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Vil Schoenheit does not get nervous.
Sure, there is the occasional apprehension, the brief free-falling sensation when he does a mental list before a big show or scene and believes he has forgotten a crucial element necessary to achieve perfection, but the majority of the time it is simply that— a sudden, inconsequential moment that does not really bring forth negative consequences.
Except today he is not about to perform. This is not a stage or a production studio.
This is merely school, and he is seated outdoors in a quaint courtyard with a brick well.
He is not about to perform. There are no lines that must be thoroughly rehearsed.
Then why is he nervous?
He is simply waiting for…
“Vil?”
Rook is before him as if having materialized from thin air. His smile pristine yet his green eyes sharp.
‘Can he tell?’ Vil wonders, ‘Can he sense the wavering in my heart? Does he know I am nervous?’
‘Can he perceive this stage, right here, makes me dizzy with the possibilities of failure?’
“Allow me.” His huntsman speaks softly as he produces a handkerchief from his school uniform’s pocket, and ever so gently, as if Vil will run away with sudden movements (as if I am nervous, his mind huffs) he presses it against Vil’s brow.
“Forgive me for my tardiness.” Rook continues, making no comment to the fact that he is cleaning sweat from Vil’s brow on a perfectly pleasant day that should not, by any means, incur sweat from the model. He is not pressing, he will not inquire, his huntsman is allowing his queen to choose what to address or not.
Vil swallows, “Took a detour, then?”
Rook chuckles, “Ah, guilty. You know our school is truly magnifique, you never know what you will find as you choose a different route.”
Frowning, Vil slowly moves his face away, indicating he no longer needs Rook’s assistance in erasing signs of perspiration. “More like who, for you. Am I to expect yet another angry and poorly written text from Leona about you—what’s the word here— admiring him up close, yet again?”
Rook’s smile is dazzling, with the weak sun rays filtering through the green grove of trees trapping them inside this little paradise.
Just the two of them.
It’s just Rook, his mind supplies, You trust Rook.
Vil shakes his head, knowing better than to press for an answer, “Nevermind, I know you are probably wondering why I asked you to meet me here.” His hand gestures to the empty space beside him, and Rook wastes no time in joining him on the bench.
Somewhere behind them, a bird chirps, Rook tilts his head to the side, a fond look in his eyes, “I did wonder, oui. But I am delighted by your choice of location for this mysterious rendezvous, it does bring back memories.”
Vil does not answer, just takes a few minutes to look around— not much has changed in this little courtyard. Perhaps some trees have lost branches, others have been pruned for aesthetic purposes, but other than that it feels familiar. It feels safe.
This is where he first met Rook.
This is where he first learned to trust him.
This is where he might lose him forever.
I am not nervous, his mind shrills.
“It feels the same, does it not? As if nothing has changed. Suspended in time.” Vil does not look at Rook when he speaks, his violet gaze tracking the path of a red and black ladybug making its way across flower petals.
“Mm, depends what you pay attention to, Roi du Poison,” Rook sweeps his hand to try and capture the expanse of the courtyard, Vil now tracking him. “For if you know what to look for then you will know everything has changed in this beautiful ecosystem. Things have grown, things have shrunk, things have died, new things have sprouted. A complete change.”
Vil quirks his mouth, “Ah, I stand corrected then. Not suspended in time. Not trapped in a mirage of perfection. Ever changing. Like us.”
“Like us?” Rook’s attention goes back to him.
“Of course, we have changed so much since we first spoke here, no?” Vil reclines against the bench, an image of relaxation, sans for the way his heart clamors against his uniform.
“Ah, totalment, fair Vil. For that is the most beautiful aspect of humans— their, our, ability to change. To surprise.”
“And have I surprised you enough?”
“Pardon?”
Vil brings a steady hand (not shaking, thank Sevens) to his mouth and chuckles, “Nevermind me. It’s this courtyard, too many memories here.”
“Mmm” Rook supplies, though his stare is ever focused on him, “You are the most precious surprise of all, Vil. To stand by your side and watch you evolve every day into a new version of beauty is a privilege I never take for granted. I hope you know that.”
“Please,” Vil laughs, though there is barely any mirth in it, “I did not call you here so you could spew poetry about me. I am not that shallow.”
“You must know I’d be delighted to provide sonnet after sonnet inspired by you.” Rook keeps trying to meet his stare, Vil is not a fool, he knows his huntsman is trying to read every single emotion transpiring across his features. Trying to decipher every twitch, every pause, to find clues his body might be giving away.
“I know you are not shallow, you know I know that. But I must agree with you that I know you have called me here for something else.” He brings his gloved hands on top of his knees, attention fully focused on Vil, “May I ask you to enlighten this mystery for me?”
Vil takes a breath.
“As you know, the tournament against Royal Sword Academy is next week.” He is also fully facing Rook now, and can tell by the slight twitch in his eyebrow that this is not the topic he was expecting to be discussing at all. “I appreciate your help in reviewing the paperwork the headmage requested of us. Everything has been submitted in a timely manner. Though we should probably hold a meeting with everyone from Pomefiore who is attending. You know I expect nothing but everyone’s best behaviour.”
Vil knows he is going over topics that have previously been taken care of, and he hates that Rook’s slightly narrowed eyes are indicators that he knows this as well. How undignified, to ramble in order to keep himself from getting to the terrifying point.
“However,” Vil swallows, his throat feels coated with sand. He is not nervous. He should’ve hydrated better.
“However, me expecting everyone to be on their best behavior does not mean I want others to monitor their behaviour around me.”
“Oh? Meaning?” Any other day Vil would be delighted to know that he has Rook Hunt on the edge of his seat. That the man who predicts every step, every action, is suddenly unsure of what line will be spoken next.
“I—you. We know that Neige will be there.” Say it. Don’t hesitate. The delivery must be swift and true. Like a bandaid being torn from a scabbing wound. “I don’t want you to feel that you can’t be yourself around him.”
The courtyard is suddenly alive with sounds.
Vil is attuned to the birds, to the rustling of leaves, the drip, drip, drip of stagnate water coming from the well, the pounding inside his ears.
Everything around him is bursting with life, everything is noise.
Except for his huntsman, who is silent.
Very well, silence is good. Silence means there is no opposition. Silence means Vil must press on lest he risks losing his valiant drive.
“I’d hate to be the reason why you restrain yourself. I know this is probably a wonderful opportunity for you to connect with him. You barely spoke, after all, at the SDC. It was too rushed, not to mention catastrophic thanks to me, but this time it will be different. There will be plenty of opportunities for you two to talk—”
“Why?”
Vil falters, “Why?”
Rook wets the bottom of his lip with his tongue, as if searching for the right words, “Why do I need your permission?”
Ah.
Of course.
Foolish, foolish, Vil.
None of this was necessary. A disastrous performance.
‘I am not nervous.’
Rook continues, “I still attend his fan meetings. I still write to him. You…surely, you know this, non?”
Vil hates the gentleness in Rook’s voice. He feels his hands clenching on top of his knees, nails digging into fabric.
“Of course I know! I sign your permission slips to leave the school on the weekends,” A laugh. Too tight. “I mean you two can be friends.”
“Friends?”
“Yes, friends! Surely you do not want to remain a distant fan forever?”
“Vil—”
“Like what happened with me. Us. Right?”
“With us?”
“Sevens, Rook, why are you making this more difficult?!”
A bird takes flight, surely disturbed by Vil’s heightened voice.
“Pardon me, Roi du Poison, I just want to make sure I understand you.”
‘You can’t, you can’t, you can’t. I want too much. I want it all.’
“You are suggesting that I want to be as close to the Roi des Neiges as I am to you?”
One breath, a brief closure of his eyes.
Vil Schoenheit does not get nervous.
“I mean, of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
Rook’s jaw hardens. It’s the same kind of tension he’s seen in him seconds after he erroneously fires one of his arrows, already knowing he has acted rashly and risks his prey escaping.
“As if I am some shallow collector of celebrities? Got one in my pocket so I must move on to the next?”
It’s as if Vil has been slapped. His body involuntarily shifts slightly away from Rook. His Rook. This Rook that has never used such a serious tone with him before.
“No, Rook, that’s not—” A raised hand stops him.
“And the implication that you are granting your permission, giving your blessing, as if I have been walking on shattered glass around you, restraining myself—”
Spoken outloud like that it sounds terrible. It’s so rude, so offensive.
It’s ugly.
Vil Schoenheit rarely gets nervous, but right now, in this quaint little courtyard on this beautiful sunny day, he fears he has rehearsed the wrong script.
Rook lowers his head, gaze focused on the small sliver of bench separating them.
Vil opens his mouth to speak, but Rook beats him to that.
“Vil, I am so sorry.”
“What…”
Rook’s hand is pressed against his own heart, a tight fist, the perfect image of anguished piety.
“If that is the impression I have given. If that is how I’ve been making you feel, I apologize. Profusely.”
“Stop!” Vil rips Rook’s hand away in confusion, “How can you apologize? Why are you the one apologizing— I am sorry, that’s not what I meant…”
“But it is what you meant. Please, Vil, do not trick me.”
Vil wishes he could scream cut and start over.
“You believe I want with Roi de Neige the same closeness and friendship that I have with you.”
It’s not a question, yet Vil feels it is necessary he provides an explanation.
“I don’t want to be jealous, Rook. I am not jealous. I do not command you. I needed to say this because I know…” A deeper breath, “I know I cannot give you your dream."
“My dream?” More confusion.
“Yes, your dream. I will not lie to you and promise that I will play nice with Neige and be friends. But I don’t want you to feel that you must choose between us.”
Rook is so fixated on Vil that it feels indecent, as if he is thoroughly exposed, ripped open before that green gaze.
“You know, I do curse Roi des Dragons sometimes.”
“What?”
Rook looks up towards the white clouds gently painting the otherwise perfectly blue sky,
“I do not question his reasoning for overblotting but I do resent the cruelty of the dreams he gave us. These were poorly pieced together from our fears and insecurities, sprinkled with sloppy fixes to make them parade for happy endings.”
Vil briefly nods. He knows this. He knows his own dream is not a pure representation of what he wishes for, but he also knows there were elements to it that did birth from his own desires.
“My happy ending is not a world where you and Neige are bosom buddies while I watch from the shadowed distance. Forever a fan. I don’t want to be your fan, Vil.”
Oh.
Well.
Two gloved hands suddenly find themselves cradling his face, preventing him from spiraling on the meaning of that revelation.
For an outsider, they simply look like two students sharing an intimate moment. But now that Rook’s hands are on him, Vil is acutely aware of the brief tremor in the huntsman’s fingers, he is now aware of the way Rook continues to press his chapped lips, a nervous tick.
Rook Hunt is nervous.
“This is not how I ever envisioned doing this, so please, bear with me…” Rook takes a deep breath, becoming the hunter, stilling his body and mind to grasp his prize.
“I have already chosen. Frankly, there was never any choosing to be done. I am Neige’s fan, yes. But I am yours, Vil.”
Vil is held in place by Rook’s trembling yet warm hands, “But you just said…”
“I am not your fan, Vil. But I am yours.”
“Mine…”
“If you would have me, of course. If I have made a terrible mistake by doing this, I promise you I never meant to tarnish our friendship, but the idea that you are casting me away while erroneously understanding my feelings is far worse.”
“Rook, you…are you saying…”
Rook smiles, but it is tight and unsure.
Rook Hunt is nervous.
“Perhaps I started as your fan, yes. But when we grew close it bloomed to friendship. But then…Vil, then I got to know you. Not the Vil behind the camera, not the Vil on stage, not the housewarden, or the super model that dazzles through billboards and screens. Just Vil. And that’s when I stopped being a fan. That’s when I knew I was yours, and to bask in your imperfectly perfect beauty is my biggest privilege. But I am greedy, that I will not deny. I want more.”
“More of… me?” Vil’s voice is a whisper, afraid that if he speaks too loudly this moment will end. He will find himself in his dorm, in his bed, cursing this possibly perfect dream.
“All of you. All of your heart, if you’d allow it.”
“Rook, I am disappointed," And before Rook can recoil in despair, Vil brings his own hands up, wrapping them around each side of his huntsman’s face, “Your skills, ever sharp, ever on point, have failed you on something so crucial.”
Vil smiles. These lines he has never had to question or practice.
“How have you missed the fact that I am already yours?”
Vil should really start keeping track of the (few) times he has managed to render Rook speechless. There’s a soft exhale from his lips, eyebrows slightly brought together as if in disbelief, and finally (finally) Rook laughs without a trace of nervousness.
“You mean…”
Vil joins him in laughter, his eyes crinkling from smiling in relief.
“I do believe, my dear, that we have both been quite foolish.”
Rook grins, “L’amour makes fools of us all, it’s true.”
Vil is shocked to find he can smile even wider, “Love, now? How bold.”
Rook brings his forehead closer to Vil’s, and with a gentle finger wipes a stray tear from Vil’s eyes (When did he even start crying?).
“I have waltzed around my true feelings for far too long. I will not tip toe any longer now that you have restored my hope with the possibility that you feel the same, so forgive me if I am too forward, but yes, love. I have loved you for quite some time, Vil.”
He whispers the final part, as if losing some of his bravado.
Well, Vil ponders, that just won’t do. Pressing a quick kiss to Rook’s cheek he decides to be brave too.
“I love you too, Rook, oh, how can I not?” He speaks quickly, suddenly unburdened by the earlier threat that this conversation could be the end of something that he believed did not even exist. “I love you and that’s why I thought I had to let you know that you were—are—free to do whatever you want when it comes to Neige. I admit perhaps I was bracing myself to letting you choose…”
“Oh, my fair Vil, have you suffered for nothing? I am Neige’s fan, yes. But I graduated from being a mere fan of yours years ago. Perhaps, I daresay, the moment you were one of the few people that would not turn away at my ramblings and um, eccentric ways.” There is a blush forming on Rook’s face now, and Vil is delighted it highlights some of his usually concealed freckles.
It takes him back to earlier days, when Rook, still clad in his Savanaclaw uniform, would sometimes comment on how Vil was the first real conversation he’d had all day, a quick throwaway thought that would leave Vil feeling worried for his friend. Rook was…different, sure. But surely he had friends in his dorm? Rook would laugh, carefree and seemingly unbothered, ‘Friendships take time, non? And a lot of the times friendships require a leap of faith from both parties? Wouldn’t you say you took a leap of faith with me?’
And what a leap he took.
“Switch dorms!” Shouted a heated Vil on a snowy day. Annoyed by the fact that curfew was approaching and they would have to put an end to their discussion of formulas for new makeup products. “It has been done before, I’ve read up on it. I will help you fill out the forms. Those muscleheads in Savanaclaw won’t ever let your potential soar. Come to Pomefiore.” Come to me, was left unspoken.
And Rook had taken that leap as well.
Vil laughs, loudly, head thrown back and unabashed, “All this time. All this morning, I’ve been terrified of thinking that by letting you choose you could potentially walk away from me. I’m sorry, Rook, I should’ve been honest.”
Rook brings a finger to Vil’s lips, shaking his head, “I should’ve been honest too. I admit I regret the way you found out about Neige. But I was worried that when you knew the truth you’d assume I was just infatuated with celebrities…”
“I have been most unkind by implying that earlier…” Rook’s finger applies slightly more pressure, bringing Vil to silence once more.
“I am in awe of Neige, Vil, that holds true. But I am entirely devoted to you.”
“I know.”
And he does know. How foolish of him, Vil screams in his mind, he’s known all along. And Rook has known all along.
How much time has been wasted. But how delighted he is to carry on to the next, highly anticipated, scene.
“Rook” Vil brings them eye to eye once more, his hands not having left Rook’s shoulders entirely, “I am going to kiss you right now, if that’s okay with y—”
He never gets to finish as, in a rapid flourish, Rook removes his hat while simultaneously bringing their mouths together.
In that moment, in that quaint little courtyard, Vil stops being nervous. It is just him, his huntsman, and the sweetest of kisses concealed behind Rook’s hat, as if he was making sure that this moment belonged entirely to them. Vil and Rook, and absolutely no one else.
Vil is unsure of how much time passes until they both must pause to gather their breath, though by the disheveled look on Rook’s face, and the sensation that his lipgloss is thoroughly smudged across his lips, Vil knows that they are both eager to ensure time keeps passing and passing and passing like this.
As if reading his thoughts, Rook smiles mischievously and kisses the tip of Vil’s nose.
“I’d stay a lifetime with you here, ma reine. But I must tell you the first years are about to start their flying lessons with Coach Vargas, and this particular area will lose its privacy.”
Vil glances upward, as if expecting to see a broom zoom by.
“We wouldn’t want that. How does my room sound so we may continue?”
He delights in seeing Rook’s eyes zero in on his lips. He delights in wondering what will it feel like to be devoured by Rook Hunt.
“Perfect! After all, we have many strategies to discuss, non?” Rook is quick to jump to his feet, offering a hand to help Vil do the same.
“Strategies?” Vil’s eyebrow is raised, excited to discover this more playful and devious Rook.
“Oui, but of course, after all,” And as Vil begins to rise, Rook bends his body down, his lips now deliciously close to Vil’s ear, “We must ensure we completely destroy Royal Sword Academy.”
Vil’s grin is dangerously ecstatic.
“You do always say exactly what I want to hear, my dear huntsman.”