Chapter Text
Vil Schoenheit would always be second best.
This was something he needed to learn to accept.
Yet, it was never more obvious at any point in his life until RSA won.
Neige beat him.
By one, stupid point.
All because Rook Hunt had to vote for his precious Neige.
That stupid bright eyed, lips red as blood, hair black as a raven, white as snow bitch that always took Vil's spotlight!
Vil valued Rook's honesty, like when he would tell him a shade wasn't a perfect match for his skin, or that he'd gained some weight, and he valued Rooks honesty in voting for the better performance. It was Vils fault, after all, that they lost. If he hadn't overblotted they would have had a perfect performance. He couldn't be angry at Rook.
He shouldn't be angry at Rook.
Yet as he finally returned to his dorm after a few days in the hospital, he couldn't help but to grow angry.
Furious, even.
“That idiot!” Vil screamed, throwing a pillow against the wall.
“That stupid,”
Another pillow.
“Creepy,”
A bag of makeup brushes that was on his vanity.
“Backstabbing,”
His jacket.
“Bitch!”
His spell book hit the wall with a loud ‘thud’. Luckily, Vil had the common sense to sound proof his room before having a tantrum.
After all, he didn't need Epel laughing at him for doing the very thing he scolded others for.
However, a familiar poetic voice called from the other side of the door.
“Mon Roi du Poison! May I come in? I cannot leave you alone so soon after an incident such as you had, non?” Rook asked.
Vil could imagine the way Rook was likely leaning against the door, with a hand over his heart as he spoke.
Why did he have to be so charming?
“Fine.” Vil sighed, momentarily forgetting he had soundproofed the room until Rook replied with a soft “Mon roi? You're in there, non?” reminding Vil he had yet to lift the spell.
Even if Rook had the willpower to break the translation spell though nothing but the power of Africa, he still didn't have enough power to listen into a muted room.
Vil opened the door with a sigh, smiling his perfect camera ready smile, looking as though he was ready for the red carpet, yet using his body to shield the collection of things he hit against the wall.
“Hello, Rook. What is it?”
“What's wrong?”
Rook asked with sudden urgency.
“Nothing is-”
Vil was intruppted by two hands on his face, and green eyes stairing up into his soul.
“Your makeup is cracked, that only happens when your expressions are a bit dramatic, oui? Especially around your mouth, you've been frowning. And your voice is rough, you've been screaming, have you not?”
Vil sighed. Only Rook would notice these things.
“No, Rook, I am fine.” He insisted, words short and to the point, begging to be left alone.
However, Rook didn't catch on.
“Non! I even left my camera back in my room, nothing will distract me from taking care of you at least for the next week! You're still weak from the overblot, aren't you?”
Vil's breath hitched. He was not weak, and he wouldn't take kindly to such an accusation even if he'd narrowly avoided dying only a few days before. Rook was treating him like some frail lamb, which might have been more insulting than his vote against Vil.
…on second thought, Vil decided that his betrayal was worse.
“Get out.” Vil said plainly, face filled with rage.
Rook had seen him at his worst, there was no need to pretend to be tired, or whatever he thought he was doing, anymore.
“Beau-”
Vil slammed the door in Rook's face.
And he didn't regret a thing about it.
“...Vil I'm a call away. I'll be in the gardens if you need me.”
Vil listened as Rook walked away down the hall. No doubt he was leaving to stalk Leona.
Neige, Leona, everyone, anyone that Rook found “beautiful” in that twisted mind of his! Everyone he found interesting!
Vil threw himself on his bed with little care for if his makeup smudged in the process.
He had to get used to this eventually.
The huntsman would always betray the queen.
And Vil Schoenheit would always be second best.