Archive of Our Own

More than anything, Rook has always loved to observe. 

He used to spend days in his youth quietly perched on a branch, watching the stirrings of wildlife below, and beyond that, the endless horizon over the sun-soaked savanna that unfolded like a lush tapestry. The minute movement of the birds in the tree opposite; the slow drifting of the clouds. The rabbit that leaps from its burrow into a thicket. The petals of a daisy trampled by a passing fox. 

Beauty is everywhere if you know how to look, and Rook has been looking since he was old enough to see. He has mastered the art of observation, down to the point where he could practically vanish from the world; sightless, soundless shadow, nothing more than a watchful eye, before reappearing from the shadows to startle his prey into submission. This is how he moves through the world; to see and not be seen. 

The most exhilarating part, then, is always when his target moves closer, closer, close enough to touch, unknowing of his presence. The anticipation, seeing such a beautiful thing approach you. 

Rook had once hunted down an ortolan; lying very still, he had watched it approach him and perch on the branch mere inches from his face. Close enough to see its yellow-brown plumage, to see the twitch of its tail and the warble in its chest as it trilled out a few notes of birdsong. He had watched it fly away by shrinking into a distant speck. He does not need anything more than that; the simple act of observation. The catharsis, of knowing it had been close enough to touch, and he let it go anyway.

This is the same feeling he gets when he first steps foot in the great Hall of Mirrors, a hundred black-clad students swarming around him while he, noiseless, sightless, creeps past the crowd to the chattering throng clustered around a single student.

His hood is down, revealing the curls of his lavender hair that reach down to his shoulders; his original blonde creeping in at the roots. His face, all sharp, elegant lines rendered in pale marble, and his eyes, violet and flashing in the dim light, uncaring of the crowd of onlookers he was drawing. 

Rook creeps in closer, closer;, the thrill of seeing him, up close, the boundary of movie-TV-screen-magazine-page removed. Living, breathing, animated flesh. Close enough to touch.

Those bored violet eyes turn suddenly and directly towards Rook, flaring, and the intensity of their colour almost cows him. The watcher becomes the watched. Prey turning its gaze back on its predator. A deer caught in headlights. 

His violet eyes narrow in interest, in anticipation. I see you.

And Rook, inexplicably, perhaps for the first time ever, wants to be seen. What does it mean, he wonders, to be beheld by Beauty? To walk in full sight alongside it?

That was Rook’s first, true impression of Vil Schoenheit, before he ducked back into the shadows.

Vil’s room smells like perfume and chemicals and lavender shampoo. It’s one of the first things Rook notices about his room, second only to its simplistic yet elegant furnishings. On a pin-board, magazine and newspaper clippings talking about his films and photoshoots. A mirror table ringed with LED lights glowing a gentle yellow like light shining through an eggshell. The neat rows of product and makeup bottles and tubes. The organised folders of his notes, labelled in neat pen and filed away. The yoga mat in a corner, leaning against a laundry basket with clothes visibly folded within. The plush bed and carpet. 

Rook makes note of all these details with no more than a peripheral glance; Vil demands the majority of his attention. Vil, who is sitting in front of him on the plush carpet, on top of a purple cushion, and holding his hands. 

“Sevens, Rook, how are they in such an abysmal state?” Vil’s painted lips press into a delicate frown. “Do you even moisturise them?”

Rook stares down at his own hands. A hunter’s hands, an archer’s hand, fingers which have had to string bows and set steel traps and grip onto rock and bark and a variety of rough surfaces to keep himself hidden away. Nails shorn short and close to the flesh, darkened knuckles, calluses and scars littering the dry and cracked skin of his fingers. In comparison to Vil’s fingers, white and smooth as jade, his hands might as well be tree bark. 

“I’ve always worn gloves, mon chéri, so I suppose I didn’t see a need to.”

“This won’t do,” Vil says. “You deserve better than this. Come. I’ll give you a manicure.”

And who was Rook to say no?

Vil works his magic, and slowly the dead skin peels off, the calluses smoothing into raw, red skin. His nails are trimmed, buffed and cleaned, the dirt underneath them magicked away. Vil rubs fragrant rosehip oil over his knuckles and cream over the backs of his hands and his palms. They all smell like him, a delicate floral scent that lingers on the tongue. Lavender and apple-blossom with a hint of spice.

Cleaned and moisturised, Rook’s hands look slightly more presentable. But there’s no rubbing off the scars and calluses which will eventually return. “Thank you, beautiful Vil, for being so gentle to my hands,” Rook says. “But you must know they will return to their original state after a few days.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Vil says. “I’ll give you hand creams and essential oils.” 

“Mon chéri,” Rook says, half a plea, half a protest. There is no need, he wants to say. Such things are wasted on him. But Vil is hard to persuade once he’s decided on something,

He reaches for a drawer and pulls out a bottle of nail polish. “Hand.”

Rook dutifully offers him his left hand. Vil takes it and has him spread his fingers out, then angles Rook’s thumb towards him. With the other hand, he holds the nail polish brush, a chartreuse green that glints in the lamplight.

He carefully applies the polish to Rook’s fingernail as he watches, transfixed. “Oh, what a lovely colour, mon chéri.”

“It’ll bring out your eyes,” Vil says. He moves on to the next finger.

“A shame that they will chip off as soon as I handle my bow,” Rook says.

“Why would it be?” Vil leans back to inspect his handiwork; neat and precise as usual. “They’re beautiful now. Aren't you all about that?”

“My hands, beautiful?” Rook laughs. “Mon chéri, surely you jest.” His hands are practical. They are nimble, dexterous, skilled. But they are not beautiful.

“I like your hands,” Vil says. He slots their fingers together and holds it up to the light, purple and green nails intertwined. “Even if they are a bit rough. I can see your determination, your skill, your precision behind every callus and scar. Isn't there something beautiful about that?”

Rook is not often at a loss for words. But there is something about Vil that commands attention, contemplation, something that compels Rook to be quiet and simply look.

Vil squeezes his hand. “Besides, they're your hands. How could I not like them?”

Vil lifts a hand to his cheek mid-conversation, and the gesture shocks Rook enough that he trails off in whatever point he was trying to make. 

“You’re so red,” Vil says. A perfectly lined brow tilted downwards, just shy of puckering the skin. “Did you get a sunburn?”

“Oh, that,” Rook says. They are sitting in the shade of an apple tree, the last rays of the sun piercing through the canopy and landing dappled on Vil. “I had Spelldrive practice with the rest of my dorm just before noon. It was very sunny then. I suppose that must’ve been it.”

Vil frowns properly this time. One of his eyes catches the dappled golden light and glitters a vibrant, translucent purple. It’s very distracting. “Did you not put on any sunscreen?”

“Oh, non, it must’ve slipped my mind. Maman always got on my case when I’d forget to put on sunscreen before going outside to play.”

“Rook,” Vil says, in that exasperated sigh that he reserves for situations when he thinks Rook is either being strange, unreasonable, or ridiculous. “You can’t go out without sunscreen. It’s bad for your skin.”

“Oui, oui, I know, mon chéri,” Rook says. Vil’s hand is still on his cheek. He sweeps his thumb across his cheekbone, a fleeting touch, before he removes his hand. 

“I better not catch you with another sunburn again,” Vil says. “And you should take better care of your skin in general.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small tub of aloe vera ointment. “Have you been following the skincare routine I gave you?”

“Of course. Un, deux, trois : the cleanser, the toner and the moisturiser.”

“Good,” Vil says. He dabs a bit of the ointment onto Rook’s cheek, stinging but cool in the evening air. “It’s already made a world of difference. I still remember when we first met.”

“Mon dieu, the expression you made when I said I washed my face with soap!” Rook chuckles. “Ah, don’t frown, lovely Vil, you’ll get wrinkles.”

“Atrocious,” he mutters. “Sevens know how you still managed to have such clear skin.”

“It was my good fortune that I befriended you, mon chéri,” Rook says. “I dare say now that I have the most well-tended skin in all of Savanaclaw!”

Vil smiles at that. “Yes, I can imagine you are the Fairest amongst that bunch of brutes.” 

“Far from it, dear Vil,” Rook says. “There are many better specimens even in my dormitory of brutes, as you say.”

“They must’ve all been hiding from me, then, because I can’t say I’ve spotted a single well-groomed Savanaclaw student. Even Kingscholar comes across as merely rugged handsomeness.” Vil pockets the ointment. “Besides, you are beautiful. A bit rough, but so is every diamond before polishing.”

In that moment, Rook can picture himself; rough hewn stone, and Vil, the expert jeweller, who knows just how to crack him open to reveal shining quartz, who knows just how to carve and polish him into a glittering gem on a crown. Vil’s crown. 

Rook sees his own reflection in Vil’s appraising eyes, and for a moment he wants desperately to be the gem that Vil sees. To be, instead of simply observing beauty. To serve beauty. To give his all. A surrender. 

Vil drops his hat down on his head. “Come on, Rook, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you to the mirror chamber and you can get back.”

“Yes, of course,” he says as he gets up, brushing off his already grass-stained trousers. Vil’s trousers are pristine; a little flick from his magic pen and the remaining bits of grass peel off. He extends a hand, an invitation, and Rook takes it. 

“Oh, one sec. Rook, don’t move.” Vil reaches around the side of his head and plucks a leaf from his tangled hair. “There,” he says, flicking it away. Then, “you really ought to comb your hair more, Rook, and get rid of the dead ends while you’re at it.”

Rook nods along, humming, as they walk up the path to Pomefiore castle, the sky collapsing in shades of dusty rose and fresh bruise violet, drawing their shadows out into long, wavering shapes on the grass. Even in dusk, Vil glitters mercurial-like, a purple toned shadow that nevertheless draws in all the remaining light and gleams like a coin buried in a well. 

Next to him, Rook has never felt more ordinary, nor more special. His hand, grasping lightly at him, their fingers tangled together. 

A beautiful sight indeed. 

Early spring brings with it all kinds of beautiful sights. Liquid-gold sunshine spills in through the windows and breathes life into the old stone walls of their school. New leaves bud and curl on the branches fluttering in the breeze. Flowers sprout from the grass, cheerful daisies and glistening buttercups and the swaying heads of bluebells dipping in the wind. And Vil, beautiful Vil who is beautiful in spite of the season; looking especially ethereal in the sunlight, like a gilded icon, a halo of light framing his lilac curls and the sharp lines of his profile. 

Beautiful Vil, who wrinkles his nose at the patches of daisies that have seemingly sprung up overnight in the gardens around the Pomefiore dormitory. “The pollen is a nightmare this time of year,” he mutters.

“Isn’t it a lovely sight, mon chéri?" Rook declares. "New life blossoms all around us. Such beauty only serves to accentuate your fair features.”

“The weather has been especially nice for filming,” Vil says. “All that sunlight makes even the most mediocre spudling glow with vivacity.”’

“Ah, that nature is the greatest artist of us all, making us its canvas of beauty.”

“It doesn't make up for the fact that some of them don't know even the most basic makeup skills. It's like they want their every pore to be showcased in 4k HD.”

“Under your tutelage, fair Vil, I'm sure they will flourish indeed.”

“Right.” Vil hums, a smile curling his lips. “I suppose you’re exhibit A, then.” He takes Rook’s chin in between two fingers, tilting his face thoughtfully. Rook peers down at him from the bridge of his nose, watches the way Vil’s violet eyes flash with satisfaction. “Yes, your skin has been glowing lately.”

Rook smiles. “I still cannot claim to be a beauty in any stretch of the imagination. I fear I have not the predisposition for it.”

“Nonsense,” Vil says. “I’ve seen spudlings in full-face makeup that look worse.”

“Of course. None could compare to you, Vil, when it comes to your mastery of the art of makeup. Why, if I were to transform my own dull eyes into kohl-lined jewels like yours!”

“I don't see why not,” Vil says, which is not what Rook expects him to say, but there is a surprisingly determined glint in his eye as he leans in closer. “Kohl would look good on you. You already have naturally upturned eyes; we can emphasize that with a bit of eyeliner and some glitter on the lid… and if we contour your cheekbones too.”

“Your advice is wasted on me, dear Vil,” Rook says. He swallows his quickening pulse. “I have not the skill to make use of it, nor the materials.”

“That can be fixed. I have unused makeup that you can take and plenty from brand sponsorship deals with colours that wouldn't suit me.” Vil lets go of his face, leaning back with a shrewd look in his eyes.

“Mon chéri, you cannot be serious about this. I couldn't…” Rook fists his hands into his trousers. “There is no need for makeup, for me. It would be ridiculous.” I cannot be beautiful like you, he thinks. 

Vil raises a perfectly lined eyebrow. “You're calling makeup ridiculous?”

“Non, of course not,” Rook says quickly. “But it would look ridiculous on me. Alas, I wish I could carry myself with the same regality as you do, but I fear it would just make me look rather…clownish.”

“Not if you do it properly. Makeup would look lovely on you. You've got such strong features already, we just need to balance it out. Enhance the good bits.”

“Mon chéri,” Rook says, but he knows he is losing. Vil’s eyes glint with inspiration, anticipation, and it is too beautiful of a sight for Rook to quell. 

Vil reaches over and tucks a stray curl behind his ear, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, with all the reverence and excitement of an artist holding a white canvas. “Trust me on this, won't you?”

Rook has had Vil’s window memorised since the first time Vil had brought him into Pomefiore. Of course, it’s not easy to scale the smooth stone walls, but he knows where to find the divots, the ledges with which to leverage his weight, as well as relying on the grove of trees which grow clustered around the base of the castle. Vil’s room is only on the second floor anyway, where all the first years room. 

Crouching on the narrow ledge of Vil’s windowsill, he peers into the room through the gap in between the drawn curtains. It is still dark inside, heavy with the soft grey of early morning light, but the bed is neatly made and the door to the en-suite is slightly ajar. 

He knocks on the glass; a moment later the curtains are flung wide open, Vil glaring directly at him. His hair is pulled back in a towel, his face still wet and frothy with product. 

Rook beams and knocks on the glass again. Vil narrows his eyes, but when a drop of water slides off his chin, he seems to realise that his face is still half-washed. Begrudgingly, he unlocks the latch of the window and hurries back to his bathroom. 

Rook pushes open the window with a gentle creak and alights soundlessly onto the carpet. “Good morning, mon chéri. You look beautiful as always.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t push you off that window,” Vil's voice comes from the bathroom, carrying a slight echo. “You interrupted my twelve step skincare routine!”

“Apologies for the disturbance,” Rook says, stepping over an unrolled yoga mat. A set of indoor sportswear is folded neatly and placed on one end, two hand-held barbells next to it. “I simply wished to see your face.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t have bothered coming through the window. You would’ve just stayed and watched until I noticed.”

Rook only grins. “And if I said I needed your assistance?”

“That’s slightly more believable,” Vil says, “but not by a long stretch.” He emerges from the bathroom, arms crossed over his silk bathrobe, face dewy and washed. “I still have four more steps to go, so whatever it is, you better get on with it.”

“My eyeliner,” Rook says, and Vil squints, stepping closer. 

“I cannot get it to be even.” He had tried a dozen times earlier this morning to apply a simple line of colour to the edge of his eyelids, the way Vil had taught him: a slight swoop to emphasise the shape of his eyes. 

“Your foundation’s patchy too,” Vil says. “Did you use a sponge or just your fingers?”

“Ah, pardonnez-moi, I seem to have misplaced my sponge recently—”

Vil grabs his chin and pulls him close enough that Rook can see his eyelashes, the little droplets of water that still cling to them. His purple eyes narrow as they scan his face up and down. 

He steps away just as suddenly, letting go of Rook, who very nearly stumbles from the loss of contact. “Go sit on my bed,” Vil says. “I’ll attend to your makeup after I finish my skincare.”

“Of course, dear Vil. Take all the time you need.”

All the time turns out to be no time at all; in less than ten minutes, Vil reemerges from the bathroom, skin still as dewy as it had been ten minutes ago. Rook isn’t sure how big of a difference four extra steps made, but it is not his place to question Vil.  

“I don’t do this for just anyone, you know,” Vil mutters as he sits down on the bed next to Rook. He is reaching for a bag of makeup on one of his drawers, the tubes and bottles gently clonking against each other as he selects a couple, which he places on the bedside table. 

“Trust me, I know,” Rook says. Rook hasn’t been just anyone to Vil for a while now. The realisation is still as exhilarating as it had been the first time he’d had it. 

“I don’t usually do other people's makeup anyways,” Vil says. He holds up a pan of tawny powder. In his other hand he holds a large round brush. “Close your eyes for me.”

Rook has always found the sensation of makeup odd. He is constantly hyper-aware of his own skin, so that he can always feel the makeup like an extra layer on top. It is not unpleasant, but he is aware of how it sits on his skin, and so he had found it overwhelming at first. Vil’s brush is soft, but its bristles still tickle his skin like a kiss with parched lips. He can feel Vil’s other hand as it holds his chin in place, two fingers pressing carefully into his cheek as he swivels his face left and right. The brush is replaced by a smaller brush which slides across his eyelids, and then another at the outer corner of his eyes. The thin line of the eyeliner pencil as it slides along the edge of his eyelid. 

“Look up,” Vil instructs, and he does, as Vil colours in his waterline as well, carefully, the same steady hand which measures an exact millimetre for a potion. A dab here, a light brush there, his precise hand still and unflinching over Rook’s skin like an artist going over a wet painting. He leans over Rook, eyes sharp with concentration, while Rook presses against the pillows, stretching his eyes open to stare at the bas-relief ceiling above. It is of a chorus of fat winged cupids that surround a bare-skinned, reclining goddess, tresses of hair curling around her limbs. 

Vil’s scent lingers on his tongue like wine, tea-tree cleanser and lavender shampoo with a few notes of woody cologne. Beneath it all, the dusky smell of his skin, his sweat. Rook swallows, head swirling. He feels drunk. 

Vil’s breath ghosts over his cheek as he leans even closer, pencil in hand, plucking the precise point of his eyeliner. It is minty from toothpaste. 

“Close your eyes again,” Vil says, and this time he drags a finger lightly across Rook’s nose bridge, the arch of his cheekbones, the centre of his forehead. “Just a bit of highlight to top it off,” he murmurs. “Not that you don’t already have a gorgeous bone structure, but a little glitter never hurt anyone.”

Rook blinks his eyes slowly open, peering up at Vil, who is looking down at him with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” he says. “Or, as you would say, beauté.” His lips curve ever so slightly. “I knew makeup would look good on you.”

“And you are right as always, mon chéri,” Rook says, sitting up. He can feel the makeup on his face, but it feels oddly light. He reaches for the gilded handheld mirror on Vil’s bedside and finds his own reflection, his own tanned and freckled face now smooth and golden, eyes ringed with dark liner that makes them look sharper, more distinct. A dash of violet eyeshadow glitters on his eyelid. 

“Well?” Vil says. He has started applying his own makeup, sweeping the brush over his face in a practiced gesture. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. The word doesn’t sit right in his mouth. It feels like admitting a secret, somehow. “Your handiwork never fails to astonish me,” he continues. “Why, to think you transformed me into such a lovely creature!”

“I didn’t do much,” Vil says. “I know you don’t like the way heavy makeup feels anyway. I just put on the basics. Your face did the rest.”

“My face,” Rook says.

“Of course.” Vil draws on his eyeliner in one flick of his wrist. “You have a lovely face.”

The way he says it, so flippant, so sure. Vil never embellishes his words; he makes a point the way he makes a fashion statement. Bold, direct. Rook chuckles. “I am honoured that you would say that, but none compares to yours, dear Vil, makeup or otherwise.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Vil says. “Makeup only serves to enhance the beauty that is already there.” Vil plucks out a tube of lipgloss and swipes the cotton-bud brush over his lips, open in a small ‘o’. He presses his lips together, two petals of a rosebud curling inward. 

“Here,” Vil says, reaching for Rook’s face. Rook obliges, putting his chin in Vil’s outstretched hand. “Open your mouth.” 

With his other hand, Vil applies his lip gloss to Rook’s open lips. “Done,” he says with a hum, popping the lip gloss back into its bottle. “You could fit right in here, you know. All dolled-up like any of the spudlings I see on a daily basis.” 

“Only through your handiwork, fair Vil,” Rook says. He presses his lips together. The lipgloss tastes like apple-syrup and lavender and what he imagines Vil would taste like, a sort of fragrant, tangy sweetness. 

“Well?” Vil stands up, brushing off his robes. “Have you got everything you need for your lessons today?”

Rook gestures to the messenger bag he left propped up by the windowsill. “Of course. Ready when you are, mon chéri.”

“Right. Let me get changed.” Vil tosses a hairbrush over in his general direction. “Brush those leaves out of your hair. And straighten your shirt while you’re at it.” 

Rook learns, under Vil’s instruction, how to do his makeup. Every time he passes a reflective surface, he acknowledges his own presence, his face adorned with careful strokes of eyeliner and a few strategic dabs of concealer and eyeshadow. It is a strange feeling, to be aware of how you appear. Rook has never had much cause to worry about that before. But with Vil, it’s different. Vil, who pulls him out of the shadows. Who notices him. Who sees him. In Vil’s violet eyes, Rook sees his own face, reflected clear as a mirror. To see and to be seen in return. 

“Your makeup looks nice today,” Vil says, while they are on their way to registration. “Bit too heavy on the eyeshadow there on your right eye.”

“Merci, dear Vil. You look stunning as always. Your braid-crown seems to be uneven, though.”

“I’ll fix it later,” Vil says. “And your eyeshadow. Now, we must hurry.”

“You look different,” Leona says, at the end of Spelldrive practice. “Since when did you start wearing makeup?”

“Vil taught me to,” Rook says. He reaches a self-conscious hand to his face. “Do I look different?”

Leona’s lip curls. “You look like one of his fancy Pomefiore buddies.” He shakes his head. “Vil has always liked surrounding himself with beautiful things.”

He sees himself in a passing mirror sometimes, and he always does a double take at his own appearance. He never used to pay attention to mirrors before Vil. He peers at his own reflection and wonders if this is what Vil sees. 

“Beautiful,” Vil says. “You are beautiful.”

Rook wants to believe him. 

He is curled up around Vil on his bedsheets. They smell like Vil; lavender and apple blossom and the clean scent of his sweat. 

Vil cups his elegant fingers around Rook’s face, sweeps his thumb across his cheekbones. “Stay,” Vil murmurs. “Stay here with me.”

And who is Rook to say no?

In sleep, the severe lines of Vil’s face soften. He looks more boyish, less ethereal, less untouchable. Rook has watched him for a long, long while. Yet here he is now, close enough to touch, and Rook finds himself hesitating. 

There is nowhere he wouldn’t follow Vil. The thought scares him. But there is also the thought that he shouldn’t; shouldn’t follow so closely. He has always been an observer in beauty. To be by Vil’s side was not just to participate, but embody it. Rook stares at their intertwined hands, Vil’s slender fingers and his calloused ones. 

For now, he drinks in the sight of Vil, his taste still lingering on his tongue. The sweep of his eyelashes, the slow rise and fall of his chest. The curve of his lips, the small freckle under his left eye that he always keeps covered. 

Oh, but he wants. He wants so terribly it aches. He wants their breath to mingle, to hold him so close their skin melded into each other. Hold him and never let go. He wants to see him up close, peek beneath the facade. He wants to dwell within that space, between the Vil no one knows and the Vil whose face is plastered on magazines. 

He knows, somewhere deep in him, that he would chase Vil down to the ends of the earth; a beauty untouchable and yet close enough to reach. Vil slows, just enough for Rook to graze his shoulder, and locks eyes with him. In the depths of his pupils, Rook sees his own face reflected back, prey and predator at once. 

By the end of the spring semester, he makes up his mind. Soon, he is looking at the documents he needs to fill in to switch dorms.

“Switch dorms?” Vil had been surprised when Rook brought it up. “You would do that?”

“If I am to embody the beauty that I pursue, what better position than by your side?” Rook sweeps a thumb over Vil’s knuckles and clasps their hands together briefly. “But of course, say the word and I will cease this at once.”

“Silly huntsman,” Vil says. “Why would I refuse?” He reaches over to cup the curve of Rook’s cheek in his hand. “If this is truly what you want, I will gladly accept.” His violet eyes glitter. “I will make you shine like the jewel you are, Rook.”

Rook smiles, heady with joy. “To simply be in your presence is a blessing; to walk alongside you on this path of beauty, it is nothing short of an honour.” 

It is an honour to be seen. To have those violet eyes scrutinise him, perfect him. Rook has never been so sure of any single thing in his life. 

They go out to town on the last day before the end of the semester. Vil pulls Rook into the local pharmacy as soon as they arrive, eyes sparkling with determination and an infectious excitement. 

“We will transform you, Rook,” he says, breathless. “We will make you as beautiful as you should be.” He goes through a dozen different shades of eyeshadow and concealer and eyeliner, getting Rook to hold his hand up as he compares the colours in the fluorescent white lights of the shop, his pretty mouth pursing in concentration.

“Highlight, check; bronzer, check. We’ll get you some new concealer and foundation to better match your shade. Eyeshadow palette, eyeliner, mascara, check. Do you have any cologne? Forget it, it's not that important, I probably have an unused one lying around. Blush, check. We've got to go look at the colour correctors. And of course, lipstick.” Vil swabs three different tubes of lipstick onto the back of Rook’s hand. He is learning to discern the colour now, though they appear similar enough; one resembles the lush hue of a cherry while the other is more of a wine-red burgundy. The last one is a more subdued peach that Vil holds him against Rook’s face, squints, and tosses into the basket. 

After they pick the makeup, Vil grabs a couple more bottles of cleanser and toner, along with a stack of cotton pads and blenders and brushes. When Rook suggested he owned old paintbrushes which could fulfil their purpose, Vil looked at him horrified. 

“I jest, mon chéri, I jest,” Rook says, laughing as Vil strides on ahead. “I appreciate your wisdom in these matters, however.”

“I simply cannot leave you to your own devices,” Vil mutters. “Paintbrushes! Next thing I know you’ll be back to using hand-soap as facewash.”

“It is very fortunate that I have you to guide me, non?” Rook hurries ahead, bumping Vil’s shoulder with his own. “I am experienced in matters of aesthetics, but not in the participation of such. But mon chéri, how can anyone spend time in company with someone like you and not wish to embody the same elegance, discipline and determination?”

Vil smiles in spite of himself. “Always the silver tongue, huntsman.”

“I speak nothing but the truth.”

“I know,” Vil says, and he runs a hand down Rook’s arm, finally settling at his hand to intertwine their fingers together. “I know.”

They end up in Vil’s room, as always. A movie quietly plays in the background; one of the more experimental projects Vil had starred in that Rook staunchly defended. As a round-faced Vil delivers a passionate monologue on screen, Vil draws the brocade curtains shut as the sky plunges into a deep evening blue.

“Lie down," Vil says. “Let me do it.”

Rook does as he is told. 

Eyes closed in surrender, hair splayed on Vil’s lavender-scented pillows. Vil puts on the different products one by one, speaking in a low murmur a stream of instructions. Rook feels the wet touch of concealer, and then colour corrector, then a brush powdering his cheeks, the cold tip of the eyeliner pen sweeping across his eyelids. Eyeshadow, carefully painted and blended. 

Vil has him pinned down like a butterfly, practically straddling him as he leans over Rook’s face. He does not need his eyes to appreciate the beauty of Vil’s presence; he can taste his scent, the subtle vibrations of the air as he breathes, in and out, in and out; the thump of his heart, every minute movement loud and clear from the proximity. 

“Mouth,” Vil says, and Rook opens his mouth as Vil applies the smooth chalky finish of lipstick, leaning in close enough that their breaths mingle. Rook swallows the scent of him, rolling off him in waves. 

Vil shifts as he gets up, and Rook takes it as a sign to reopen his eyes, blinking in the dim room, lit by the golden light of the lamp perched on Vil’s dressing stand.

“Beautiful,” says Vil; matter-of-fact mixed with his own pride as an artiste, Rook the finished painting. A living artwork, an epidermied butterfly kept still in a glass cabinet, wings spread wide to the scrutiny of a thousand watching eyes

“The honour of beauty goes to you, mon chéri,” Rook says. “Far be it from someone like you to praise me.”

“No, you listen to me, Rook. You are beautiful.” Vil’s gaze burns. “You have always been, infuriatingly so.”

Vil trails his thumb along the bottom of Rook’s lip. They lock eyes, something flinty in Vil’s eyes before it cracks like glass and the violet goes sharp with unmistakable desire.

Vil tastes like lipstick. He kisses Rook’s face, featherlight, smearing the makeup, before again capturing Rook’s lips in his own. Rook tangles his fingers in Vil’s lavender curls, mouth open with want. Vil presses hot into him, weighing against his sternum where Rook is sure his own heart is hammering against like a trapped beast as they both drink their fill of each other’s taste. Vil’s hand runs through his hair, gets caught in snags and migrates back to his face, down to his neck and clutching at his shoulders. 

They break apart with a soft gasp. “Mon chéri,” Rook breathes, hot against Vil’s parted lips. “The makeup.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Vil says, voice fraying. “Seven, you have never looked as beautiful as you do now.”

Rook reaches up to cup his face, his beautiful, rosy face, his kiss-reddened mouth, the stray blond curls that have fallen out of his braid. A Vil that only he knows. “My queen flatters me so.”

“It’s true,” Vil says. “I’ve always thought so. Ever since we first met.”

“Prove it to me,” Rook says, and their lips crash together again, tongue and teeth and lipstick. Vil sighs into his mouth and Rook shudders. What an honour, to hold such a beautiful person in his palms. To be held by such a person in return. 

Rook spends his first night in Pomefiore with Vil. It had been after spring break, the first tendrils of summer creeping up on the landscape, and Rook had finally gotten the documents sorted. One meeting in the principal's office later, he is standing in front of the Pomefiore mirror in the Mirror Chamber, a suitcase and duffelbag in tow, with Vil next to him.

“Rook,” he says. His violet eyes spark with lightning; the distant roll of thunder. 

He dips into a bow. “Ma reine.”

Vil takes his hand and leads him through.

They spend the rest of the day unpacking. Vil helps him put away his clothes and toiletries while berating him for his 2-in-1 shampoo conditioner and his wrinkled shirts. Rook spends the better part of an hour showing off and explaining the story behind every piece of Vil-related memorabilia he owned, including but not limited to various limited-edition DVDs and film reels, a stack of posters and wall-hangings, the commemorative mug for the 10th anniversary of a film Vil starred in as a child, and a blanket from an unsuccessful line of Vil-themed sleepwear that had quickly been pulled out of production. Rook keeps his Neige le Blanche memorabilia in a separate cardboard box, which he shoves underneath the bed to unpack later on his own.

Vil arranges the makeup and skincare products in front of the dresser and mirror. By the time they get through everything (except for the box underneath his bed, of course) it is dark outside. Vil drags Rook to the communal kitchen where he reheats some soup for him while he himself takes out a tupperware of salad from the fridge. 

“What a marvellous kitchen,” Rook says. “One day, mon chéri, I will properly cook for you.”

“As long as it doesn't exceed my calorie intake,” Vil says. Then his face softens. “Not by too much, at least."

Vil goes back to his own room to shower and go through his nightly routine after that, while Rook returns to his new room to familiarise himself with the environment a little more. 

He already more or less has the layout of Pomefiore memorised after that one night in his first term when he'd mapped it all out during a late-night excursion, so he turned down Vil’s suggestion of a tour, which the latter had agreed was probably not needed considering Rook’s ability to scout out a location unnoticed. The precise word he used was somewhere along the lines of stalking, but Rook protested he was simply a man of his profession. 

His own room is new to him though, the plush carpet and soft bed with its embroidered drapes and silken cushions, gleaming white sink and gold faucets in the bathroom, the little crystal chandelier that hangs from the patterned ceiling. So much beauty to be found that it was overwhelming. And him; in his sweat-soaked clothes and scruffy boots, in the midst of all this finery. 

He decides to take a shower. He is usually quick, but by the time he manages to figure out the tap settings (in Savannaclaw, there was only one tap. There was no temperature dial, and it had been an outdoors shower.) and finishes scrubbing himself clean and raw, Vil is already knocking on the door. 

He rushes out of the en-suite, a towel hastily wrapped around him for the sake of decency. “Apologies if I kept you waiting, mon chéri,” he says as he opens the door. “You see, I just got out of the shower.”

Vil blinks, as if startling from a haze. His eyes dart across his body before staying securely fixed on Rook’s face. “I can see that,” he says. His voice is a little unsteady. Then he coughs, and fixes a stern expression on his face. 

“Put some clothes on,” he says, as Rook steps aside to let him enter. “And don't tell me you used that horrid shampoo-conditioner. How you live like that, I wonder.”

“If you have any hair products you recommend I will be sure to pick them up next time I head to the shops.” Rook opens his drawer and pulls a faded cotton shirt over his head. His hair, still damp, clings to his jaw and neck; he pulls the locks out from his shirt and splays it over his back, giving it a good shake.

“Good sevens, you're like a dog sometimes,” Vil says. “Good thing I remembered to bring over my hairdryer. Seriously, I don't understand how you've been living without it.”

Rook feels the dry huff of air tousle his hair, all other sound drowned out by the roaring of its machinery. He watches Vil through the wet strands of his fringe; he is sitting perfectly posed on the edge of Rook’s bed, hair wrapped around curlers that cluster at the base of his neck. A black silk robe hangs loosely on his shoulders. His skin glows dewy in the soft light.

One of Rook’s many beautiful things, sitting in a beautiful room. Rook goes to sit next to him.

“You’re actually here,” Vil says, suddenly, eyes alight. “In Pomefiore. You're a part of Pomefiore.”

“It is my honour,” Rook says.

“It doesn't feel as jarring as I thought it would be,” Vil muses. “It feels like you’ve always been a part of us.”

Rook laughs. “I certainly didn't look the part.”

“Oh, you were a mess,” Vil says. “But I always knew there was more to you. It was the first day of school. I remember your eyes. Your gaze.” His fingers, sweeping across Rook’s cheekbone as he leans into the touch. “There was something so determined about it, full of fire. Granted, I have always known you were eccentric, but I've always admired your gaze.” He huffs. “Though I pity anyone else on the receiving end of it.”

“And I have always loved watching you, dear Vil,” Rook says. “To see you in every aspect, to know you and the depths of your beauty; there is nothing I would not give, nowhere I would not go to follow you.”

“Beautiful words from a beautiful huntsman,” Vil says with a pleased hum. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, elegantly curved bottle; a light, glittering chartreuse glass with liquid swirling inside. 

He presses it into Rook’s palm. “Here. This is cologne I mixed for you. I thought it an apt welcoming present.”

Rook stares at the bottle, the fine filigree on its cap. “You made this for me? Oh, ma Reine, I cannot possibly–”

“Just take it, silly hunter,” Vil says, closing Rook’s fingers around the bottle. He is smiling, a soft, gentle curve of the lips that even Rook rarely witnesses. “You needed some cologne, did you not? I wanted to make you one, because I knew you wouldn't want any scent to be strong enough to interfere with your hunting. I've charmed it to adapt to scents in the nearby environments, but on its own it should have a grassy sort of smell, like the outdoors, and—”

Rook cuts him off and buries his face in the crook of his neck. “Thank you.”

Vil’s hand curls around the base of his neck, drawing him closer. When he speaks, Rook can feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest. “Why don’t you repay me with a dance, then?”

“A dance?” Rook looks up.

Vil’s eyes glitter with humour. “You were so excited when you showed me your vinyl player earlier, right?”

Earlier, they had also briefly gone through Rook’s vinyl collection, consisting of old Shaftlands artists that his maman used to collect and he had in turn inherited. Vil had nodded with appreciation at the selection, humming fragments of songs under his breath. 

With a flick of his magic pen, Vil plucks a vinyl from the shelf and carefully manoeuvres it onto the vinyl player. The needle clacks into place as the first few notes start playing, the smooth melody of a love-ballad Rook immediately recognises. 

“Well?” Vil stands, brushing off his robes. His lilac curls sway against his back. He offers Rook his hand, a smile playing on his lips. “May I have this dance?”

Rook takes his hand, breath in his throat. “Of course, my queen, anything for you.”

Vil’s hand burns at the small of his back as he leads him in a waltz that soon devolves into a series of inelegant twirls(attempted by Rook) and rapid footwork (Vil dancing circles around Rook, who lets himself be whirled into madness.) Vil catches him, arms wide as Rook falls into his embrace, and clutching at each other, they sway to the music, Vil murmuring broken lyrics into Rook’s collar.

When the song peters out, they collapse on the bed. Vil is laughing quietly, small noises in between heaves of air. Rook turns to face him. Every time he thinks Vil has shown him the epitome of beauty, he is proven wrong by each new moment and memory when Vil outdoes himself. 

“Let’s waltz properly next time,” Vil says, a smile still curled loosely around his mouth like a contented cat. Rook reclines on his side, half leaning over Vil as he drinks in the quiet joy of his face, open in a way it normally isn’t. Vil’s beauty is curated, carefully crafted, each aspect arranged to a tee. This Vil, smiling underneath him, is beautiful in a way he rarely is; glowing contentment rippling over his face, bare of his usual makeup, his hair pooling on the sheets in loose waves. His expression unguarded, the full extent of his emotions shining through his features. 

“Beauté,” he murmurs, almost in awe, and Vil’s violet eyes crinkle as he pulls Rook downwards, his hands reaching up to cup Rook’s face, fingers curling into his hair. Rook traces the bow of Vil’s lips with his index finger and they're kissing again, slow and languid. The rest of the vinyl plays softly in the background. 

Vil holds his face like he is something precious as he presses kisses to Rook’s eyelids, his nose, the arc of his cheekbones, the tip of his jaw. 

“I've got you,” Vil murmurs in the dip of his collarbone. His hands splayed across his back. 

“I’ve got you.”

(Two years later.)

Rook has always preferred entering through the window. Even though he lives adjacent to Vil’s room, sometimes he just finds it quicker to scale the tower directly. He's gotten very good at it. Vil has complained many times about Rook’s tendencies to break into his room over the last two years, but even now, he keeps the window ajar as a habit. 

Rook carefully pushes past the window, peering into the dim interior. Vil’s room is a graveyard; his bed is unmade, his curtains drawn, items strewn about. The full-length mirror lies crooked on the floor. The cloying scent of lavender mixed with stale sweat and sour misery hangs thick in the air, shot through with the sharp, bitter tang of ink. “Mon chéri,” he murmurs, knocking on the glass. 

A voice from the half darkness. “Leave me be.”’

“I haven’t seen you around lately,” Rook says. 

A clatter from the bathroom. Rook takes this as an invitation to step in, careful not to step on Vil’s nick-nacks. 

“I told you to leave me be.” His voice cracks on the last word. 

“Vil,” Rook says. “Please.” He approaches the on-suite, door ajar, his hand hovering over the handle. “Speak to me.”

“There is nothing to say,” Vil says. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I have to be.”

“If you had been fine, you would not have sequestered yourself from the world. You would not have avoided me.” Rook pushes the door further in. “I was merely concerned.”

Inside, Vil is hunched over the sink, hair limp around his shoulders. His shoulders stiffen when Rook enters. 

“Don’t look at me,” Vil snaps. His voice is brittle. “Don’t.”

“Mon chéri.”

“I haven’t got..I haven't put on my makeup. I can’t.” Vil shrinks in on himself, smaller, smaller. Rook pads in, careful to keep his eyes fixed on Vil’s back. 

“Vil,” Rook tries again, hand hovering over his shoulder. Close enough to touch.

Vil finches away from the sound of his voice. “Sevens, I forgot how annoying you get,” he hisses. “Always sneaking up on me without me noticing.”

“I won’t look if you don't want me to,” Rook says. His hand hesitates, before landing ever-so-lightly on Vil’s shoulder. Vil suppresses a shudder at the contact, but he seems to resign himself to Rook’s presence. His shoulders sag. 

“What’s the point?” Vil says. “You’ve already seen everything. It can't get much worse than that.”

“Ma reine, you do not mean that.”

A dry laugh. “You saw what I did. What I became.” Vil removes his hands from his face and meets Rook's eyes through the reflection on the mirror. His violet eyes are dull and bloodshot, lined with heavy shadows. His skin is sallow. His lips are drawn into a tight line that curls into a sneer. “I’m hideous.”

“Vil,” Rook starts, but Vil speaks over him, voice shrill. 

“And you know what's the worst part? Every time I look in the mirror, I see her. That hag of a creature—or maybe it was me, all along? That hideous creature.” His expression twists as he clutches the sides of the sink, eyes rolling wildly.

“Vil, darling Vil, look at me.” Rook takes his shoulders, gently twists him around to clutch at his face, the first beads of tears that are beginning to well up at the corner of his eyes. “Look at me.”

Vil locks eyes with Rook, and his gaze shatters like violet glass as he buries his face in the crook of Rook’s shoulders.

“I have watched your beauty from afar many a year, ma Reine,” Rook begins, running a hand through Vil’s curls. “The untouchable star and model who I saw in movies and magazines, carrying a kind of beauty that took my breath away." He chuckles. "Imagine how I felt when you saw me. When you held me in your artist’s hands and brought such beauty into my life. 

“Getting to know you, to see you, to hold you close; and to have you do so for me in return – mon dieu, it is a transcendent feeling, to know the shape of someone’s soul.” Rook rubs circles over his back, breath shuddering as he feels the tension leak out of Vil’s coiled form, bit by bit. “Your beauty has always shone most in moments when you persevere.

“I know you will make it through this, ma reine,” Rook murmurs. “Even so, I will never stop seeing the beauty in you; the beauty of your strength. Your drive, your ambition, your resilience. I see you, Vil.”

For a long moment, there is silence, broken by Vil’s shallow breaths. His heartbeat, thumping erratically, starts to calm as Rook holds him, lays a comforting hand against his neck. There is beauty in this too, an intimacy with one’s most vulnerable self. His queen, who trusts Rook to pick up the jagged pieces only he is close enough to witness. 

“I haven't been able to do my makeup,” Vil says, in a small voice. He swallows. “It just…my hands keep shaking. But I can’t…I can’t just go out like this.”

Rook holds him tight. He whispers into the crook of his shoulder, “Let me, mon chéri. Let me.”

This is how Vil ends up lying flat on his back on his bed, empty eyes staring upwards. Rook sits next to him, hovering over his face. First, a clean towel soaked in warm water; then toner and moisturiser. No twelve step routine, but three is a good start. 

Foundation, concealer, contour. Rook runs the brush gently over Vil’s face, humming a song under his breath. Colour corrector for the redness of his eyes and the green tinge of his skin, a faint dash of blush to bring the blood back into his cheeks.

Vil’s favourite shade of purple eyeshadow, the careful stroke of eyeliner, a hint of highlight; add the lightest touch of mascara, and setting spray to finish it all off. Rook rubs tinted lip balm onto Vil’s lips with his thumb, applying a clear gloss over the top. A simple, understated look that nonetheless freshens one up. 

“You can open your eyes, mon chéri,” Rook murmurs. “I tried my best, but alas, I am still woefully behind you in terms of technique.” He helps Vil sit up, pushes his curls from his face. “Would you like a mirror to see?”

“N-no,” Vil says. “No. I don’t need to see. I trust you.” His violet eyes find Rook’s steady green gaze. “I—my hair.”

“Of course, ma Reine.” Rook has woken up with Vil for enough mornings to know his routine by heart. He grabs his hairbrush and starts combing through his curls. “I fear we might end up missing first period, but I’m sure we’ll make it for the second.” He separates a section of his hair and starts weaving them into a braid. 

Vil is silent, but his shoulders have relaxed. The line of his back curves just a few degrees shy of his usual pin-straight posture. When he speaks, his voice is weary. “You don't have to do this, you know.”

Rook curls a stray piece of hair behind Vil’s ear. “Ah, but I want to, mon chéri. I want the honour of being the one who witnesses each and every aspect of your beauty.” He chuckles. “Is that not selfish of me to ask from you?”

Vil takes a deep, shuddering breath as he leans into Rook. “Surely I am the selfish one here,” he mutters. Rook catches him in the crook of his arms. “What have I done to deserve your care, I wonder?”

Rook simply holds him. “Nothing at all, mon chéri. From the moment you saw me, I already swore I would be yours.” He pins the braid-crown in place, brushes through the curtain of hair that falls over his neck as Vil turns to face Rook. The concealer does not fully hide the darkness underneath his eyes, and up close he can see his hair is duller than usual. But Rook knows his eyes, the shade of shifting violets that glitter like cut gems, like glass pieced together, light shimmering through the cracks.  

He takes Vil’s hand in his own, rough, callused fingers intertwining with Vil’s pale digits that clutch tight at his hand; holds it up between them so he can marvel at their closeness. How beautiful.

“I’ve got you,” Rook says. “Ma reine. My beautiful, beloved Vil. I’ve got you.”