Chapter Text
Vil Schoneheit stared at the chessboard—
The pieces were immaculate—polished, aligned, perfectly weighted. The board itself was Pomefiore-issued, custom lacquered, the squares a tasteful gradient instead of vulgar black-and-white. Everything about it was beautiful.
Everything except the outcome.
His king was cornered. His bishop was trapped. All of his pawns had been eaten, and his queen? His queen had fallen ten moves ago.
Vil frowned.
Leona Kingscholar was draped across the sofa, smirking, as his tail flicked lazily against the velvet cushions. “That’s, what, five wins in a row?”
“Four,” Vil corrected begrudgingly. “Four wins. That first game doesn’t count.”
Leona turned his head just enough to look at him. “Oh? And why’s that?”
“The first game was a warm-up,” Vil said crisply, “you were half-asleep.”
“I’m always half-asleep,” Leona replied. “You still lost.”
Vil had to remind himself that the murder he had attempted at the culture fair was very much unbecoming and was very much something he had promised not to do.
His queen lay toppled near the edge of the board. Leona’s rook—ugly, brutish thing—stood victorious at the center, smug even in miniature. Promises could have some exceptions, surely…
“You’re infuriating,” Vil said, eyes still on the board, “truly. Unbearably so. It’s almost impressive how you manage it without trying.”
Leona smirked without looking. “Thanks. You’re glowing today, by the way. Real ‘about to flip the table’ radiance. Really brings out the cheekbones or somethin’.”
Vil rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late. Already did.”
Vil stood, the fabric of his dorm uniform garments swishing as he turned away from the board. “Diversion’s over. I have a photoshoot in an hour.”
Leona hummed, already closing his eyes again. “Thoughts and prayers.”
“Rook,” Vil said, already touching up his makeup, “escort the Housewarden of Savanaclaw out of Pomefiore, if you may do so kindly.”
Rook Hunt, who had been standing far too attentively near the door, straightened immediately. “Oui! I shall ensure the Roi des Lions exits safely through—”
“No,” Leona said immediately.
Vil raised a perfect brow. “And why not?”
Leona sat up, grimacing. “Just no.”
Rook tilted his head, though he did not seem at all perturbed. “Ah, but even your defiance is c’est magnifique! May I inquire as to why—”
“No.”
Vil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rook is a perfectly capable escort. I don’t see the issue.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Leona replied. “I just don’t want to feel like prey.”
Rook brightened. “Ah! Then perhaps like a fellow hunter—”
“No.”
Vil turned away sharply. “Fine. Leave us.”
Rook bowed. “As you wish, my queen. I shall remain… alert.”
He did not leave. He merely stood farther away, watching the walls.
Vil let the silence sit. He was very good at silence. Silence bent to him eventually.
Leona, unfortunately, was also very good at silence—specifically the kind that came with eyes closed and the unmistakable posture of a man about to fall asleep in someone else’s dorm.
“This was a mistake,” Vil said aloud.
“Mm,” Leona replied. “You inviting me or the chess?”
“Both.”
Leona’s mouth twitched. “You invited me back after the second win.”
“Because,” Vil said, “I assumed statistical variance.”
“And the third?”
“Fluke. And because I was gracious.”
“And the fourth?”
Vil turned. “You are pushing your luck.”
Leona opened one eye. “You’re the one who brought out the fancy board.”
Vil gestured at the chess set. “That board is a work of art.”
“And yet,” Leona said, nodding toward it, “it’s seen nothing but your defeat. Another round?”
“No,” Vil said, retrieving his gloves. “I am leaving.”
Leona shrugged. “Have fun.”
Vil stopped.
He turned back, expression carefully neutral. “The shoot is off-campus.”
Leona didn’t turn. “Wow.”
“A countryside estate,” Vil continued, clearly displeased. “Remote. Inconvenient. And before you say anything—no, I will not be taking public transportation with equipment.”
Leona hummed. “Sounds inconvenient.”
“It is.”
“So cancel.”
Vil looked at him like he had suggested waddling around in the muck. “Absolutely not.”
“Then reschedule.”
“No.”
“Walk?”
Vil inhaled sharply. “Do you have any concept of time, effort, or professionalism?”
Leona shrugged. “I’m twenty.”
Vil stared.
“You’re insufferable,” Vil said, again, but this time there was something sharper underneath it. “Which is why,” he continued coolly, “you will drive me.”
Leona laughed. “No.”
Vil blinked. “No?”
“I don’t want to,” Leona said. “I’m tired.”
“You are always tired.”
“Yes,” Leona replied patiently. “And yet I endure.”
Vil stared at him, then smiled. Slowly. Sweetly. Dangerously.
“I will excuse you from Trein’s classes for a week.”
Leona froze. Then he barked a cough.
“Hah. And you can do that?”
“Who do you think reserved that meat pie in the cafeteria last week? The one that even the Headmage couldn’t touch?”
Leona sat up fully now. He squinted.
“How many classes?”
“A week.”
“All of them?”
“Correct.”
“No essays?”
“None. No exams, either.”
Leona considered this carefully, eyes narrowed. “Gas money.”
Vil scoffed. “You’re second in line for the throne. You can’t afford gas?”
Leona’s brows furrowed in thought. Vil could almost hear the mental math.
“Sevens, you can’t hire a driver, or somethin’?” But he was already standing and heading for the limo.
Vil smiled. “Complaints can wait until we reach the venue, Kingscholar. Try not to ruin my hair on the way."