Archive of Our Own

When his heels click onto the marbled reception floor, Vil’s bad mood assuages slightly. The resort is better than he’d expected—the weather is cool, the hotel’s air is tinged pleasantly with rose freshener, and best of all no one’s caused trouble even after recognising him; at the very least, it seems he won’t have to deal with the hassle of invasive paparazzi.

Even so, his flight was delayed by a vexing three hours, and thanks to the jetlag he’s half a day behind his latest evening skincare routine. Vil sets his jaw and strides to the counter. He’ll get check-in over with as fast as possible then head to the bathroom to touch up.

The mildly horrified, severely panicked look the receptionist gives him isn’t cause for much hope, though.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he stammers, “I— we’re—“

“What is it? Spit it out.”

“It seems we’ve made a mistake with the reservations. It’s— we’re hitting peak tourist season, and we’re almost fully booked—I’m so sorry, we—“

“Haah?” comes a voice from the counter next to him. It’s pitched low, the timbre of it like silk, like Vil could run his fingers through it until his touch catches on a rough edge. “What do you mean, my room’s already occupied?”

It’s a very familiar annoyed growl. Too familiar.

“…Leona,” Vil states, caught off-guard. Sharp eyes the colour of emerald meet his; the emotion behind them briefly morphs from irritation to reciprocal surprise.

“Vil.”

For a moment, they just regard each other. Leona’s decked in brown and black, as usual; far too drab and disinterested to make use of his physique and looks. Still, he hardly looks bad—if nothing else, the sleeveless jacket and loose jeans suit him, exposes the flex of his biceps and emphasises the angles of his muscles. He looks like he hasn’t aged a day.

Vil breaks the silence first.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Leona drawls, looking Vil up and down in a way that makes goosebumps rise on his skin. It’s not a foreign gaze, but it’s— simply been a while, since he’s felt it. From Leona, specifically. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there filming, or doing photoshoots, or whatever it is you’ve been doing that has your face plastered all over those billboards?”

Wow. It’s truly like no time has passed. Before Vil knows it, he’s raising a hand to cover his mouth and the smirk of it. “Oh? Have you been looking, Leona? I didn’t know you missed me that much.”

Leona’s own smirk drops and he scowls slightly. “Tch. In your dreams.”

“Excuse me,” says the receptionist in front of Leona, behind the counter. “Mr Kingscholar, Mr Schoenheit, you two know each other?”

Vil archs an eyebrow. He and Leona are still facing each other like they’re in some strange stand-off. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Perfect!” she exclaims. “We have one open suite room left. Would the two of you be willing to share? We’ll give you both half-price, of course!”

“Hah?” Leona snipes, almost immediately. “Hell n—“

“We’ll take it,” Vil talks over him. “Check us in, please, and make it quick. I’m already behind schedule.”

Leona turns his glare on Vil, scathing, but of course, Vil’s hardly fazed by it. “What do you think you’re—“

“Look, you know we hardly have any other choice. Just stay on your own side of the room and it’ll be fine. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”

Vil hears another click of tongue, but no other protests. Despite how Leona acts, he knows when to let things go; if anything, the stubborn one is Vil.

Plus, it’s not like they’ve never shared a room before.

“Thank you so much,” the receptionist cries, both the staff clearly relieved, right before a “can I get an autograph before you go?”, and that’s how Vil finds himself in a hotel room with an unhappy scowling lion next to him, the latter’s ears flat and tail swishing as he sits stiffly on the grand total of one bed in the suite.

“You take the couch.”

“I refuse. If you’re so adamant about it, why don’t you take the couch?”

“No.”

Vil massages his temples. “Then let’s just sleep in the same bed. It’s not like we haven’t before, yes?”

Leona’s jaw tightens, just slightly. “You hog the damn sheets.”

“You snore. We’ll both have to make concessions.”

“Great sevens,” Leona mutters. “You haven’t changed, have you?”

“…have you?”

And there’s more to the question than that—they both feel it. Vil’s mapped every inch of Leona’s body, before; he knows it by heart, has appreciated it in a way that’s not just aesthetic, but personal. For someone like Vil, it’s— that’s rare, to say the least; the man in front of him is the exception, not the rule.

Vil wants to know if the cut of his chest and the way he digs his nails across Vil’s back will be the same. Vil wants to know if he’ll still tremble when Vil rakes a hand through his hair and pulls. Vil wants to know if Leona still thinks about him, what they could have been, if perhaps they’d been a little softer, a little kinder, a little more honest.

Though he’s not quite sure the last one ever happened.

“Fine,” Leona says, abruptly. The thickened air loosens when he lies back on the bed and curls up. “Whatever. Sleep on the bed if you want. Just stop stealing my blankets.”

“Noted,” Vil says, rather emotionlessly, before locking himself in his toilet to focus solely on his skincare routine.

Stress isn’t good for his complexion, anyway.

For someone who sleeps so much, Leona tends to wake up relatively early, or at least before deeming the world unworthy of his royal presence and going back to sleep. The next morning Vil stirs awake with a warmth in the space next to him, uncharacteristically comfortable, up until the point he realises exactly why he slept so well.

The length of Leona’s back is pressed to his side, and Vil has an arm slung around Leona’s waist, their legs tangled together. Leona’s face is far too close; Vil can count his eyelashes, and the exhale of his breath is hot on Vil’s skin. He’s practically shoved himself into the crook of Vil’s neck like a far too overgrown and far too grumpy cat; and for a single moment of weakness, Vil’s other hand reaches out, about to brush hair from Leona’s face, or perhaps, even more damningly, pull him closer.

Old habits die hard, surely. But then the moment is over, and Vil won’t allow himself to entertain any superfluous and unnecessary thoughts. He rolls out of bed as discreetly as he can for his daily run. Leona’s been awake for a while, Vil can tell—unmoving, either trapped by Vil’s embrace or too lazy to move. But he’s clearly on the verge of drifting back to sleep, and when Vil steps out the door, there’s a quick mumbled goodbye that seems to come more from half-conscious instinct than anything. The stutter Vil’s careless heart makes at that is sorely unwanted.

Great Sevens. Vil likes to think he’s relatively good at making decisions, but then again, Leona makes it far too easy to misjudge.

When he returns, Leona’s pulled up a laptop and is typing away at the desk. Neither of them mention the position they’d woken up in, and, frankly, Vil is fine with that. He reaches for a towel to wipe away his sweat and rolls his eyes when Leona doesn’t even bother hiding his sweeping, appraising eye, gaze lingering on Vil’s toned stomach and neck.

Vil makes a swipe for his water bottle and sniffs.

“Seriously, how unrefined can you get?”

Leona shrugs, going back to his keyboard. “Please. Don’t pretend you’re so much better.”

Touche. Even so, Vil resents that. “You still haven’t answered my question from yesterday. Why are you here, of all places? And awake before noon, no less.”

Leona drums his fingers on the table. “Research,” he says shortly.

“Research,” Vil repeats. “A personal project? Or for university?”

There’s a silence, in which it’s obvious Leona’s contemplating just ignoring him; but, perhaps sensing Vil isn’t going to let it go, he grudgingly elaborates. “Both. I’m writing a thesis with a section on the ancient languages here. There’s the equivalent of a Rosetta Stone somewhere in the ancient ruins downtown.” He pushes his laptop away and tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Now it’s your turn to reply me.”

“Research,” parrots Vil, and Leona’s stare turns even flatter. “I accepted a gig for a new movie,” he concedes, because if Leona can be semi-honest, so can he. “My character’s hometown is here, so since my agent’s forced me to take a break, I thought I might as well make use of it to rest and do some digging. There’s no time for me to waste, after all.”

At that, Leona turns away, but not without Vil glimpsing the souring of his expression. “Typical.”

“Which part?”

“Everything. I pity your agent. So much for taking a break, huh?”

Vil bristles. “Not everyone is as lazy and wasteful as you.”

He regrets it, slightly, the moment it comes out of his mouth, because Leona doesn’t even reply to that; there’s just a brief pause before he goes back to typing. No argument, no retort—nothing.

How uncharacteristic. Maybe he has changed after all. The thought makes something in Vil twist, in bitterness and in wistfulness.

Vil steps into the shower and stays in the bathroom for long enough that by the time he steps out, Leona is gone.

The day is spent taking in the local sights and dodging fans, keeping an ear out for slang and accents, trends and culture. Vil wanders around until evening, wincing when he sees a post online locating him. So much for being discreet. Perhaps he should’ve used an alibi, or magic for his disguise, as he usually does; his sunglasses and hat are clearly not enough to shield him.

In the evening, when Vil’s about to head back to his hotel, his phone rings.

It’s— of course. Vil picks up. “How is it you always call at the right time?”

“Ah! I knew it, something was up. You were frowning rather badly in the tabloid picture. Come, talk to me! Do not let stress crease your beautiful face.”

“I rather think you’re the last person to talk to about this man, though,” Vil sighs, pressing a palm to his forehead and closing his eyes. He gets the feeling he’s going to talk to Rook about it anyway. 

“A man? But— surely not. Could it be that you have stumbled onto the path of Roi des Lions?”

“More like he’s stumbled into my path, but yes. Worse, we’re being forced to share a room.”

“BEAUTE!” Rook exclaims, so loudly and excitedly that Vil winces. “The two of you together again! It was a thing of beauty then, and a thing of beauty now. You’ll be there three weeks, right? When can I visit? I would love to hunt good prey again… it’s been such a long time…”

Vil sighs again. “Leave him alone, Rook,” he scolds. “And what do you mean, ‘a thing of beauty’? We crashed and burned spectacularly.”

“Ah, but stars burn bright precisely because of their intensity! Even dying stars produce brilliant light. And one must never lose hope for revival!”

“I wish you would not compare my previous friends with benefits relationship to something dying.”

“Friends with benefits? Non! That is not sufficient to encapsulate the two of you. If anything, it was—“

“You’re right,” Vil interrupts, a headache beginning to throb behind his temples. His chest feels a little too tight and he dislikes it supremely. “We weren’t even friends in the first place. Look, Rook, I’ll handle this on my own. We’ll be gone soon, anyway, and we’re both grown men. Or at least I can speak for myself.”

“Of course,” Rook agrees respectfully, never one to intrude on Vil’s agency. “Though, let me just say, just as you’ve done some growing, I’m sure Roi des Lion has too. Perhaps you two can...”

“That’s enough,” Vil says sharply. Rook doesn’t press the matter, and Vil softens. “But thank you. I’ll be in touch. Take care, Rook.”

He hangs up and enters the elevator. When he taps into the room, he’s greeted with an old, familiar sight—Leona stretched out on the bed, across the length of it, basking in the sunny warmth of the sunset coming through the curtains. For a moment, Vil considers leaving Leona to his catnap—good riddance.

He doesn’t, in the end. Instead he throws a pillow at Leona and calls, “Wake up.”

“Huh?” grumbles Leona, one eye opening to squint at him. “What?”

“The restaurant downstairs is open for dinner. Stop sleeping and get something to eat.”

Leona shakes him off and yawns, the edge of his shirt riding up as he moves. Vil averts his gaze. “What about you? You’re always on diet. You’re telling me you’re going to stuff yourself?”

“No, but—“

“Then I see no point in going, either. Stop disturbing me.”

Vil’s brows knit together in frustration. “Aagh, you…”

Vil hardly feels like rehashing one of their thousand arguments from before; he doesn’t bother finishing his admonishment. So much for having changed, huh?

And yet. Yet. Damn him, because as much as Vil points out Leona’s flaws, he’s understood far too much for him to be anything less than drawn to him, now; like it or not. Really, it’s irritating that a face like Leona’s is attached to a personality like that.

As if sensing the direction Vil’s thoughts have gone, Leona lets out an exasperated, pointed groan, dragging himself upright and shaking out his braids, his long hair a complete mess. “Are you going to keep yapping my ear off this entire time?”

“Only if you keep giving me reason to,” snaps Vil. “Look, I took a look downstairs; there’s a lot of good meat they’re serving. You’ll like it. We’re already forced to share the same space—the least you could do is accompany me to check the place out.”

“Are you going to order something more than a salad?”

“Yes, fine,” Vil hisses impatiently. “Quick, get up. I want to get a corner booth so we won’t be disturbed, meaning we have to go before dinner rush hour. Move.”

“Demanding as ever,” complains Leona. Even so, he rolls out of bed and shrugs on a jacket. Vil wants to fix that hair, that bedhead, but it’s hardly like Leona will welcome the touch. He’s tempted to just do it anyway before deciding against it; he doesn’t feel like getting bitten by a lion today. “Hurry up, then,” Leona tells him, leaning against the wall and tapping his foot. “Touch up your makeup or whatever. I’ll go to the damn restaurant with you. The food had better be good.”

“Thank you,” Vil says, and Leona pauses for a fraction of a second at that.

“Yeah, yeah. Quit dawdling and let’s go.”

“…”

“…”

Having ordered, waiting for their food to come is rather excruciating.

Maybe he should hold out an olive branch. “What did you do today?” Vil asks. Leona looks handsome in the dim lighting, slouched across the table, visibly uncomfortable. “Did you visit the ruins you were talking about?”

“Yes.”

“Was it fruitful?”

“More or less.”

“How’s university?”

“Fine.”

Vil’s temper flares. “I swear, talking to you is like talking to a brick wall. Can you at least try to make conversation?”

“Look, I didn’t come here to be buddy-buddy with anyone, let alone you.” Leona leans back, folding his arms. His expression is nearly inscrutable, even if his body language screams stand-offish. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. You’ve made it very clear when you left exactly how much you want nothing to do with me, so don’t try to act all chummy now, yeah?”

There’s no way Vil’s going to take that bullshit sitting down. “Me?” he scoffs incredulously, meeting ire with ire. “There’s no way you’re trying to put this all on me. Unbelievable. We both know it was mutual. If anything, you were the one always making it perfectly clear we meant nothing.”

And, okay, Leona’s definitely pissed. “Hah?” he snarls. “How’s that relevant here?”

“How’s that— of course it’s relevant, you insufferable dunderhe—“

“—sirs,” cuts in a distinctly nervous voice—their waiter. “Uh… your appetiser. Sorry to— interrupt. Please enjoy.”

Leona ‘tsk’s loudly as the waiter scurries out of there like his life depends on it. Just like that, the tension diffuses. Vil huffs and primly picks up his fork, while, unsurprisingly, Leona begins stuffing his face. Disregarding his usual lack of table manners, he seems to be enjoying the food; curious, despite himself, Vil tries the salad and hums in approval.

They fall quiet, after that. Leona’s focused solely on his food and Vil’s attention is split between eating, thinking, and observing Leona. Naturally, he makes sure everything he eats is in accordance with his calorie intake for the day—the rest of the food he can’t consume he passes over to Leona, who rolls his eyes but accepts without fanfare.

It’s nostalgic, almost. Vil ought to hate it more than he does.

“I heard you got a new brand ambassadorship,” Leona says, finally, when their main course has been cleared and they’re waiting for desert. “How many is it, now?”

“Oh, so now you’re making conversation?”

Leona looks ready to bare his fangs. “Shut up. It’s better than you just sitting there watching me eat like a creep.”

“I see your rude streak has hardly been lost.” Vil crosses his legs, pushing his chin up with a smirk. “Have you been keeping up with my career? My, Leona. I didn’t know you were a fan.”

That earns him another glower. “It’s not my fault you’re so damn famous. Half the time on campus, when they’re talking entertainment, I hear your name. It’s like I can’t escape.”

“Sure. To answer your question—yes, I have. It’s a jewellery brand this time. I do like their pieces quite a lot.”

“You look like shit.”

Vil reels back, very much affronted. That’s the worst thing one can say to him and Leona knows it. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t take it like that. What I mean is, no wonder your agent forced you to take a break. You’ve been everywhere all at once. I saw you coming out of the shower; your eyebags are better than before, but still pretty terrible for your standards.”

“…”

Should he be offended by the tactless phrasing, or touched by the brusque, clumsy display of concern? But the topic breaches close to one of their big blow outs from before, so instead Vil chooses the less antagonistic route of diverting the subject.

“I’ve been juggling it just fine. Am I not taking a break now? Either way, I must admit to being curious. Have you actually kept up with my career?”

“As if,” Leona shoots back, and Vil hums, displeased that he’s unable to tell whether or not it’s a lie.

“Either way, it’s a pleasant surprise to hear you’re actually working on something like a thesis.”

“I would ask, ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’,” Leona purses his lips, “but I get the feeling I’m meant to hear the underhanded compliment in that.”

“Of course you are,” Vil says. “It sounds difficult. Ancient languages are a tough field. But then again,” he puts a certain weight to the next words, “you’ve always liked a challenge.”

Leona closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “I suppose I have. Not that I particularly like extra work.”

Their dessert arrives, and for once, Vil allows himself to indulge. It has nothing on Trey’s baking, but the brownie is still delicious. When they head back to the hotel room, it’s in silence, but not an uneasy one. It’s one thing Vil has always appreciated about being with Leona, in the rare moments of reprieve from their fighting—how they can just exist together, a kind of comfort that comes from mutual understanding—almost a kind of peace.

It’s nice to know that, despite everything, this part of them hasn’t changed.

“The food was good.”

“Mm,” Leona says, already stripping his clothes and getting ready to sleep.

“We should go again. Or maybe try a new place.”

“…” Leona pulls a face. Vil’s not expecting agreement, anyway, so it catches him off-guard when Leona says: “Only if you pay.”

“Hey. I’m not some kind of cash cow, you know. You can’t just—“

Leona pulls the covers up around him, buries himself in his pillow, and promptly goes to sleep. Vil wonders exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Goodnight to you too, Leona.”

They fall into a kind of rhythm, with Vil setting out to see the sights and Leona either out to Sevens knows where or in the room typing away on his laptop, with books strewn all around him. The latter never fails to be a surprising sight, but it’s not one that’s unwelcome. Occasionally Vil will follow Leona to the library, or Leona will latch onto Vil hard in the morning, meaning Vil’s morning runs end up being more early afternoon runs. For all Leona’s complaining he’s always gotten clingy whenever Vil slept over. It’s both annoying and adorable, or at least as adorable Leona can get—it’s like having one big overgrown cat, if that particular cat were grumpy and undomesticated.

They bicker, of course. They fight, just like before. But perhaps time has been kind to both of them, or perhaps absence has truly made the heart fonder; their back and forth lacks the venom it once used to have. That isn’t to say Vil isn’t wary—it feels like they’re walking a thin tightrope, sometimes, like the fragile truce between them could break, that at any moment they’ll go back to before—digging into each other’s wounds, carving out the hollow of their insecurities with the knife’s edge of their words, sometimes even a physical brawl. There’s something between them, unspoken, unaddressed, and it isn’t like Vil to be so reticent about his issues with somebody, but he gets the feeling the livewire of their exact relationship has always defied definition, even from way back before.

They go to eat together. True to Leona’s word, he makes Vil pay for some of their meals, but Vil admonishes him into paying a good half of the time as well. Somewhere in between they catch up with each other—the years before, what have you been doing? I’ve heard about you from Jack, it seems you’ve been doing well. Same for you—the herbivores around me are always gossiping about how amazing your career is.

The two weeks of Vil’s ‘vacation’ fly by. The closest they ever get to the elephant in the room is at the end of it, when Vil casually asks, on the way back to the hotel from dinner, whether Leona’s got a partner. Leona gives him a dry look. The mood is abruptly, inexplicably tense.

“Please, don’t make me laugh,” he says. It doesn’t technically answer the question, but it answers Vil’s real question perfectly fine. “Why?” he drawls, when there’s no response. “Interested, Vil?”

Vil sighs. “Get that smug look off your face. Can’t a man just ask? Seriously, how big can your ego be?”

“You and I both know you’ve never ‘just asked’. And I got the feeling you knew what I was going to say even before I replied.”

“Perhaps,” Vil allows. “Aren’t you going to ask me the same thing?”

“Unlike you, I don’t ask questions I know the answer to.”

“How presumptuous.”

“Oops, my bad. Didn’t mean to step out of line in front of the mighty Vil Schoenheit. Speaking of, I’m sure you’ve seen our pictures circulating the internet? The tabloids have such active imaginations.”

“How ‘active’ is it if half of what they say is true? Also, I truly wish you’d pick up your laundry. Ruggie and Kifaji aren’t around to clean up after your messes anymore.”

Leona sticks a finger in his ear. “Whatever. You’re so noisy.”

For a wonderful moment Vil lives in the fantasy where he gets to poison this man. “You utterly indolent piece of—“

“Oh, would you look at that, we’re back in our room.” Leona doesn’t even bother to hold the door open for Vil, even though Vil has definitely seen him do so for the hotel staff. If only Leona could show his gentlemanly qualities more often and not just in the face of women he’s mildly intimidated by.

“I swear, I should just ask to change rooms,” mutters Vil, and Leona shoots him a sharp look.

“Please. You’re a celebrity,” he says, kicking off his shoes and lying on the bed without even changing his dirty clothes, the brute. “If you really wanted to, the staff would be clamouring all over to give you what you want. One bad word from you to the press and it’s game over for them.”

“If you’re talking like that, you’re a prince,” Vil retorts, already half in the bathroom to wash up. “There’s no doubt they’ll accommodate you too.”

When Vil finishes his shower, he steps out and half-expects Leona to be asleep. But for once he’s actually working; in fact, he’s seemed far more motivated than— any of the times, before, when Vil shouted and nagged and scolded him, for sulking, for wasting his potential, for taking working smarter not harder to its greatest extreme—for using his competency and his boredom as an excuse to slack off. 

He really is attractive. Even more so when he’s actually showing what he can do. The lamp light blends with the dim blue digital glow, illuminating the angles of Leona’s features, tracing the edges of them with a golden tint; his braids are half undone, hanging across his face. His ears are twitching slightly in thought, and Vil feels a familiar pang of— not regret, exactly. It’s hardly something he can control. But maybe grief, for the life the man in front of him could have led. One that he deserves—a life where he feels his talents can shine, a life where his abilities are acknowledged by the people around him—his people. A life where Leona could work hard, apply all his competencies, challenge himself, and feel like it pays off. 

This feeling was something that occasionally visited Vil, when they began sleeping together, but this time it feels a little less sad. A little less tinged with melancholy. Because that life for Leona has never been impossible; Leona will never be ruler, sure. But Vil can now more clearly see a future where Leona can come to be fulfilled anyway.

“Mmmrfph?!”

The sound Leona makes when Vil walks over to slide a hand into his hair is annoyed and incoherent. Vil’s fingers tangle in soft fur anyway, stroking the back of his ears the way Leona likes, even if he never fails to protest. Leona melts a little, relaxes in his grip; he’s betrayed by the way his tail swishes even as he says, “Stop being clingy. Get off me.”

“Leona,” Vil says, and his voice comes out softer than he means it to. It makes Leona stiffen up again, even if he doesn’t look up from his computer.

“What?”

“…” Vil’s had too much wine earlier. He should probably hold his tongue. “Nothing.”

“Hah?” Leona bats the hand away from his head and turns, glaring harshly. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“Your phone’s ringing again, you know. Are you ever going to answer Farena’s calls?”

“It’s probably just Cheka again. My meddlesome family never knows when to call it quits.”

“Or it could be that your brother actually cares about you, and that you’ve been unfair to him because of assholes that can’t see your true worth. Or, well, maybe I shouldn’t curse out your people.”

A dull, angry red flush rises up Leona’s cheeks; a warning sign that Vil ignores. “Fucking hell. This again?”

“Yes,” drawls Vil, unwilling to let this go. “‘This again’. Your brother may not always agree with you, but I know he values your opinions. You have great ideas for your country. Don’t just throw a tantrum and give up because of circumstances of your bir—“

“What do you know?” snarls Leona, and he stands up fast enough that his chair clatters to the floor, backing Vil rapidly to the wall. There’s a familiar bite to his words, a familiar fire in his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Vil. They’ll never listen to me—not my brother, not my people. They’ll never see me. I’ve come to terms with that already.”

Leona’s face is close, his chest rising sharply in harsh pants, and Vil considers the sight. “It’s a shame for them, then,” Vil murmurs, for once choosing to back down in the face of a pain he’s dredged up; he reaches up to trace where Leona’s forearm pins his shoulder to the wall, down Leona’s biceps to the nape of his neck and the soft flesh of his cheek. “Just so you know, I’ve tried to tell you countless times, though you’re too stubborn to listen; there are people that see you. I see you.” The expression of fury twisted on Leona’s face isn’t a good look on him. Vil tugs gently at the furrow of Leona’s brow, tries to smooth it over, and Leona just— sighs. Lets him go, but doesn’t move away.

“Whatever,” Leona says. “Stop pretending you have the right to critique me, anyway. What about your own life? Have you finally gotten that stick out your ass?”

Vil isn’t expecting the turnaround, although he probably should have. “Pardon?”

“I’m talking about your damn sky-high expectations for everyone. For yourself, really. I don’t think you’ll ever be satisfied with your career; you’ll just run, and run, and you won’t stop. You’ll burn yourself inside out with jealousy and insatiable unhappiness. I’ve told you this before, Vil. How many times are we going to chase our tails in circles?”

“Don’t be unfair, Leona. You know that no matter what, I always do my best, and I believe that in the end—“

“Okay, and? In the end, what? How long has it been? Are you not going to be satisfied unless you’re the best, you’re everyone’s hero? The one on the stage until the very end? Are you not going to be satisfied unless you’re not just beautiful, but the most beautiful—the fairest one of them all?” Leona spits the last words out, drenched with sarcasm. “Is it not enough that you’ve always been that to me?”

Vil’s throat closes, stunned. “I don’t—“

“…we were doomed from the start because of it, you know,” says Leona, a great deal more calmly. He steps back, but Vil catches his wrist, unwilling to let him pull away. “There was no way I could ever become the perfect prince in your mind. And there’s no way I would want to, either.”

The spark of infuriation finally lights in Vil amidst everything else. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, equal parts offended and startled. Is that what Leona’s thought this whole time? “As uncouth as you are, there’s a reason why I still find you charming. Do I disapprove of your habits? Yes. Your mindset? Your attitude? Your manners? Your way of speaking? Your cunning, underhanded tactics? Your—“

“Enough. I get the idea.”

“Then you know perfectly well I do. But have I ever wanted you to become someone you’re not? Never, Leona. All I wanted—all I want—was for you to be the best version of yourself you could be. For you to— reach your potential, to be happy. Is that so difficult to ask?”

Leona finally tugs away, and Vil doesn’t stop him this time; the former’s expression is unreadable when he walks away with not his usual saunter but a stiff gait. “You’re a hypocrite,” Leona says roughly, pushing his chair back up and sitting down; Vil can see the white knuckled grip of his hand. “This conversation is over.”

“Sure,” Vil laughs, his voice coming out far too bitter. “Who’s the one running now, tail tucked between his legs? Well, no matter. My break ends tomorrow morning. I’ll be out of your hair by then. Surely, you’ll rejoice once I’m gone.”

“…”

And, really, Vil shouldn’t have expected anything more in the first place. Perhaps this was the only way this could end. So in the morning he packs his things and slips out the door, with Leona pretending to be asleep on the far end of the bed—and of course he’s never quite managed to cut out the part of him that screams to stay, not really.

But he’s certainly gotten better at disregarding it.

(“Have you seen Vil’s new movie?”

“Nope,” Jade says cheerily, walking over to the back of his couch, draping his arms over Trey’s shoulders. “Say ‘ah’.”

Trey opens up obediently, and splutters on a laugh when a mushroom is shoved into his mouth. “It’s good,” he says, after swallowing; he tilts his head back to see Jade’s answering smile. “It isn’t poisoned this time, is it?”

“That was only once, darling, and I was angry at you. Plus, I believe you got me back by making my cake taste like eel?”

“Those are not on the same level,” Trey points out, but extends a hand upwards to tuck Jade’s bangs behind his ears. He shouldn’t be this amused, but hey, cut him some slack—he’s enamoured. “You should watch it. It’s pretty good. But I get the feeling you’ll find his promotion interviews more entertaining.”

“Oh?” Jade raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do tell.”

Trey rewinds the video on the television.

“—been rumours of you going on a trip in your character Grimmilde’s hometown with the second prince of Sunset Savanna, Leona Kingscholar.”

“You said it yourself—it is merely a rumour. Sure, we ended up at the same hotel, but it was purely a coincidence. May we please go back to the top—“

“Many sources state that you and Kingscholar were close friends back at your time in Night Raven College. Are you still in touch with him? Many fans have enjoyed the interaction.”

Trey knows Vil well enough to tell that his smile has clearly gone strained; even so, his voice comes out even when he replies, “I wouldn’t quite say we’re friends.”

“Not friends? Then is it true?” The interviewer sits forward eagerly. “Are the two of you actually dating?!”

Beside Trey, Jade begins laughing, the sound bright and full of mirth.

“No,” snaps Vil on screen, an instinctive, perturbed response. “I— what nonsense— I mean,” he visibly pulls himself together, “no, we were not. Are not. And I don’t quite appreciate the speculation. Can we get back on track here?”

“Of course,” the interviewer apologies, hastily, flustered in the face of Vil’s scowl. “As I was saying…”

The video trails off. “So even Vil-san can make that face,” Jade notes, delighted. Trey chides him with a laugh and an elbow.

“Your personality is so twisted. I knew you’d enjoy it.”

“Oya? You say that, but I could see you hiding your smile the entire time.”

“But I do feel for them.” Trey glances at the television, where Vil’s face is frozen, then at his phone, with both Leona and Vil’s contacts. “Deuce and Ace told me how Epel got terrified seeing the way they were in each other’s presence. With all the sexual tension, I believe were the exact words. And Rook… well, you know how Rook is. I think he’s their number one shipper, as Cater would say.”

“Hmmm,” says Jade, with a dangerously thoughtful expression.

That look can’t bode well. “…Jade, no.”

“My, my. Whatever do you mean? I haven’t even said anything.”

“Jade! Look, I don’t want to meddle, okay? It’s their business.” Trey gives him a half-wary, half-amused glance. “If it works out, that’s truly wonderful, but I don’t know if they…”

“I’m not suggesting we force them into anything. How about a little nudge?”

And, well. It’s hard to say no now—Trey isn’t that opposed to the idea, either; it could be fun. “You’re such a rascal.”

“You love me anyway.”

Jade’s come to know him so well; he knows that he’s besotted, knows that Trey’s wrapped around his pinky, knows that he’s a soft spot and isn’t afraid to take advantage of it. Trey doesn’t mind; it goes both ways, after all. “Indeed,” he bites back a grin, “unfortunately,” and then Trey tugs Jade down by his collar. “Before that, there’s one more article I think you should see…”)

“What are you—“

“—doing here? I could ask you the same question. Are you stalking me?”

Those perfectly manicured brows of Vil’s draw together in indignation; his lips purse, but Leona can still see the faint sheen of cherry lipgloss on them. “Unbelievable. If anything, you must be stalking me.”

There’s no way Leona’s going to take this sitting down—Ruggie, that bastard. He must’ve been bought over by some other pieces of shit poking their noses into his business. Fuck that mercenary streak of his. Seriously, Leona’s going to have to punish him for this. “Who gave you the reservation for this restaurant?”

“Rook,” Vil huffs, long-sufferingly. “But I don’t believe this is entirely his doing. He would’ve been transparent about it—no, this reeks of some external prying. This isn’t exactly an easy restaurant to get reservations for, either; you typically have to book months in advance. It has to be someone who knows the both of us well enough, too, to realise I’d be enticed by the food here known for its detoxing properties, and you by the good meat.”

Their last conversation hangs over them like the world’s shittiest anvil; they hardly ended on a good note the other day. Great Sevens. This is far too fucking awkward for Leona’s liking, and the food is taking far too long. But, well, Leona’s always been an opportunist, and there’s been a question on his mind since the moment Azul first gleefully sent the link to that damned article to him.

“What were you thinking?”

The look Vil gives him is drier than when he uses King’s Roar. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“The article.”

“You’re deluded if you think I can read your mind. Do you know how many articles are written about me everyday?”

This little… Leona can’t tell if he’s being wilfully obtuse, or truly just at a loss. Knowing Vil, it’s probably the former. “Maybe you’ve forgotten something so inconsequential. I’m talking about the article interview you did with my brother. Oh, I don’t know, you might have heard of him. The king of Sunset Savanna.”

“Ah, yes, I do seem to recall something like that,” agrees Vil, and for a wonderful moment Leona lives in the fantasy where he gets to throw this man off a cliff. “What about?”

“The article seems to mention that my nosy older brother kept bringing me up.”

“Unfortunately.” Vil throws a casual hand up and tosses his hair back, the faint waft of apple vanilla shampoo making Leona’s nose twitch. He hasn’t changed his favourite soap scent, huh? “He’s very kind. He clearly cares for you.”

That grates on Leona’s nerves more than he’d like to admit. “Ugh, shut up. Why did you entertain his nonsense? You even said a bunch of bullshit. You’re the world famous one here; you should know saying shit like that just adds fuel to the fire.”

“Shit like what?”

Leona waves a hand. What, is Vil really going to make him quote everything? “The whole,” Leona pitches his voice up and slips into Vil’s manner of speech, “he’s handsome, even though his personality is questionable. You want me to take care of him? He can take care of himself, but I’d gladly take care of him, if he’d let me. Are you really not friends? No, but I do care about him. Are you even aware of how it sounds? I’m sure you of all people are. Everybody at uni’s been hounding me over this crap. I’m sick of it.”

Vil’s expression is curated to a specific degree of blandness. “Really? But I merely spoke the truth. I make no habit of lying.”

“Hah. Now that’s a good joke.”

Vil’s eyes narrow, his gaze going stony, and that’s more like it. Leona far prefers Vil’s true nature. “You’re terrible,” says Vil, his words dripping with acid. “Are my sentiments so hard to believe?”

“Pretty much,” drawls Leona, leaning back in his seat and spreading his legs, just to watch Vil watch him. “Considering I heard zero of it when we were actually fucking.”

“Leona,” Vil hisses, appalled. “Not so loud.”

“No one can hear us,” he points out, which is true; not only did whatever herbivore scheme up this bull-headed, misguided, annoying matchmaking venture somehow manage to successfully land a seat in this famous restaurant, they managed to get a booth seat, one near the sky-high windows—Vil has always enjoyed the view of the city from above—and near to the exit—Leona prefers his routes of escape clear. It’s located far enough from the rest of the patrons that they can talk and move without being noticed, especially in the faded overhead lighting, and it reeks of an almost creepy kind of consideration.

Leona has a person or two in mind for who exactly he has to blame for this. He suspects Vil has an idea, too.

“Still,” sniffs Vil. “And to answer your question—“

He cuts himself off.

There’s a silence, for a while, and for what must be a demented moment of weakness, Leona laments not being able to see the expression on Vil’s face; he longs for it to be cast in clearer definition in the dim, flickering orange candlelight. “Yes, please do go on and tell me what you have to say.”

“…I’m sorry,” Vil says, and Leona almost chokes on his saliva.

“Eh?! Who are you and what have you done with Vil Schoenheit?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” scowls Vil, which is rich, coming from him of all people. “I… Leona, surely you also think… no. Maybe I’m being foolish for expecting anything from that cold heart of yours. But for me, I do regret how we…”

“…”

“…I thought about what you said. At the hotel. I never knew you felt that way.”

“I could say the same thing,” Leona says, dropping his voice so that it sounds frigid—what did Vil say, his cold heart? If the ice queen himself wants icy, he can show him subzero. “I’ve been learning lots of new things recently. Like the fact that—what did you say to my brother? Leona’s one of the best people I know? So, what? You can say it to him, but you can’t say it to my face? Am I not good enough for Vil-sama to talk to directly?”

At that, Vil frowns, looking sincerely distraught for a second. Their appetiser comes, but neither of them touch it. “No, I simply thought you wouldn’t appreciate it. Clearly, I was wrong. If you want me to tell you that, I—“

“No,” snaps Leona. Fuck. “You’re missing the point.”

“Back then, you were right,” Vil says, which are three words Leona has never heard come out of Vil Schoeheit’s mouth, much less to him. Maybe pigs will start flying tomorrow. Maybe that kid Sebek will finally get a sore throat. “I do hold myself—and others—to a high standard. I’ve always worked towards self-improvement. But other than that, you’re dead wrong.” Ah, there it is.

“Enlighten me on what you’re referring to sometime, will you?”

“Are you stupid?”

Leona can feel his ears twitch in anger. “Excuse me?”

“You were the one who stated very clearly, when we first starting—well, fucking, as you so crudely put it—that there were no feelings to be involved. What was I supposed to do? Of course I told you nothing of what I actually thought of you. Of course I ended up leaving.”

“You and your good sense,” Leona jeers mockingly. Vil can take his hoity-toity 'rational' decision making and fuck off. “Was being with me unwise, then? Was I not worth making a bad decision?”

“Oh, for the love of— are you even listening to me? Forget the fact that you’re being unreasonable. It’s like whatever I says goes in one damn ear and out the other.” There’s a genuine rage to the set of Vil’s mouth, now, in the way his delicately manicured nails dig into the tablecloth. There’s something about Vil’s beauty that’s always been so ephemeral, almost fragile, like glinting stained glass. But whoever thinks Vil is like that clearly has a screw loose. Leona’s the obviously rugged one between the two of them, but Vil’s allure runs deeper, a cobweb of strong threads, a creature equally ready to fire back. “Look. There. You spaced out, didn’t you? We’re having a serious conversation, can you at least try to pay attention?”

“My bad, my bad. I was just too bewitched by your face.”

“There’s not a trace of emotion behind your words, seriously.” And that’s another thing Leona likes about Vil; they’ve known each other for so long. They understand each other well enough that Leona can avoid having troublesome conversations he’d rather much avoid; either Vil will read his true message in between the lines, or he’ll simply help Leona deal with other people, if he’s feeing generous.

Or, well. Evidently, if they’re still having disputes like this, Leona’s still got to face troublesome conversations, whether he likes it or not.

Before Vil starts to nag again, he hurriedly ducks his head down and stuffs himself with the appetiser. “Eat your food,” Leona says with a mouthful of food. Vil shoots him a look of disgust, probably due to his table manners; but he doesn’t deign to reply, just seems to realise that it would be rude of him himself to not eat, and proceeds to do just that.

If nothing else, at least the food here is good.

They eat in silence until their main course comes, and is cleared, and then the quiet turns heavy again. They’ve been sneaking glances at each other throughout the meal, which—ugh. They aren’t prepubescent teenage boys with crushes, for the love of the Sevens. Trust Vil to make a situation more complex and convoluted than it has to be.

Though perhaps Leona should take some blame in this too. Should. Probably won’t, but should.

“My brother actually thinks we’re dating now,” Leona says eventually. Vil’s gaze flickers from where it’s wandered out the window to meet his.

“I’m pretty sure my father does, too. If that helps.”

“No, it doesn’t,” rasps Leona, exasperated. “Sometimes I have no idea what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”

Vil’s voice goes mildly cruel, the corners of his tone sharp enough to cut. “Get off your high horse, Leona. You should be so lucky. Does the thought of dating me really bother you that much?”

That takes Leona by surprise, just a bit. “…no, I suppose not. I couldn’t care less.”

But the truthful answer would be more like: yes, but not for reasons that I want to admit to you or to myself. 

Vil doesn’t quite seem appeased by that, but it doesn’t seemed to have been a blunder, at least. This endgame of theirs has gone on for far too long; Leona thought that they’d reached a stalemate long ago, but it seems that there are still pieces left on the board.

“Did you even miss me, Leona, in the time we were apart? Genuinely? Just once?”

And Leona has to do another double take, wrong-footed; it feels like the conversation is spilling out from his palms, the floor underneath too unsteady for him to catch his breath. He hates that Vil’s able to do this to him. “Are you kidding me? And you have the audacity to say I’m the one who hasn’t been listening? Who hasn’t been paying attention? Don’t piss me off.”

“Excuse me, but it’s hardly my fault you’re so dishonest about everything, why do you have to be so—“ Vil stops; visibly takes a deep, calming breath, his eyes fluttering shut. “Okay. No. I know perfectly well why you’re like that. Look, I talked to your brother because I wanted to, alright? Sevens knows why, but I do care about you. Even if you don’t extend me the same courtesy back.”

And this self-absorbed bastard is still being fucking blind. Leona is entirely sick of this. Without another word, he stands and waves a hand to the waiter to let him pass, leaving a stunned Vil in his wake.

“What in the— Leona Kingscholar, you get back here right now— sorry, yes, maybe just cancel our dessert and send me the bill, thank you so much—“

Leona’s already on the ground floor of the building by the time Vil catches up. It’s chilly, the wind ruffling around him, and it’s just the cherry on top of an excellent fucking day with one (1) Vil Schoenheit he’s viscerally tempted to either fucking throttle or kiss, whatever it takes to get him to stop yapping and just relax. But he supposes that’s too much of a tall order, huh?

“Leona. Leona, wait.”

Reluctantly, Leona pauses in his steps and turns. Vil truly does look gorgeous, even in a simple turtleneck with a necklace and a pair of dress pants.

“I— uh.” Vil’s uncharacteristic hesitance makes Leona exhale through his nose. What a rarity. “What’s up with you? Don’t just up and leave like that, how many times must I tell you to be considerate? For starters, it’s severely impolite and—”

“You mean up and leave, like you did?”

“—I wanted to try the dessert. What?”

“Nothing,” Leona says, and makes to leave, but Vil crosses the distance between them quickly, a warm hand finding its way to his shoulder.

“Leona,” Vil says slowly. His voice has changed; so has his expression. It’s gone a little stunned, a little understanding. “Just talk to me. What’s really got you so upset? I don’t… look. I stopped sleeping with you—or at least partially—to respect your own wishes. Do you not get that?”

And that’s what finally has Leona raising his voice to a growl, provoked. “Did you?” Leona spits acridly. “Or was it an excuse to chicken out under the guise of me not wanting the same thing? You don’t just get to go and make your own decisions without talking to me first.”

Vil blinks. “We were too stubborn. It would’ve been a bad idea, even if I’d known you were—“

Leona shrugs off the hand on his shoulder and begins to march off. Vil swiftly jogs in front of him, blocking his way.

“—wait, you impatient, irritable brute. Let me finish. I don’t mean to imply you weren’t—aren’t—worth it. I just… come on, Leona. Half the time I was convinced that all I was to you was a good lay, or a nag, or at the very most someone you saw as an equal.”

Some of the fight drains from Leona at that. Perhaps the cold is numbing his brain. “You’re not entirely wrong. But Vil,” he murmurs, half a scoff, “I’ve always thought your beauty comes from the inside out.” He allows himself for the first time in a long time to properly touch Vil, ghost a hand across his collarbone and feel him shiver—whether from the cold or the touch, Leona doesn’t know. Vil’s lips are still shining with the layer of gloss. Leona wonders how it tastes.

“…I think that’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard from the person who killed romance and beat it dead ten times over,” Vil says, sounding so genuinely flabbergasted that Leona’s almost insulted. “But that makes what I’m about to say next a little easier. Leona. Will you go for dinner with me?”

Has the cold gotten to Vil’s brain too? “What are you on about? We just ate.”

A more familiar expression of exasperation rises in Vil’s face. “And there’s that utterly unromantic streak. I’m talking about a date, you dumbass.” Vil takes a shuddering breath, and— what? “Let’s go out—properly, this time. I’ll be sure to do it thoroughly, so I expect you to do the same, or, well—at least meet me halfway.”

Leona feels like he’s been struck in the face. “Huh?”

“We won’t be perfect, of course, not then and not now; you’ll still roll your eyes at my strictness, and I’ll roll mine at your behaviour. But to make this work, I’m willing to make compromises. I’ll put in the effort, and you can too. We won’t be perfect, but I don’t need us to be. All I need is you, Leona. So what’s your answer?”

“…it feels like you’ve already decided for me.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“What did I say about asking questions you know the answer to?” Yet— hm. If Vil’s taking a leap, Leona decides that fair’s fair; he’s not going to be a passive bystander in all this. He’s going to surpass Vil’s expectations. Leona’s going to make sure that while Vil’s in the spotlight in the world, Vil comes home and only looks at him. “You say the cringiest things.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“My answer's ‘yes’,” says Leona, walking forward back to Vil. It comes out a little rough, a little hoarse. It's the only thing that betrays how he really feels. “You’re an idiot, you know. We could’ve skipped several steps if you weren’t so fussy.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Tch.”

“I’d argue that the decisions I’ve made were still sound. If you think of it that way—“

Then Leona finally gets him to shut up the way he’s been wanting to—with a hand on Vil’s waist and their lips pressed together. And with a warm body under his touch, tasting of sweet fruit, and the promise of long naps with Vil next to him, this is checkmate, Leona thinks: I win.