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As rich as it sounds coming from the mouth of Vil Schoenheit, he must admit that there are benefits to being thought of as 'just some guy'.
Though he knows better than anyone that he'll never be just another face in the crowd—and thank the Seven for that—Vil does appreciate the facsimile of normalcy Sage's Island provides. If nothing else, it's nice being able to get his skin some fresh air without needing to don an unflattering disguise or bring someone to play bodyguard.
Not that he wants or needs either. Imagine! Beauty exists to be appreciated. The fact that some people cannot behave themselves should not be his problem, and rarely IS his problem for more than the ten seconds it takes to diffuse any unbecoming situations. Vil Schoenheit does not start fights, but he is the best at finishing them.
Proverbially. Of course.
It is on one such day, when the slice of hell he calls a school has grown so vexing that it threatens to etch wrinkles into his face — absolutely not — that he finds himself walking for the sake of walking. It's a Sunday morning, and Foothill Town's cobblestone streets are quiet, save for distant birdsong and the click-click-click of Vil's footfalls. If he focuses, he can hear the din of machinery and man from the port. It's relaxing. Proof of life beyond his phone, beyond his room, beyond Night Raven. Rook would have something reverent to say about all this—the beauty to be found in the mundane, or something to that effect.
He makes do in his absence. A beautiful day like this ought to be savored, he thinks, as he rounds a corner. And then, because it seems the world cannot allow him even a single moment of unruptured joy, he spots a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye. He zeroes in on him like a falcon.
Sat alone at a near-empty sidewalk cafe with the cap of a fountain pen pressed against his lips is none other than Neige LeBlanche.
Oh, joy. Vil gives his good mood a kiss goodbye.
He doesn't even need to look that long to know it's him. Even if he hadn't memorized that stupid boy's every pore by now, he's the only person Vil knows whose wardrobe is colormatched to an easter basket. Vil could pick him out from a crowd in the dark, from a distance, and this immutable fact makes him want to put his head through a wall.
He shrimps over a stack of papers, dark locks falling over his face and nearly — nearly — obscuring the line focus has creased in his brow. Vil could scream.
And scream he nearly does, when Neige lifts his gaze and locks eyes with him.
Oh, curse him, he brightens up immediately. The fact that someone so consistently bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked can get brighter and rosier at the sight of him should be a crime.
"Vi!" Neige stands, punctuating his cry with the screech of his chair. He waves with the full arc of his arm. Yes, yes, Vil sees you just fine, thank you. "No way, what a coincidence! Do you like to eat here too?"
Vil closes the distance between them in a few long strides. "I may have dropped by once or twice," he says, as if this is just another pleasant conversation to him and not a day-ruining affair.
That's a lie, to be clear. He comes here all the time. It's just out of the way enough that he can hunker down in a booth for an afternoon and work on his assignments without being disturbed. The decor is tasteful, too—soft seating, rotating flower arrangements, and polished glass cases unified by a morning glory palette of baby blue, lavender, and white.
As an added bonus, the manager has finally stopped giving him dirty looks for bringing his own lunch. He still orders a drink or two to nurse as he works, because he's not an animal, but the fact remains that there's nothing on any menu within ten miles that beats what he can make himself. (Azul briefly held the honor of being the exception to that rule in the week she employed Trey Clover at the Mostro Lounge.)
He has posted about this establishment on his Magicam, but only after securing a new place to study. He has a few on rotation—the reason why is obvious, yes?—and was happy to make his return to this one. Was.
He tosses Neige a surveying glance, studying from his hair to his heels. Such a shame such a lovely place has developed a pest problem.
The pest in question claps his hands together, delighted. "Isn't it so pretty? I come here for lunch all the time. If you're free, I'd love to treat you! I've been thinking about you so much since the SDC!"
Vil suspects anyone else in his shoes would have made a face. Acting truly is his calling. "Really, now? Well. I already ate, but I certainly can't pass up on a point of intrigue like that."
Neige scoots around the little iron table and pulls out the chair opposite him. Polite to a fault, this one. Vil honors the deference—and more importantly, his own pride—and takes his seat with a near regal grace.
Now seated, his eyes scan the stack of papers Neige had been fussing over. The formatting jumps out at him immediately. Short lines of dialogue with deliniated speakers, and the occasional bulky paragraph describing a shift in the environment or character placement within.
"Is this a script?" He muses, already knowing the answer. Neige pouring over a script is nothing new. What he's really interested in is why this one is in his handwriting.
"It is! So, it's like this…"
Vil rights his posture and braces himself. Neige is a long-winded storyteller, offering every ounce of context for every little thing just to ensure his listeners never get confused or lost.
It's one of the few things he can't fault him for. He loves the sound of his own voice. He also loves the sound of Rook's voice, and he's just as, if not more verbose.
Scratch that. Assuredly more. He smiles faintly at the thought.
"For my Magic History class, we recently got an assignment where we drew important dates and events from a hat and had to retell those events in some way. The medium was up to us, with the caveat that our retellings needed to be educational, but also reflect our individual personalities and understanding."
Vil lets out a note of laughter. Mozus Trein would sooner skin the lot of them than offer such an open-ended assignment. That much creative freedom, to this group of troublemakers? Not a chance.
"That sounds like a cultural fair exhibit."
"It does, doesn't it?" Neige laughs in turn, clear as a bell. "But I thought it would be fun to write a script. Since acting is so dear to me, and in making my presentation into a performance, I could include everyone. And… Well."
Neige dons a look Vil isn't sure he's ever seen on him outside of the silver screen. His eyes lid, long lashes framing a wistful gaze. Seemingly absentmindedly, he traces the lattices of the iron-wrought table with a manicured nail.
"I loved it. Gosh, Vi, I really loved it." Neige says, soft as his namesake. "The actual writing was tough, and I had no idea what I was doing with the blocking at first. But getting to act out something I made with my friends, seeing it all come together… I'll treasure that memory for as long as I can.
Getting to tell others' stories and help touch people's hearts has always been my favorite part of acting, but I don't think I realized I could do that with my own stories until now. Y'know?"
Neige looks at him expectantly. Vil swallows around the knot forming in his throat.
He does. He does know. That painstaking effort, coming together to form something brilliant, beautiful, his… It's the same intoxicating feeling that gets him out of bed and to his vanity every morning.
Oh, this sulking mood is beneath him! He lifts his head and nods, not allowing himself to break eye contact for even a second.
"I do. To want to create art is only human nature. I am much the same. Though, where your canvas is the page, mine," he traces a line from his cheekbone to the bow of his lips. "Is the body."
Unabated wonder finds its home on Neige's face. "Oh, oh, you're right!" His voice hops in his excitement. "You're so smart, Vi. I hope you know that."
Vil preens. He does know that. He comes back to the conversation just in time to see a contemplative look pass over Neige's face.
"Actually… Maybe you could help me with this? If it's not too much trouble."
Neige has a cute little habit of accidentally traipsing into all of Vil's pet peeves. Exhibit A: Apologizing before he's even asked for what he wants. She dismisses the concern with a flick of her wrist.
"If it is, I'll tell you, but I need to know what you want first. Come now, speak plainly."
Neige nods. "I'm not very good at coming up with my own characters." He says, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. "Stepping into another person's worldview when I'm acting is one thing, because I can talk about the character with the person who made them and we can develop our interpretation together. But when I'm doing it myself, it feels a bit like I'm writing me with a different costume. Especially with the hero."
Vil hums. If Neige were an NRC student, admitting a weakness like that, no matter how trite, would take exponentially more time, words, and property damage. RSA may bring them up hopelessly dumb, but at least they're efficient.
"So you think your lens is too narrow? I can see that. You have played the hero type for much of your life, it's no surprise you have a single view of what that role can look like." Vil probes, clicking a painted nail against the table. He does an admirable job of keeping the bitterness from his voice. "I imagine you didn't have this problem in your history assignment."
"Not at all! But that was an adaptation of real events. There was fiction to it, but the people were real. Isn't it different when you write…" Neige's eyes flash. Recognition. "…From life…?"
A slight smile cuts across Vil's face. He got there on his own. Must he beat him to everything? "I see you've found your answer."
The table creaks as Neige stands, leaning his weight onto it with his palms. His eyes glitter in the morning light like little inky pearls. "Write from life! That's it! Oh, you're the best, Vi, I knew asking you for help was a good idea!"
"Think nothing of it. Artists of all skill levels pull ideas from those they admire. Just be mindful not to transcribe your inspirations one to one into your prose. The last thing you want is an unflattering representation—or worse, a caricature." Vil can't help a grimace. She smothers its impact by glancing to the side. "You and I both know how it feels to be misread by the very audience we wish to please."
Vil moreso, of course. Even his greatest points of pride become foul when used to fuel his typecast.
Neige looks at her. Really looks at her, for a long while. His mouth forms a soft 'o' as the gears turn in his mind.
"Got it." He says, letting the warmth of his tone return to him first, and his smile second. "Thank you, Vi. You're exactly right."
Neige brightens up. With a shake of his head, the strange mood that had overtaken them both dissolves in an instant. The pressure in Vil's chest recedes with it. Conversations with Neige always put her on edge, but the shame that comes after is always, always worse. If only he weren't so perfectly decent. He has no right to instill these ugly feelings into her without even knowing.
Still, he'd made an observation worth acknowledging. Exactly right—always right. He gets a half-smile for his effort.
"Of course I am."
Neige eventually let Vil go with a macro-compliant smoothie ("I said I'd treat you, after all!") and a slew of well-wishes. In turn, she'd left him with a reward of his own. When he'd asked if she wanted to see the script when it was finished, despite her better judgment, she'd said yes. She doesn't even need a minute to start regretting it. It doesn't matter how invested she gets in the betterment of her peers, the LAST thing she needs is to give this little terror more reasons to talk to her.
Of all the poor decisions she's made in her nineteen years of life, this would be a solid contender for her biggest one yet if its strongest competition weren't literally attempted murder. Not that she needs any more life-altering regrets weighing her down, but she hopes that if there ARE any more, they stop involving Neige LeBlanche.
Defying all logic, she feels the sticky sweetness of that whole ordeal on her teeth. Trey would be proud—she brushes them immediately upon returning to her dorm. Augh.
She gets a few weeks' peace before the gun on the mantle finally fires.
It's an uncommentworthy Tuesday at dusk. Vil, having just returned from the shower after his evening run, allows himself a few minutes to sit, luxuriate, and check his socials.
He's not surprised to see the wave of DM notifications that fly across his screen when he opens Magicam—that's normal—but the glimpse of a familiar primary-colored icon does surprise him.
It's not THAT uncommon for Neige to message him, but it's usually prompted. They have polite conversation over their achievements pretty regularly, exchanging congratulations like Azul does business cards.
It's only once he sees the attached pdf that he remembers that not only was this exchange prompted, he's the one that prompted it. Hell. He scans the message closely.
"Hi Vi! 💫 I hope you've been well! I finally finished the script I was working on! I hope you enjoy it!! ❤️💛💙 If you have any notes, I'd love to hear them, since I'm still improving! ☺️"
She scans over that last sentence once more to see if she read it right.
Neige wants constructive criticism.
From her.
Neige is asking her to criticize him.
She's changed her mind. This matter is suddenly very interesting and and a welcome addition to her evening.
Now, he's not heartless. He has an image to maintain and principles to uphold. If the always-effortless Neige wants to put in some hard work for his craft, Vil is MORE than happy to offer her input. It would be remiss of her—unbecoming, even—to turn her back on someone with an earnest desire to improve.
Very well. She'll go into this as she always has — armed with a keen eye and the pointed honesty that she's best known for. She approaches objectivity in her critiques to the extent that any human can, as a hyperbola approaches its asymptote.
With a wry smile and renewed resolve, she opens the file and begins to read.
The script is reasonably long—not a bad showing for a first (second?) attempt. It follows Kallisto, a steely knight with a whip-sharp tongue who finds themselves protecting the doe-eyed priestess Holle on her pilgrimage. The two have a push-and-pull relationship, made more complicated by the revelation that Kallisto's task was given to them as punishment for a crime they did not commit.
The prose is, to be blunt, amateurish. (Which he feels is fair to say, considering it was written by an amateur.) The dialogue is painfully direct, forcing the characters to tell the audience their feelings rather than showing them. Vil also notices a few persistent grammatical errors even within the first few pages. Will someone please tell this boy that 'breath' is a noun and 'breathe' is a verb?
With a sigh, he grabs a notepad from his dresser and begins to keep notes. Not for the first time and not for the last, that 'someone' will be him.
Vil will be the first to admit that he wasn't expecting a period drama from Neige of all people. But then again, Neige has always been one to sigh and swoon over princes and knights and the like. He's sure he positively flipped when he booked the lead in Legendary Sword: Twin Flames. It isn't out yet, so he can't be sure if it was an inspiration, but he has a feeling. It would certainly explain the melodrama, which is just as unexpected as the genre itself.
And this protagonist! If there's anything Vil will say genuinely compelled him within these pages, it was them. The barbs of betrayal have clearly sunk themselves deep into their very being, leaving them to conceal their pain beneath an untouchable, otherworldly air. Still, despite the walls they keep up, the distant image they must maintain to protect themself, they still cannot find it in themselves to sit on their hands when faced with someone in need. They're less than upstanding, but at the same time, true to what they believe in, even if that leads him down paths darker than they would have ever tread as a proper knight.
Now, Vil knows that because Kallisto turned to the audience and said it with their mouth, but… Neige has something with this one. There's potential. With each page turned, Vil finds himself more and more entranced with this character.
HOLLE
I do hate to trouble you, Ser. I can't ask for your aid.
KALLISTO
Do not decide what is and is not trouble for me, for me. Speak plainly, and I will decide if I can be of help.
Vil is halfway through writing a note on the repetition of 'for me' when the familiarity of that exchange strikes him. Perhaps he'd read it in a book, or seen it in one of Epel's movies. He summarily dismisses the thought and returns to reading.
HOLLE
Why do you wear that armor and that veil, Ser? They're tattered!
KALLISTO
These are not mere clothes. They are my canvas. Is there not beauty in this? Through these, I tell the story of my life, of my survival.
HOLLE
…And the end of those who could not see the final stage with you.
KALLISTO seems troubled. But they nod.
KALLISTO
That too.
Hold on.
He folds a hand over his mouth. No.
No no no no no.
HOLLE lifts KALLISTO's veil. His face is deeply scarred. He turns from her. She gently places her hand on his cheek.
HOLLE
…You are beautiful beyond words, Ser.
KALLISTO
You're ridiculous. To think, you would find me beautiful, even in defeat…
HOLLE
To me, you have always been the most beautiful of all.
Vil feels heat coming to his cheeks, leaving them — assuredly — ruddy and splotchy and utterly unsightly. Were this any other script from another other person inspired by any other conversation, he would dismiss the resemblance without a passing thought. There are plenty of people in this world who struggle with their image, to the point of having an inward and outward persona. Even just amongst his schoolmates, he can think of… What, six? And that's just off the top of his head!
But all that comes crumpling down when he remembers the advice he gave — the contemplative look on Neige's face —
And the fact that he is EXACTLY the kind of person to weave a respected peer into his creative writing exercises!
Vil does NOT throw his phone across the room, because he is not a child and tantrums such as that are for children, but he deeply considers it.
How is he to be objective about this?!
Vil smooths his hands through his still-wet hair and begins reciting to do away with some of these ugly, ugly feelings. He begins to rationalize.
So, he isn't insulted, which is good, because he has no reason to be. Neige followed his directions to the letter, drawing from life to create a character that is neither reductive nor idealized. They're complicated. Arrogant, but reasonable. Powerful, but fragile. Despite their confident air, and how right they are to don it, they drink in Holle's reassurance like sweet ambrosia.
And they live to the end. When Holle finishes her voyage, they part, but remain close for the rest of their lives, having formed an irreplaceable bond. A bog-standard, childish happy ending with nothing to draw Vil's attention.
Except for the insignificant little detail that it was about him. Not just about him, recognizable as him, to himself. It's almost cruel in how earnest it is. In a single conversation, Neige saw to his ugly, shameful core—and decided that his was the face of a hero, without a moment's hesitation.
And Vil doesn't disagree. He has never disagreed. It's just different, from the mouth of the biggest obstacle to getting the world to share that view. And acknowledging that only helps so much with the persistent, buzzing swarm in his chest.
He is seriously going to skin that boy alive.