Work Text:
—"I'd sign away my trust fund
I would even sell the jag
If I could spend my misspent youth with
Kalim in drag"
[...]
A few days ago, Director Crowley had thought it would be a good idea to organize an arts festival.
'Since I'm so generous!' he said.
Then he disappeared, leaving all the responsibility to the students.
In the end, they decided to hold it at Pomefiore. It had been advertised and organized for weeks since then, and yet Jamil wasn't prepared for what he would see that afternoon.
The backstage area was filled with warm lights, whirring fans, open dressing rooms, and students running in every direction. The chaos, though elegant (obviously, they were at Pomefiore), was still chaos, and as always, it seemed Jamil would never be able to escape it.
"Kalim, where are you?" Jamil murmured, squeezing through the stage curtains while checking a to-do list that seemed to multiply on its own.
He heard laughter, footsteps, voices calling for brushes and makeup. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until he heard Kalim's laugh. Clear. Bright. Energetic.
And then there was Vil's unmistakable satisfied and proud tone when something was looking good—"Perfect. Don't even think about moving."
Jamil tensed, frowning.
Perfect in what sense? What was Kalim doing now? he wondered, and pushed open the dressing room door, prepared for any of Kalim typical mishaps.
But what he saw was anything but typical...
Kalim was sitting in a small armchair in front of a huge mirror, illuminated by spotlights. The vanity in front of him was piled high with eyeshadow palettes, brushes, and more powders. Vil was doing his makeup, and Rook was styling his hair.
His hair, usually tousled, was now strategically styled to look elegant, adorned with a gold brooch on the side (simple but elegant). His face wore soft but luminous makeup: thin eyeliner, a touch of blush on his cheeks, lip gloss, warm-toned eyeshadow, and a hint of gold glitter around his eyes.
But what made Jamil's world stop for a few seconds wasn't the makeup (though it was partly).
It was the dress.
A sky-blue, low-cut gown with white details on the bodice and voluminous sleeves that moved with Kalim's every step. Gold chains hung from his shoulders, and a matching belt held everything in place. The blue and white skirt fell in light layers to the floor, shimmering in the light.
He also wore gold earrings and a necklace. Gold sandals with heels and white ribbons that wound down his legs to just below his knees.
Jamil looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
Kalim looked up when Jamil entered, waving cheerfully, as if nothing were amiss.
—"Ah, Jamil!"— he smiled. —"What do you think? Vil says I'm ready for the costume rehearsal."—
Jamil didn't know what to say.
His brain was processing too many things at once.
The makeup.
The clothes.
Kalim glowing as if he'd been born to be this way.
And the worst part was: He looked beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Vil watched Jamil in the mirror with a raised eyebrow, like someone assessing an interesting reaction.
—"Nothing to say?"— he asked, his tone too innocent to be genuine.
At that moment, Jamil cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.
—"I... I just came to check the schedule."—
Kalim stood up, the fabric of his skirt swaying with him, like water flowing in a river. He twirled slightly, amused by the skirt's gentle movement.
—"Do I really look good? I don't want to embarrass Scarabia,"— he said, genuinely worried. —"Vil says it's part of a theater exercise, but I still don't know if it looks weird on me..."—
Weird?
Jamil almost felt indignant.
Nothing about Kalim could ever look strange. He… he simply was…
Something that made it impossible for Jamil to look away.
But he wasn't going to say that. Never.
—"You look… different,"— he finally managed to say.
Kalim blinked.
—"Different in a good way or in a bad way?"—
—"Different…"— Jamil breathed slowly, controlling the confusing mix of embarrassment and something warmer. —"In a good way. I guess."—
Kalim smiled as if that were the highest compliment in the world.
Vil and Rook exchanged a glance behind them. Vil, in particular, watched everything like someone witnessing the unfolding of an interesting drama, one eyebrow raised.
—"Alright,"— he announced. —"Kalim, five minutes' break. Jamil, try to keep him from running away. Or breaking anything. You know."—
He finally left the dressing room, dragging Rook along, who was chatting about 'the surprising beauty of the unexpected.'
Kalim took the opportunity to get closer to Jamil.
Too close.
Jamil’s breath caught in his throat.
—“It doesn’t bother you, does it?”— Kalim asked in a lower, more intimate voice. —“I didn’t think you’d be surprised by this.”—
His tone was soft, almost shy. And that… that made something in Jamil’s chest tighten.
Bothered wasn’t the word. Unnerved. Confused.
Maked his heart leap absurdly.
—“I’m fine. I just… I didn’t expect to see you like this.”—
—“Like this how?"— Kalim tilted his head, curious.
Jamil didn't know how to answer without giving himself away. So he simply looked away.
—"...Nothing. Just... let's wait for Vil to come back,"— he murmured.
Kalim watched him for a moment longer, as if searching for an answer Jamil wasn't ready to give.
Then he smiled again, gently.
—"Okay. But if it bothers you or makes you uncomfortable, tell me. I don't want to make you feel awkward."—
It was that genuine concern, that tenderness that always came so naturally from him...
For the first time in years, Jamil didn't know how to control his emotions. Kalim was throwing him off balance.
And as Kalim walked away, Jamil finally allowed the truth he'd kept hidden for years to cross his mind, even if only for a moment.
Why does it affect me so much... to see him like this?
He already knew the answer.
And it terrified him.
[...]
The festival began to take shape that very afternoon. The courtyard of the Pomefiore dormitory was filled with temporary stages, lights, floral decorations, and elegant banners written in the dormitory's perfect calligraphy.
Jamil coordinated Scarabia's timings while trying—unsuccessfully—to erase the image of Kalim in that dress from his mind. He could still see it even when he closed his eyes.
The mirror's light reflected on his skin, the skirt moving like water in a gentle breeze, the bright smile.
And the problem was that every time he tried to concentrate, Kalim appeared.
With his laughter. His stumbles.
His “Jamil, look!”
His “Are you okay? You look a little red.”
Yes. He was red.
The whole time.
[...]
Meanwhile, Leona and Vil were on another of the stages. Vil had dragged Leona to this demonstration, and now the dark-haired boy was also part of the show.
—“Your posture is slumped,”— Vil told him, pressing on his shoulder to correct it.
—“Because I’m bored,”— Leona replied, not entirely cooperating.
—“Don’t be dramatic, just stand up straight.”— Vil rolled his eyes.
—“You do it.”—
And Vil did, his firm hand on her back, correcting his posture with an almost superhuman patience that made Leona look away with a soft grunt as he reluctantly obeyed.
[...]
During the costume rehearsal, Kalim was supposed to walk from the back of the stage, turn, pick up a flower from the set, and say a simple line.
Then, he would leave the stage and not return until later.
Simple and easy.
In theory.
But Kalim, being Kalim, managed to snag his skirt on a loose spike on the stage (Vil would later find out which of the students had put that spike in incorrectly).
The flower fell before he could pick it up. He tripped over his heels and finally fell to the floor.
—"Kalim!"— Jamil quickly stopped what he was doing and went up on stage to unhook the fabric and help Kalim. —"Are you okay?"—
Kalim let out a small groan as he rubbed his head. —"Yes, yes. It was just a little accident,"— Kalim replied as he tried to lift the skirt without stepping on it at the same time. —"Oh, wait, I think it's caught again..."—
The dress was in danger. Kalim, in a way, was too.
And with him, Jamil's patience (and his racing heart).
—"Don't move"— Jamil ordered.
Kalim obeyed, but he did so looking up at him, with a sweet expression that did nothing to help Jamil's emotional stability.
Jamil bent down to check the fabric. One end was caught. And if they weren't careful, the dress could rip.
Vil would have a heart attack if that happened.
So he got to work, figuring out how to free the dress without tearing it and without dislodging the misplaced spike.
As he did, he could feel the closeness; he could see the details of the sleeves, the sheen of the fabric, hear Kalim's soft breathing against him.
—"Everything alright?"— Kalim asked quietly, as if sharing a secret.
Jamil almost choked on his breath.
—"Just... stop talking, or I'm going to end up ripping the dress off to get you out of here."—
Kalim chuckled softly.
The sound loosened Jamil's chest in a dangerously unsettling way.
[...]
Finally, he managed to free the fabric.
—"There,"— he said, standing up quickly and helping the other to his feet. —"Be more careful. You can't keep getting caught on everything."—
—“I’ll try,”— Kalim replied, regaining his composure. —“Although I think this dress wants to fight me.”_
—“A dress can’t want anything, Kalim,”— Jamil replied.
—“Well, but it seems this one does.”—
And he smiled again.
Jamil looked away to hide his involuntary smile.
[...]
Scarabia’s presentation had ended a few minutes ago. Several more presentations from the other dormitories were following. Jamil had gone backstage for a few minutes to get some air. The noise of the festival was overwhelming, but what really had him reeling was Kalim.
—“Can I sit down?”— a familiar voice asked.
It was him.
Still wearing the dress, wearing the sandals decorated with white ribbons that Vil had lent it to him.
'just for today.'
Jamil nodded, though he’d rather not test his self-control.
Kalim sat down next to him, letting his skirt flow down as he stretched his legs.
—“Thanks for helping me out today,”— Kalim said, swinging his feet gently. —“I know I’ve been clumsier than usual today.”—
—“You’re always clumsy,”— Jamil remarked gently.
—“Hey!”— Kalim laughed. —“Well, yeah. But more so today.”—
Jamil sighed. —“Just… be careful. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”—
—“Would you be worried if I hurt myself?”— Kalim asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity.
Jamil looked him directly in the eyes for the first time during the entire festival.
—“Of course,”— he replied, his tone more sincere than he intended. —"You're my…"— he paused
—"Responsibility."—
Kalim watched him, his soft, bright eyes scanning Jamil's face
—"I'm your friend too, aren't I?"— he said, without malice, without ulterior motives. Just with honesty. —"Maybe something more."—
Jamil felt the world stop for a moment.
Because he knew Kalim wasn't saying it to tease or play. He meant it.
—"D-Don't say things like that so… suddenly,"— Jamil whispered. _"I don't understand what you mean."—
—"I don't quite understand either,"— Kalim admitted, looking away as well, playing with one of the folds of his dress. —"But when I do, I'll tell you."—
And he smiled, not the typical smile he showed the world.
It was a small, warm, intimate smile.
The cage that guarded Jamil's heart trembled again.
[...]
When Kalim got up to return to the festival, Jamil watched him walk away.
The light of the setting sun fell upon him, making his dress glow in warm tones. For a second, just one, Jamil felt the urge to run after him, take his hand and—
No. He couldn't.
But he also couldn't deny the obvious any longer; Kalim was beginning to affect things inside him that he had kept locked away for years. A key he had made sure to hide deep in his mind.
And with each passing minute, the key seemed to be forgotten.
[Extra Scene]
Vil & Leona
The backstage area was almost empty when Vil finished packing up the last of the props. Turning around, he found Leona, his back against one of the stage pillars, arms crossed, watching him leisurely. His tail swished slowly behind him.
—"If you're done, stop spinning,"— Leona murmured. —"Or you'll wear a hole in the floor."—
Vil sighed, but a smile escaped him at the joke.
—"You could help me, you know?"—
—"I already did,"— Leona replied, yawning. —"Three boxes. Personal record."—
Vil shook his head, moving closer.
—"You're impossible."—
—"And you exaggerate," Leona retorted. —"But…"— he paused, uncharacteristically, his eyes shifting from Vil. —"The festival went... well."—
Vil blinked, surprised by the sincere praise. His expression softened as he watched the lion awkwardly look away.
—"Thanks,"— he replied, more gently than he expected.
Leona sat up slightly, his back no longer touching the pillar.
—"I won't repeat it, so enjoy it."—
Vil chuckled briefly. Their eyes met. Neither looked away. The silence between them made the air so thick it almost vibrated.
—“if you won't do anything,”— Vil finally said, regaining his perfect posture and expression, —“at least walk me to the exit—.”
Leona smiled, slowly, confidently. And perhaps warmly.
—“I always knew you wanted me to stay close.”—
Vil let out a short huff. It wasn’t a laugh, nor a sigh. But they both knew there was something between the lines that only the two of them could understand.
—“Don’t get the wrong idea,”— he replied, turning his back to Leona. —“I just don’t want you to fall asleep here.”—
He started walking without looking back.
—“Sure”— Leona said, suddenly standing beside him. —“Whatever you say.”—