would know. I love everything about my bold, silly hunter, with a sunny disposition and flowery phrases sprouted in the dozens. Is he still here, or does he need more water and chocolate to freshen up, before he becomes Rook Hunt again?”
“Non,” Rook answers, and this laugh comes easy. “Non, Vil, nothing but you. I need nothing but you.”
“How quaint.” Vil leans nearer. “I need nothing but you, too.”
Their foreheads touch; their eyes meet, and their lips smile, together.
“Kiss me,” Vil whispers, a quiet little whisper, a happy little utterance erupting at the back of his throat like a giggle, as he pulls the hunter close, and feels the necklace thrumming against his skin like a second heartbeat. “Kiss me, Rook.”
And so they do. An exhilarating experience, dizzying, pure bliss that drowns them as they gasp quietly against each other and cling tight. It’s something new, something they’ve never quite had before, something they’re willing to prolong and savour, even as Rook tugs apart the loose buttons of Vil’s silky pyjamas, and he finally remembers why he bought them in the first place, because they’re easy to remove.
It’s all fun and games until a shrill ringing interrupts them, Vil pinned against the pole of the canopy, Rook’s fake delivery jacket draped on the back of a random chair. An acute ringing that leaves them scrambling, Vil scurrying to reach the phone, but it hangs up before he can do anything.
So they wait, like two children after a wrongdoing. They wait, dressed in a mash up of clothes, for the security to finally come knocking, for the door to open.
The man stares at them impassively — he does a good job at it, emotionless at the coloured balm smeared from Vil’s lips, faint glossy marks shining from the base of Rook’s neck.
“I see.” The security guy takes a long sigh, and removes his clipboard and his phone. “Yeah, we’re good, we’re all clear. They know each other, yes, they’re friends. I’m coming back down.”
Embarrassed, the model tries to pipe up. “Do you mind—”
“Oh, yes, complete secrecy, part of the contract.” The man replies gruffly, waving them off. “He better be gone by morning, or I’ll have to report an unregistered visitor, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The room is silent again, as they glance at each other and chuckle, and Rook wipes away the errant balm from the alluring shape of his now-boyfriend’s lips.
“Joyeux anniversaire, Vil.” He repeats, sincerely, his smile undimmed again, at last. “Happy birthday, mon amour.”
“Thank you, Rook.” The model accepts with a smile, too, then lifts their intertwined hands. “We still have ten more hours until it’s morning.”
“Ah, oui!”
“It’s still my birthday, and I said I wanted to treat you, remember?”
Maybe he really doesn’t care about the headlines, sometimes, pulling on the nicest outfit he’s packed for this internship, as they clink champagne and he finally throws out that salad in exchange for indulging himself with dessert at a fancy restaurant, ending his birthday with nothing but sweetness.
(And, of course, it isn’t complete until the media goes viral the next day.)
Headline News: Vil Schoenheit spotted with mystery guy at a restaurant with a new necklace on his birthday!
So much for trying to conceal the necklace, anyway, but ultimately, who can truly shield away the sincerity of one’s love, one’s heart?
It turned out to be quite the wonderful birthday, after all.