Work Text:
Glassy lilac eyes stare back at him, though they appear more of a dull grey in the low lighting. An unbecoming redness rings around them, skin flushed and irritated. Black smudges out from his lashes in inky streaks and Vil wonders for a moment too long if it’s blot or mascara.
He can still feel it, the sickening, slimy sensation of blot shadow and ink being smeared across his face, obscuring everything until only the fear, the hatred, the shame, and the fury remained. His memory is largely a void after that, but a raw hollowness has followed him since waking, and he’s not stupid enough to miss the correlation.
He raises a hand to the disheveled makeup and swipes a finger underneath one eye. The color moves further under his touch, cracking black lines across pale—too pale, pallid, ashy—skin. It’s a perfectly wretched compliment to the patchy amethyst stain that’s clinging to his lips. Even his foundation is barely hanging on, rubbed away to reveal the uneven tones beneath.
The sight makes his stomach turn. It’s unseemly, and wholly ill-suited to Vil Schoenheit, housewarden of Pomefiore and one of the most in-demand models currently working. That’s the thing though. As much as it makes him sick, it feels right right now.
One’s appearance is a reflection of who they are, whether it’s a fair judgement or not, and Vil does everything in his power to make sure he’s perfect, making certain that his looks are perfect in turn. But now— now he can’t help but feel that the face looking at him in the mirror is the real Vil. He’s ugly and pitiful and weak, and a spot-on reflection of what lies behind the ruined makeup and watery eyes.
A knock at his door rings out through the silent stillness of his room, but Vil can’t pull his eyes away from the image before him. It feeds the deepest part of him, barbed with thorns, that has always known that he’ll never be enough. Every moment tracing over that hideous appearance makes him feel more and more like pieces of him—the pretty parts, the ones he’s so carefully put into place—are being carved away, leaving him flayed and bleeding, skinned like an animal with no glossy pelt to hide behind.
Another face appears beside his, striking emerald and golden blonde, with a graceful curve playing over fine lips.
“Don’t let yourself in if I don’t answer first,” Vil manages, the words feeling sluggish on his tongue. His attention stutters and sticks, torn between lingering where it’d been caught thus far and shifting to Rook. It leaves his mind almost spacey, oddly divided and swimming in the distance between. Squeezing his eyes shut quells the sensation for the time being, allowing him to lift heavy lids and settle his gaze on Rook’s eyes, where they’re trained on Vil. They’re always trained on—
Always?
They’re usually…
They’re looking at Vil for now.
“Pardon, Roi du Poison,” Rook starts, tone as adoring as always, with a slight apologetic lilt to the words. “I wanted to see how you were faring, and I couldn’t forgive myself if something had happened to you, but I turned a blind eye because you hadn’t responded to my greeting.” It takes but a fraction of a second for Rook’s keen eyes to take stock of Vil’s disheveled—putting it lightly—state. His smile doesn’t budge, but Vil just notices something pinch around his eyes.
Ah.
He must be rather off-put by the tarnish currently marring Vil’s usual polish. Ever the chaser of aesthetics he is. At least he has enough decorum not to say it to Vil’s face. They’re both fully aware of how unacceptable he looks at the moment without the sentiment being voiced aloud.
“I’ve been given the all clear to return to the dorm as long as I rest and come in for follow-up visits,” Vil states, parroting what he’d been told at the infirmary. “So, your concern is unnecessary.”
Rook gives a shake of his head, silky bangs brushing over his brows with the movement. “That is all well and good, my fair Vil, and I am overjoyed to hear that you are not in any danger of physical harm, but I wished to inquire about your emotional well-being just as much.”
“I’m fine.” The words float off his tongue, immediate and assured, with no input from him at all. There’s no other answer to that line of questioning. Not to Vil. It’s fine or good or great or perfect. It wouldn’t do to be anything less.
He may have slipped earlier, let his emotions run too freely, and let some quite unbecoming things fall past his lips—thank the Seven it was just in front of the NRC Tribe, who know well enough not to ever speak of his outburst—but now that he’s had time for the furious, frothing boil calm to a quiet, bitter simmer, he won’t make the same mistake again.
Rook’s attention darts from Vil’s features in the mirror to Vil himself, and he pivots in order to accommodate the change. Vil doesn’t follow though, gaze dragging back to his own face. He doesn’t want to see Rook’s expression shift when he inevitably finds whatever he’s looking for, whatever he decided he couldn’t find in the reflection, only in the flesh.
It’s only a few breaths later, each one scraping down Vil’s throat and clouding like noxious smoke in his lungs, that Rook speaks up. “If you aren’t in any distress, then would you be willing to indulge me for a few minutes?” The question is light and airy, but there’s something insistent tucked into the cadence, giving Vil pause.
He wants to send Rook back to his own room, succumb to the clawing siren song of self-pity for the night, then piece himself back together before class starts in the morning and anyone could bear witness to the absolute state he’s in. But Rook’s touching him now, deft fingers skimming over Vil’s temple and tucking an errant strand of his now-sloppy braid back into place.
“Make it quick,” Vil settles, not bothering to inquire further toward what Rook’s indulgence entails. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t have the energy to care, well and truly drained after the day, more so than he’s ever been. Besides, Rook always follows the whims of his heart, wherever they lead, and Vil has long since stopped trying to predict them.
“I will try not to overstay my welcome, but I don’t believe this is something that can be rushed,” Rook says, turning away, finally providing Vil with a reprieve from his intense, all-seeing gaze. He pointedly pulls open Vil’s drawer—third one down on the left side of his vanity—and retrieves a cloth and Vil’s homemade makeup remover.
Vil presses his lips together, something acrid coming to sit on his tongue. So, is that it? Rook couldn’t bear to see his picture-perfect Vil looking like such an affront to the very concept of beauty? Vil can’t blame him, nor can he muster any surprise at the thought. Rook has always been quite clear in his reasoning for supporting Vil. Honestly, it’s more of a surprise that Rook is even here at all, not pouring over Royal Sword Academy’s performance, or simply avoiding Vil altogether after such an unsightly display at the VDC.
He doesn’t voice any of that though, just watches as Rook removes his gloves and wets the cloth with makeup remover, hands moving with a practiced ease. He circles behind Vil, toes coming to stop right at Vil’s heels. He doesn’t ask for permission or speak up at all, just simply reaches up and begins to smooth the dampened fabric over wrecked makeup and flushed skin, carefully watching his progress in the mirror, over Vil’s shoulder. His free hand comes to rest between Vil’s shoulder blades, and the gentle pressure there makes Vil shiver.
It shouldn’t.
It normally wouldn’t, but the raw, overly sensitive sensation lingering from overblot and exhaustion, paired with Rook’s utter disregard for personal space is leaving Vil more affected than usual.
He blows out a shuddery breath through parted lips, watching as Rook painstakingly removes all the evidence of the day’s miserable events, clearing away flaking lip stain and mascara tear tracks alike. With each pass of the cloth, something in Vil’s chest swells, consuming and sticky and noxious. It should make him feel better, to rid himself of such horrendous looking makeup, yet it also means there’s nothing to hide behind. Nothing to blame.
Bloodshot eyes. Clumped lashes. Blotchy complexion. Dark circles. Scrapes and bruises.
Vil Schoenheit—
“There’s my beautiful Vil,” Rook says, bubbly and bright, with that familiar smile stretched across his lips, the one where his eyes squint and soften around the edges, and unfiltered fondness sits so thick in the expression that Vil falters under its weight.
Beautiful? Like this?
What an unappealing joke.
“Not now, Rook,” Vil snaps, uncaring if the comment was spoken with genuine intent or not. It digs right between his ribs either way, a sharp point burying into tissue and organ, making it difficult to breathe.
The smile melts off of Rook’s features in one smooth motion, confusion sweeping in to take its place. His hand stills too, resting just beneath Vil’s eye, where he’d been gently rubbing at some particularly stubborn eyeliner stains.
“My apologies,” Rook offers, expression bending once more into another smile. This one has a different shape and form though, weaker around the edges, eyes rounder, and brows pulled together just slightly. There’s no other way to describe it than distinctly sad. He carries on though, wiping away Vil’s mask one swipe at a time until nothing’s left. No longer Vil Schoenheit, the actor, the model, the superstar. Just himself.
Vil holds his breath to keep it from trembling.
Finished with his work, Rook neatly returns the makeup remover to its designated place, and drapes the color streaked cloth over the vanity. He positions himself between Vil and the mirror this time, obscuring Vil’s reflection from view. It should ease the insecurity gnawing at his bones and soften the wash of disgust that floods over him upon catching each visible imperfection.
It should.
He should be able to take comfort in the familiar contours of Rook’s cheekbones, instead of the hollow of his own cheeks. He should be able to put his own appearance out of mind, and settle into the companionship of a friend after an exhausting day. He should be able to put trust in Rook’s compliments, knowing his propensity for honesty, and turn away from the mirror, his own perspective likely warped by now.
Instead, panic thrills in his chest, lungs seizing as breath stalls out in his throat. Whatever that toxic, poisonous thing inside of him is, rather than just growing, it starts to consume. It eats into the little composure he had left, and his frayed nerves, just beginning to knit back together after the VDC, once again snap.
Rook sees it. He must, eyes catching the tremble running through his frame, the erratic hitch to his breathing, and the forced neutrality of his expression beginning to crack, because he moves immediately. His hands dart up to cradle Vil’s face, the pads of his fingers cool against Vil’s flushing skin. With the skilled grip of an archer, he holds Vil with a deliberate pressure, soft enough for gentle comfort, yet firm enough that he may as well be attempting to keep Vil in one piece, as if his grip were enough to keep Vil from cracking apart.
“Oh, Vil,” Rook says, achingly sweet, stroking a thumb over Vil’s cheekbone. It’s a foreign sensation, both to have Rook’s touch there at all, but also to feel his skin against Vil’s own, not separated by thin leather gloves. It’s a steadying motion, or at least it’s likely supposed to be, sweeping once, twice, three times. The fourth time, his finger glides easier, passing through a tear that slipped off Vil’s lashes.
It’s not dramatic. Vil won’t allow himself the release of breaking down and sobbing until his voice grows hoarse and his throat aches something terrible. He simply stands there and trembles in Rook’s hold, eyes too warm and overfull, with tears streaming down his face until they catch on Rook’s fingers and pool against his palms.
Why?
Why can’t he ever be good enough?
It’s always leafing through villain scripts until he finds the part where his character meets their untimely demise. It’s watching Magicam numbers tick higher and higher, but they always gutter out just below Neige’s. It’s scouring comments for the word beautiful and feeling anything but when he comes up short. It’s putting hours upon hours into his skincare regime, and having Azul make a better product in less than a week.
It’s Rook.
It’s never been Rook before today.
Vil draws in a stuttering breath, half gasp, and words tumble out of his mouth, unprompted. “Do you think I’m beautiful?” he asks, clumsily through the tears, voice pitched high and pinched in his throat.
He’s setting himself up for failure.
No matter what Rook answers, it won’t make him feel better. If Rook says no, it’ll simply add insult to injury, affirming all of Vil’s deep-rooted doubt in one single syllable. If he says yes, it’ll feel hollow, meaningless, and Vil doesn’t know if he can find it in himself to believe it, not after today. He can’t help asking though, desperation running so fierce through his veins that he can’t bear the sensation.
That puzzled expression is back, a frown tipping over Rook’s lips. “Of course I do. I believe I tell you as much quite often,” he replies, blinking at Vil. His fingers still at that too, ceasing their steady rhythm of stroking beneath Vil’s eyes. It makes Vil’s chest tighten, lungs frosting over with an icy chill.
“Tell me again,” Vil commands, but it comes out watery and weak. It sounds more like a child’s plea than a housewarden’s order, and Vil will hate himself for it in the morning, but he can’t muster the strength to now.
Rook’s frown deepens, and he lets his hands fall away from Vil’s face. One goes down to hang at his side, but he skims the other down Vil’s neck, the damp pads of his fingers brushing over the line of his throat. He follows the fabric of Vil’s tie and skirts around to his waist before allowing his hand to rest at the small of his back. Rook shuffles a step closer to accommodate the position, and Vil has to bite down on a stifled, wet gasp at the new proximity.
“You are one of the most beautiful beings I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes upon,” Rook says without pause, some of the former warmth returning to his face. He always seems to light up when speaking about Vil’s looks, exuding so much charm and fondness that it’s as if he harnessed a small measure of the sun’s glow.
Normally, Vil is content to bask in that radiant illumination, or even regard it as simple fact—as the default—much like one does when the sun shines on any average day. Today it makes his eyes sting.
“One of—” Vil chokes on the words, searing as they climb up his throat.
Rook misinterprets, nodding and humming an affirmative sound. “Yes, there are few who can rival the beauty you possess. You not only carry elegant looks, but also an awe-inspiring demeanor that extends to everything you do. It’s a joy to be able to behold it from such a close position!” He heaps on the praise, but Vil barely hears it.
There are few.
Only a few, sure, but that means there are ones who can rival Vil. And there’s no point in denying who one of those few is.
“Do you think Neige is more beautiful than me?” Vil cuts right to the heart of the matter, too drained for anything resembling tact.
As soon as the words leave his lips, Rook stiffens. It’s a small thing, but Vil feels the way Rook’s fingers go rigid against his spine, and sees Rook’s shoulders rise just slightly.
It feels condemning.
Rook smiles though, letting his hand fall away from Vil before clasping it with his other behind his own back. “You are both so stunning, simply being in your presence feels like an honor,” he replies delicately, words coming feather-light and tender. The tear into Vil all the same, washing gashes out with sickening dread.
“Do you think Neige is more beautiful than me?” Vil repeats, firmer this time. His mouth is twisted into a scowl, his cheeks are wet with cooling tears, and his brows pull together in some miserable blend of devastation and anger. He’s sure he doesn’t wear it well, so far removed from the elegant expressions he paints on for the world.
“I’m right here with you now, my radiant Vil, and even in your upset, your beauty never pales. It is one of the things I admire most about you,” Rook says, tone slipping into a hurried cadence, as if he’s rushing to soothe Vil’s wounds. The words are no balm though. Maybe a disinfectant, what with how they sting, sharp and unforgiving. They clean something away though, dissolving any doubt, any confusion, any delusional hope that Vil was still clinging to.
If Rook won’t give a straight answer, it’s because he doesn’t want to burden Vil with the truth. He refuses to lie, so he speaks around it, dancing around the topic so as not to cause any undue pain.
It hurts all the same.
“Do you think Neige is more beautiful than me?” Vil snaps, urgent and pressing, fresh tears rolling off clumped lashes. His voice breaks over the letters, anguish spilling out from the cracks.
He’s always second place. Always.
Second place. Second best. Second, second, second.
He’d only been able to grit his teeth and bear it for as long as he could because of the boy standing in front of him. He was never second best to Rook, or at least, he’d never noticed it if he was. Sure, Rook might follow that lazy, irresponsible, flippant Leona from time to time, but it was always a temporary pursuit in the name of a hunter’s instinct. Even when he was still sunburnt, dust-covered, and seemingly unwilling to pass a brush through his hair, he’d fallen into orbit around Vil, content to spend his days animatedly chattering about theater and art, all the while doling out Vil’s praises.
Vil had taken that for granted, it seems, or perhaps misread Rook’s enthusiasm for a burgeoning love of beauty as a burgeoning love of him.
How embarrassing. To paint yourself the apple of another’s eye, when they merely admire the concepts you stand for, rather than the individual you are.
Still, it was nice while it lasted, the joy of finally besting Neige in some small way, even if it was just winning the heart of one person. It didn’t feel small, not when Rook grinned at him like he could singlehandedly end a frigid winter and usher in a fragrant, blossoming spring.
He clings to that feeling, even as it slips from between his fingers, liquid and fleeting.
“Today, perhaps,” Rook finally offers, eyes downcast. He pulls his arms in around himself, pulling tight around his ribs. “Understand that it was merely a result of circumstance, Vil.” His voice comes out teetering on the edge of desperation, rougher than its usual sound. “Had you been at your best, I’m sure your brilliance would have shown through as clear as the summer sun.”
It’s supposed to be reassuring, but he sounds as if he’s grasping, reaching for anything that can convince Vil of his allegiances.
“It’s simply that— You see, Neige was the first one to open my eyes to this world, to offer sight and lift my blindness. He is the reason that I am who I am today. I would not be the whetstone to your blade if it were not for him.” As he speaks, Rook’s words begin to shudder, coming out breathy and pinched. He tips his head forward, the brim of his hat lowering to shield his eyes from view.
“But it’s all because he led me to you. If I were not so enamored by Neige, I never would have delved into conversation with you. I never would have transferred to Pomefiore. I never would have found my purpose and my muse. I never would have become Vice Housewarden of such a wonderful dorm. I never would have been there to support you. I—”
Suddenly, Rook’s rambling ceases, and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He may not have the honed eyes of a hunter, but he can still make out the way Rook’s shoulders shake. The watery sound of his breathing is an easy tell too, and as much as Vil is lost amongst his own self-pity, an ache coils up around his heart at the display.
“I am truly sorry to have contributed to your misery, Roi du Poison,” Rook admits, wilting. His desperation evaporates, replaced by a defeated guilt. He pulls his arms tighter around his frame, clutching at the fabric of his uniform jacket. “I saw that you were not well, not yourself, yet I did not intervene until it was already too late. And I turned my bow on you after it all, cutting down prey that had already been wounded.”
His words come out between wobbly, wet gasps, choked up and strained.
Vil watches, cheeks coated with drying tears. It’s a new sight, to take in his sunny vice housewarden and see that light blink out. It’s shadowed by anguish that looks so foreign on Rook’s features, that Vil cannot figure out how to comprehend it, not in his addled, exhausted state.
“All I know how to do is follow my instinct,” Rook says, tipping his head up to meet Vil’s eyes. Freckles peek out in lines down his face, tracking from the corners of bright eyes. “I knew the blood on the arrowhead would glisten so beautifully, like rubies polished to a mirror shine. I should’ve considered the cost more carefully. I— I never wanted to see the light dim from your eyes.”
Somehow, as much as it cuts a terrible ache into his chest, seeing Rook like this is enough to pull Vil out of the depths. Bring him back to the surface to gasp for air, when he’d been drowning for what felt like months. It pulls him out of where he’s been running circles in his own head, chasing misery and blaming the world when he found it. The world hasn’t been kind, but Vil is an unyielding queen with no mercy for even himself. Especially for himself.
Rook’s blade bit right into his skin, but it merely joined the litany of other scrapes and gashes. He won’t let Rook selfishly carry all the blame, spine cracking under the weight.
“Rook—”
“I wouldn’t dare ask for your forgiveness, not after all the suffering I have inflicted, but I hope that you will allow me to stay by your side. It means more to me than you will ever know.”
Vil lets out a long breath, blown out between chapped lips, and delicately wipes the pads of his fingers beneath his eyes. He does his best to put all his pieces back in order, puzzling shards of broken glass into a flat plane.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?” he asks once again, voice raw and hoarse where it sticks in his throat.
Rook looks lost, watery eyes brimming with unshed tears. He nods all the same though, mustering a fragile little smile. “Most beautiful,” he says, quiet in the wake of his outburst.
“Then that’s enough for tonight,” Vil replies, weary to the very marrow of his bones. “We will sort out the rest another day, with clearer heads and quieter emotions.” It takes great reserves of his strength to say such a thing, to not cave to the petulant, envious, wounded part of himself that still wails behind his ribs. No good will come of both Rook and himself tearing themselves—or each other—apart though, especially not when blot and blood and tears still stain their skin.
So, he allows the hurt to settle for now, lets it hum quiet through his veins. He’ll sit with it, as he’s always done, and crack his heart open for closer inspection at a later date.
Now, he can twine his fingers with Rook’s and simply exist for a little while. It feels like ages since he’s allowed himself that much. It won’t be for long, and he knows the morning will bring fresh chaos, but he’ll live in this little moment as long as it lasts.