Work Text:
——————
Azul Ashengrotto has solved many, many problems in life.
Social humiliation? Prevent anyone from one-upping him.
Academic competition? Please.
Unruly customers? He could always kick them out.
Floyd and Jade? Well… they were manageable, at least.
But in terms of management, feelings were significantly more difficult than any hurdles he’d faced before.
Azul sat alone in his office, fountain pen tapping rhythmically against the mahogany of his desk. Ambient, purple light flickered over stacks of paperwork. Blue shadows crept into the corners.
Normally, he found the atmosphere relaxing.
Today was no such thing.
Today, he could not stop thinking about Jamil Viper.
Which he found absolutely maddening.
Jamil Viper wasn’t a customer to be manipulated. He wasn’t a problem to be conquered. He wasn’t an investment opportunity.
So why had Azul spent the last ten minutes staring at the same line of text while wondering whether Jamil’s hair was naturally that soft and silky?
The pen snapped in half. Azul didn’t even think he could snap a pen in half.
He stared at the broken thing in horror.
“…This is beneath me. This is—this is unacceptable.” He stood up rapidly. This was something that required corrective action. Immediately.
Feelings were distracting. Distracting things created inefficiencies. Inefficiencies created major profit losses.
Therefore…
The answer was obvious.
A contract.
About twenty minutes later, Azul was feeling much better. A fresh sheet of gleaming, golden parchment sat in front of him.
At the top, written in elegant script:
PERSONAL IMPROVEMENT CONTRACT
Azul nodded to himself. Professional and reasonable. He was not going to touch on the part of him that said that this was embarrassing and silly. No thank you.
He dipped a new pen. Then started writing.
The first sentence read:
The undersigned agrees to cease excessive contemplation of one Jamil Viper.
Perfect start.
Clause One:
The undersigned shall not stare at Jamil Viper for periods exceeding five consecutive seconds.
Clause Two:
The undersigned shall refrain from noticing that Jamil Viper possesses unusually striking eyes.
Azul paused. Then quickly added:
Particularly under direct sunlight.
Spectacular. He continued writing, his words becoming more frantic as he remembered everything he had thought about Jamil over the past few months.
Clause Three:
No thoughts regarding Jamil Viper shall occur after nine o’clock in the evening.
Clause Four:
The undersigned shall stop finding Jamil Viper’s competence attractive.
Azul frowned, his cheeks flushing. He scratched out attractive and replaced it with distracting. Much better.
Several pages later, the contract had somehow become a sort of constitution.
Azul leaned back proudly. A masterpiece, and a triumph of his legal craftsmanship.
He turned back through the many clauses, checking for any loopholes. He found none. Not that he expected to, of course.
He was just about to sign his name at the bottom, to make the contract magically binding, his pen hovering over the paper.
A knock sounded at the door, followed immediately by the door opening before Azul could say ‘come in’.
Floyd.
Azul felt dread in his stomach. He instinctively placed a hand over the contract, trying to cover the most embarrassing of it.
“Azulllll~ Jade and I are gonna—oooh, whas’that?”
“Nothing that you should be concerned with. And whatever it was you were going to ask me, no.”
Floyd wasn’t listening. Instead, his gaze was locked on the contract, as if he was trying to look at it through Azul’s fingers.
Azul reacted a second too late when Floyd shifted.
And when you react late around Floyd Leech, you already know your minimal chances of winning anything against him are brought to zero.
One second the contract was on the desk. The next it was in Floyd’s hands.
“Floyd.”
“Yeah?”
“Return that.”
“Nah.”
Floyd’s grin widened as Azul’s face turned an unhealthy shade of purple.
His mismatched eyes darted across the first section. Then the second. Then the third.
His smile sharpened to something feral.
“Aha ha ha! Azul’s got a crushhhh~”
Azul felt his soul clawing itself out of his body.
“Ha, Jade has got to see this.”
“FLOYD.”
But Floyd was already gone, heavy footsteps thundering down the hallway. Inevitably to tell Jade and whoever else he came across along the way.
Silence.
Azul stared at the empty doorway. Then slowly lowered his face into his hands.
“…How am I going to get out of this?”
——————
The next day, Jade was suspiciously pleasant. It should have been warning enough that he hadn’t begun speaking of something ridiculous.
“Azul,” Jade said.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I have a guess.”
Jade smiled. The smile of a man who was trying not to turn Azul’s life into a living hell for the next week.
“You have my full support.”
Azul felt his jaw drop. He needed to transfer schools immediately. Maybe even countries.
Unfortunately, things somehow became worse. Because later that evening, Jade had ‘accidentally’ left a folder behind in Scarabia containing the contract.
Accidentally is a very, very large stretch. Jade wasn’t supposed to be in Scarabia in the first place.
Jamil found it.
Jamil had originally intended to return the folder. He didn’t need to get caught up in any Octavinelle scandals.
Then a folded piece of parchment slid out. He picked it up. Glanced down. Saw his own name.
And froze.
“What.”
His eyes moved to the title.
PERSONAL IMPROVEMENT CONTRACT
A few minutes later, Jamil was sitting in his room reading the entire thing. Every single word.
The first section was strange.
The second was concerning.
By the sixth section, he was struggling not to break out into laughter.
Clause Eleven:
The undersigned shall cease memorizing Jamil Viper’s schedule.
Clause Fourteen:
The undersigned shall not compare other students to Jamil Viper.
Clause Seventeen:
The undersigned acknowledges that being intellectually challenged by Jamil Viper is not a valid reason to seek out additional interactions.
Jamil lowered the paper. Then immediately burst out laughing. Actual, hearty laughing. The kind that made his shoulders shake and his chest hurt.
Because somehow Azul Ashengrotto had attempted to lawyer his way out of a crush.
Idiot. He was such an idiot.
Jamil folded the contract. Then got to his feet.
It was time for a conversation.
——————
The bell above the entrance to the Mostro Lounge chimed softly.
Azul didn’t look up. The lounge was closed for the day and no one came into his office besides a select few, so it wasn’t a customer.
“If it’s you, Floyd, I assure you that whatever you’re about to say is neither amusing nor—”
“Not Floyd.”
Azul froze. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head.
Jamil Viper stood in front of him, impeccably dressed as always, one hand tucked behind his back. His expression was carefully neutral, as always. This was somehow worse than him showing any kind of emotion.
“…Viper.”
“Ashengrotto.”
Silence settled between them. Azul adjusted his glasses and hastily cleared his throat.
“What brings you to the Lounge this evening?”
“You dropped something.”
“I find that unlikely. I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
Jamil placed a neatly folded piece of parchment onto the desk.
Azul immediately felt like he was going to throw up.
“Ah.”
There it was. In all its glory. His immaculate handwriting. The title sat proudly at the top, almost like a taunt.
PERSONAL IMPROVEMENT CONTRACT
He considered making a mad dash out the door. Jamil would probably catch him.
“I can explain.”
“Please, go ahead.”
Jamil pulled out the chair opposite Azul’s desk without waiting for permission and sat down with infuriating composure. He even had the audacity to look slightly smug.
Azul suddenly felt like a defendant in a trial. He knew Jade and Floyd would inevitably torture him about the contract, but to basically hand it over to Jamil himself? He would be having a long talk with them later. Assuming he got out of the current situation with his dignity intact.
“I read it,” Jamil said, after deducting that Azul would not, in fact, be explaining himself.
“…”
“Twice.”
“…”
“I had questions.”
Azul closed his eyes, resting his chin on his hands. “Naturally.”
Jamil unfolded the contract and peered at the first clause in the dim lighting.
“‘Clause One. The undersigned shall not stare at Jamil Viper for periods exceeding five consecutive seconds.’”
He looked up, his eyes flashing with something akin to mischief.
“How are you measuring that?”
Azul blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“The five seconds.”
Jamil’s tone remained perfectly serious. He was staring at Azul like he was the most idiotic person he’s ever met.
“Do you count internally?”
“I—"
“Or are you using any clock nearby?”
“What—"
“Because depending on the distance and method, that seems wildly impractical.”
Azul opened his mouth again. Closed it again.
“Uh…” he spoke dumbly.
“I simply thought the wording lacked specificity.”
“…”
“Contracts should be precise, you know.”
There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of Jamil’s mouth. A small quiver.
Was he—
No. Surely not.
“You read the whole thing to poke fun of my formatting skills?”
“No.”
“…”
“I also wanted to ask about Clause Nine.”
Azul remembered Clause Nine. Unfortunately. That one was rather embarrassing.
“‘The undersigned shall not find Jamil Viper’s voice relaxing during late evening conversations.’” Jamil tilted his head to the side. “Specific.”
Azul could feel heat creeping into his face. “It was an observation.”
“An oddly detailed observation.”
“It was factual,” Azul nearly hissed.
“What’s also factual is that you’re terrible at writing contracts involving yourself.”
Azul straightened, his gaze sharpening with irritation. “What did you just say?”
Jamil tapped the parchment with one finger. “You left so many loopholes it almost seems like it’s on purpose.”
Azul looked positively scandalized. “I most certainly did not!”
“You absolutely did.”
“I am one of the foremost writers at Night Raven College.”
“Your masterpiece falls apart under minimal scrutiny.”
Azul narrowed his eyes into slits. “Demonstrate, if you’re so certain.”
Jamil smiled. It wasn’t smug. Not exactly. It was worse.
It was amused.
“The first sentence states you will ‘cease excessive contemplation of one Jamil Viper.’”
“Correct. Your point?”
“Excessive is subjective. You never defined what qualifies as excessive.”
Azul frowned. “Hm.”
“Clause Three only prohibits thoughts after nine o’clock. So eight fifty-nine is acceptable.”
“…”
“Clause Four says you’ll stop finding my competence distracting.” Jami looked back down. “But it says nothing about my resourcefulness. My cooking. My dancing. My hair.”
Azul’s ears burned. “I-I fail to see your point.”
“My point,” Jamil replied evenly, “is that you’ve allowed yourself quite a bit of wriggle room throughout the contract.”
Azul pursed his lips into a thin line but said nothing.
“This one is perhaps my favorite—“ He quickly scanned through the text. “‘The undersigned shall stop seeking opportunities to converse with Jamil Viper without legitimate business purposes.’”
Jamil looked up. “What qualifies as legitimate business?”
Azul answered automatically. “Any interaction that produces mutual benefit.”
Jamil folded his hands, his smile curving into something positively infuriating. “Then, if I enjoy speaking with you…”
Azul’s brain screeched to a halt. WHAT.
“…that would be mutually beneficial.”
Silence. Long and very painful silence. Azul slowly removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I despise you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“…No, I don’t.”
Another beat passed. Then, against every instinct urging him to preserve what little pride remained, Azul let out a quiet, defeated laugh. It started as little more than an exhale. Then it grew. A genuine laugh escaped him—soft. Unplanned.
“I spent an entire evening making this.”
“I noticed.”
“And you’ve dismantled it in—what, ten minutes?”
“Seven. Close enough.”
Azul looked at him over the rims of his glasses. “You are impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The words faded into nothingness, but neither rushed to fill the silence. For perhaps the first time since Jamil had walked into the office, the room felt comfortable. No negotiations. No nothing. Just two exhausted overachievers sitting across from each other.
Finally, Azul reached for the contract. “I suppose I’ll have to destroy this.” He looked up at Jamil sharply. “It never existed.”
“I’ll forget I ever saw it,” Jamil responded suavely.
“You absolutely will not.”
“No.” Jamil’s smile appeared—small, restrained, but undeniably genuine. “I won’t.”
Azul sighed theatrically, settling back comfortably into his chair. “Then I suppose my reputation is ruined.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
“I’d say… it’s human.”
The words landed softly between them. Azul looked at him. Not for five seconds. Longer. Neither of them counted.
Jamil noticed first. “You’ve already violated Clause One.”
Azul blinked. Deliberately, he picked up the contract, tore it cleanly in half, and set the pieces on his desk.
“I believe,” he said with all the dignity he could muster, “that contract has been terminated.”
Jamil laughed. A warm sound that lingered.
Azul found, somewhat inconveniently, that he liked the sound much more than any contract could ever hope to prevent.