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Rook is watching the perfectly straight back, silent. Clack-clack, Vil’s high heels tick the seconds evenly on the floor. The rhythm is too even, the back is too straight. There’s no his Queen’s usual grace in this posture, no usual ease in his step. Not to Rook’s vigilant eye. For others, maybe, the festival’s main attraction — or one of, his traitorous mind suggests, — would look the same gracious and proud Vil Schoenheit he always is, but the huntsman’s eye can’t miss the difference.
Fair Vil looks especially collected, Rook knows that even without seeing his face: his gaze must be sharp, so sharp he could slice a throat with a flick of his perfect eyelashes, and cold to the point of freezing one in their place with a coup d'œil.
He doesn’t have to look at his Madone’s eyes to know the sharp ice would be aimed at his heart like in that old tale.
They go through the mirror, to Pomefiore, and his fair Vil is still deadly silent. Rook is… silent, too. What can he say? He can think of no détente, nothing to say at all, for nothing seems fit, everything’s just going to be bland, unnecessary and simply useless. His Queen’s steps now thud quietly, the carpet softening his heels' clanking. He's walking slower, too, careful to not bother those going to sleep already in the dorm. Still, the usual grace of his step is nowhere to be seen, replaced with steely determination. Rook can’t help but notice the sad glimmer in Vil’s eyes as he catches a glimpse of his face when they turn the corner, his beautiful jawline moving slightly, as if he was gritting his teeth.
And the huntsman knows he himself is the one to blame. What a tragic turn it all has taken.
Vil walks towards his bedroom. Rook slows down: should he follow? Usually his Roi du Poison would tell him to not come after him in case he needed space, and to this day the nights when Rook had to sleep in his own bed were becoming more and more rare, unlike the nights spent in his Queen’s room, when he was as lucky as to have the most precious thing that he had in all his life in his arms even when he slept. Vil.
The latter says nothing so the huntsman decides to follow him to the door, and if his Roi du Poison wants, he’d tell him to leave then. And… he probably will. The thought is enough to hurt Rook’s heart, to awaken some sort of terror that squeezes it with cold clawed fingers — what will he do if Vil never wants him again?
His heart is thudding dully, synced with Vil's steps, in his ribcage that feels utterly hollow and cold. Non, if his fair Vil turns his back on him it’s going to be a tragedy!
Rook suspects his Queen wasn’t planning on sharing his space with him tonight: the door is almost closed in his face before he allows himself in, slipping inside deftly, as if on hunt, refusing to give up at such a vulnerable moment.
Vil stares at him, eyes unreadable, for a long moment, then that same froideur from before is there again as Roi du Poison turns away — so cold that it hurts almost physically. Rook accepts it, he knows it's well deserved.
The fact that he was let in should have lifted that heavy weight off his heart, yet it doesn’t, not at all. Vil doesn’t look as if he wished to fix this crack between them, he just looks… deflated. The way his hands fall down weakly, his posture slumps ever so slightly as he sinks onto the chaise longue, the huntsman can see that he’s given up, as if simply accepting everything that happened to him, unwilling to try and fight for anything that he feels he lost. So unlike him, oh...
And this is a loss for Rook, too. He just knows it, senses it with his nape as if an animal crept behind him.
It can’t be such an impasse though, he must find a way to persuade his Queen to listen to him, to understand… he knows Vil is not only the most beautiful in this whole world, but also that he is so, so intelligent and wise, he would eventually understand. He would… or would he?
Rook takes a look at his face: Roi du Poison still wouldn’t even look at him, eyes aimlessly following the carpet ornament, seemingly deep in thought. What the huntsman sees saddens him oh so much: his fair Vil has definitely cried on the way here, his proper make-up now flawed with tear streaks, even with his mascara still on, undoubtedly waterproof…
Still, even this brokenhearted and crumbling, cold and hurt, Vil is such an beauté nonpareil that it manages to make Rook’s heart skip a beat, striking him with even more adoration to this ethereal being that just happens to be a walking person that Rook had the honor to stand beside.
And then it floods him like a tidal wave: the dawning realization that this all is slipping through his fingers right now as he stands there at a loss of words, hesitant to take a step and cling to it tightly while he still can.
Can he, though?..
“Fair Vil”, he tries, to no success, of course. “Please, look at me.”
Vil doesn’t even budge. Rook sees it in his eyes, can hear the quickened breathing and the barely-there ruffle of clothes that lets him know that his Queen has at least heard him, but the lovely face is still blank, the charming eyes are still cold, looking elsewhere as if Rook never made a sound.
“Roi du Poison, s'il vous plaît…”, he tries again, and this time Vil doesn’t react at all, yet his eyes glisten wetly.
The hunter’s heart sinks, cracks with the sorrow of seeing his beautiful Queen like this.
Vil’s jaw tightens.
“Vil”, he calls even softer, taking a step closer, then another one. Vil ignores him all the way there until Rook is within an arm’s reach.
“Don’t”, he commands, and his voice is trembling, almost faltering. A tragedy indeed.
Rook hesitates again. What should he do? Should he really leave his Queen, shattered and hurt, to crumble alone? Should he impose, having heard clearly that he is not wanted here?
“My Queen”, he tries, “Roi du Poison… fair Vil. Please, just… just look at me?” he begs, slowly getting down on his knees, taking his hat off and holding it close to his chest. “Please, I beg you.”
He sees the hesitant twitch to Vil’s fingers, the fleeting quiver of his lips.
“I’ll do anything, Vil-”
“Will you tell me why?” Vil suddenly asks, still looking away, hand gripping the armrest so hard that his knuckles are white, and his voice is so breathy, so trembling the hunter is certain he’s on the verge of crying.
“I swear I will, anything you ask me, I'll tell,” Rook tries, desperate to grasp what seems like the smallest chance for a talk, for anything that would help heal this bleeding wound he left on his beloved's heart.
“Ha… it wasn’t even worth a try, yet I still tried”, Vil snorts, cruelly, at himself more than at Rook. “If you don’t even know what I’m asking, then I don’t need anything from you. You are free to do whatever you want, Rook.”
With that he falls silent again, and the huntsman just knows that they’re back at the beginning, that he won’t get Vil to talk to him easily again.
He shall seek no easy path. He bows deeper, moves closer while still kneeling.
“I will rip my chest open and lay my own heart before you, mon Roi. I beg you of just one thing,” Rook tries again. “Shall you allow me to explain myself, I will and-”
“And what?” Vil stops him, chuckling coldly. A single tear falls down his cheek. “Do you believe this could help? Do you, tell me?”
“I don’t know”, Rook admits. “I still wish for one thing only, and that is to throw myself to your feet and do every single thing I can to help you heal”.
The next laugh is almost hysterical. Vil still doesn’t even look at him, he just cries while laughing so maniacally that the huntsman worries for a fleeting second that he’d hear that voice, the one his Roi du Poison had when he went over the edge, fell into the abyss of his own darkness. That horrific strain, the phantom notes echo in his ears as Vil’s laughter dies to give way to heart-crushing sobs.
“Say, huntsman,” Vil utters, not even trying to hide the excruciatingly pained sobbing now, “were I a substitute?”
Rook’ eyes go wide as he throws his arms up, desperate to stop his fair Vil from such assumptions.
"Non! No, my-”
“Don’t call me yours, Rook. Just… don’t,” Vil sighs, still crying, still looking away. “Did you get closer to me just to have a chance of meeting Neige?”
“Absolutely not! Roi du Poison, don’t even entertain such thoughts, I beg of you!”
“What was it, then? You didn’t need the money, you’re from a wealthy family. Neither do you need fame. What was it?”
Rook can’t see his face at all anymore, with Vil having pressed his both palms to it, hiding his tears, the hurt look in his eyes… oh, his lovely dear Queen, hurt so badly by none other than him… the sight alone is enough to crush his own heart into pieces again and again, that void in his chest so cruel, so cold, promising the loneliness he never knew before, not even before he met Vil here.
No, the loneliness that comes with never having met someone who’d understand and want you, who you'd cherish dearly, is not the same as the one that comes when you lose that someone. It is the kind of loneliness that you know will never cease to claw at your chest, filling it with guilt and yearning that would have no chance of being quenched, ever. Rook fears it more than he feared being alone before he met Vil.
“It was a coup de foudre, Roi du Poison”. Yes, a beautiful strike of thunder that brought love, love at first sight, and then more and more with each new sight that he cast at his Queen. “I fell in love the moment I saw you, long before you knew I existed. And then again, when I saw you here… and again, when I finally approached you, and again, and again. I fell harder each time I looked at you.”
His knees begin to hurt from his stiff position, yet Rook doesn’t move, only sets his hat aside to reach for Vil’s hands with his own.
His Roi du Poison gracefully moves his elegant hands away.
“Liar”, he sighs. Rook almost winces, as if slapped.
“Did I ever betray your trust with lies, my… ah, pardonnez-moi, Roi du Poison?”
And suddenly, Vil snaps. In a second he’s standing, towering over Rook, looking at him fiercely from up there, eyes still wet with tears, still hurt. Rook feels his own eyes brim with tears, too, desperate to stop his beloved Queen from hurting this much.
“The audacity!” Vil smirks dryly, clearly enraged, and his tone is so, so very venomous he might as well kill a man with the poison dripping from his lovely, perfect lips. “Didn’t you, just now? Don’t bother with explaining your vote, I do not care. It’s not you who made us lose, your vote was never the final one, you didn't decide it solely, trust me, that much I understand. But you dare to say you never lied!”
These were the most words his Roi du Poison has said so far after they’ve left the festival venue, and however venomous, they soothed the huntsman’s heart just a little: at least Vil looked at him now, at least his Queen spoke to him!
“Mon Roi”, Rook dares to reach for Vil’s hand again, and this time Vil doesn’t take it away, nor does he move to acknowledge the touch. He just lets his hand be taken, lets it hang almost bonelessly there. He also doesn’t stop Rook from calling him ‘his’ again, and that settles a spark of hope in the huntsman’s broken, weeping heart.
Rook brings his Queen’s hand to his lips, pressing them to the porcelain skin reverently, just staying like that for a long moment before looking up again.
“Fair Vil, I beg you to have mercy on your pitiful huntsman… Let me find a way to soothe you and I will put my whole heart into it, I swear.”
He’s ready to be taken on this vow. Ready to kiss Vil’s hands like a man possessed, to kneel like this for an eternity, to shower him in billets-doux, to write a thousand poems about his love, to engrave each breath Vil takes into his own mind, to hold him close and never ever let him down again, never fail him like this.
“You can’t”, Vil answers, simply, almost softly. “You know, I don’t blame you for liking Neige. I know him better than most and I know he is as beautiful as he is kind and just… gorgeous. I know.”
Rook wants to protest, to stop Vil from complimenting the other when he himself needs reassurance, but Vil doesn’t even notice as he continues.
“You just had to tell me. All this could've been… avoided, you just had to tell. It hurt, you know? Not only did you fall for my archnemesis, which I’d forgive, but you made a fool out of me. There, in front of our team, in front of him, and a whole crowd to watch… have you ever choked on your own tears as the only one you ever trusted gleamed happily, fawning over your bête noire? All while having to smile for the camera? Have you ever trusted someone enough to rely on them, against your own principles, only for it to backfire when you least expected it?”
The huntsman feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, streaming down his cheeks as he looks down, unable to meet Vil’s hurt eyes. What a coward, again. Hurt his beloved because he was a coward, and now hides as cowardly. Pathetic he is, a weak man, a traitor!
He really did fail his Queen… with something he just couldn't give up, yet knew that it must eventually lead to such a disaster. If only he had the gall to tell him before...
“I feared…” he tries, “I feared you’d turn me down and leave.”
“Wouldn’t I be right to do so?” Vil laughs, oh so cruel, the sound of it lashing against the huntsman’s guilty broken heart. A lash so deserved that it could be delightful in its cruelty if not for the feeling of impending doom that it brought, the vague anticipation of something unavoidable, something Rook will regret forever. And he knows perfectly what it is.
“I…”
“I get it, again,” Vil interrupts. “No one would want to share secrets they’d get rejected for when trying to impress. I’d get it, if you told me later. Whenever. Before our first kiss, or after, or before I trusted you with my body, before you made it to my bed. Or after, or the very day before we started preparing for the VDC. Or even yesterday. Any day would suffice, honestly. Any day but today, when it’s too late, when I had to choke on it in front of everyone while you cried from happiness.”
Rook doesn’t even notice how his own hands are trembling until he tries to bring Vil’s hand to his lips again in a silent cry for forgiveness, and it’s almost shaking in his unsteady grip.
“My fair Vil”, he gasps, pressing a shivering kiss on his hand, “you are right, I am a guilty coward”, he kisses his knuckles now, one by one, punctuating each word, “undeserving of your trust.”
He just kisses his hand again and again, and as soon as his tears hit the skin under his lips, Vil takes it away — and Rook can’t help chasing after it.
“I was too afraid of losing you”, he confesses, wrapping his arms around Vil’s perfect long legs, his grip tightening with each second now that his Queen retrieved his hand. “I was convinced you’d leave me because of this…”
“I wouldn’t have. I’d have been hurt, that’s certain”, Vil all but smiles gently at him, rushing a hand through his hair. “Oh, I’d have cried the whole night, maybe more. Maybe I’d have stopped talking to you for a couple of days or even a week. You’d have had to work for the right to get back into my bed or even hold my hand…”
His beautiful Vil laughs softly, as if nostalgic, as if he’s telling a hilarious story but his eyes glimmer with new tears to shed. Tender fingers stroke Rook’s cheekbone, making him look directly at Vil’s face.
“But you wouldn’t have lost me.”
Vil speaks no more, yet the huntsman can hear the unspoken words perfectly.
‘Unlike now’ is what Vil doesn’t say.
“Vil”, Rook calls in a whisper, so horrified he can’t even use his voice. “Tell me I can do something. Anything…”
The growing tenderness in Vil’s touch hurts him more than a slap in the face would. Had Vil been furious, it would feel like a punishment, but fury can be calmed as a fire can be put out. But this… this feels so wrong, the huntsman can’t even put it to words. They shouldn't be like this, ever.
It’s just wrong.
“You can do anything you want, huntsman”, Vil smiles sadly. “I allow you to do everything you can come up with.”
It should be encouraging, it should but it isn’t, and Rook looks at him with eyes so wide, holding his breath, waiting for him to say something else, anything that’d stop this anxiety in his chest that he can’t yet explain.
But Vil stays silent, looking down at him with soft, sad eyes, gentle hands still stroking his cheek and hair.
“You’re… giving me a chance?”, he asks carefully, unsure, still clinging to his Queen’s legs, now hugging his hips reverently, unable to let him go.
“In a sense, yes”, Vil admits, then a heavy sigh leaves his tempting lips. “A chance to see that it’s all going to prove futile, Rook.”
And with that soft voice calling his name, Rook’s heart shatters all over again.
“Why?”
His grip grows stronger, he presses his forehead against Vil’s hipbone and sighs shakily, trying desperately to not turn into a sobbing mess his fair Queen would despise so much.
“It’s not that I don’t want to forgive you, oh Rook”, his Roi du Poison almost coos. “I’d love to, you’re quite convincing in your regret.”
“Then… why?”
“Because I can’t”, Vil simply states, and the second he falls silent again, Rook hears him choke down a sob, too.
He squeezes Vil’s hips, nothing suggestive behind the touch, just pure agony. The inability to just accept he can’t do a thing to change how it ends is ripping his throat open, making it harder to speak, yet he still tries, searching for the words that could help it, bring salvation to their crumbling pas de deux.
“Give me a real chance, I beg of you, Vil. Just one,” Rook pleads, voice trembling. “Let me prove my love to you, let me soothe this pain for you, oh Vil…”
Vil’s lips press in a thin line before he exhales shakily, trying to smile again.
“Can you? Can I trust you with my heart again now? Knowing that there may be even worse secrets you won’t tell me until it’s too late, until I’m hurt as I’ve never been before? It hurts, Rook, it hurts so much. I can’t.”
“There will be no more secrets,” Rook promises reverently, turning his head to the side to kiss Vil’s open palm, then brings one hand to hold it closer and kiss up his wrist, with almost a religious passion. “I will never hurt you again, Vil, I promise, I swear!”
“What is you oath? Nothing. Even if I try to believe you, I believed the same before. And yet…”
His voice is so small now, his free hand covering his face again. Rook knows Vil hates to be seen crying. The huntsman hates to be the one to make him cry.
“It will never happen again, Vil, let me prove it to you. Let me be as honest and open with you as I can, and you’ll see…”
“I won’t ever be able to be honest and open with you, Rook!” Vil answers in utter despair, choking on another sob. “I can let you stay, I can let you try as much as you want, I can pretend this never happened, let you kiss me and have my body, but I just can’t…!”
He stops abruptly, and suddenly, Rook urgently needs to hear the end of this sentence.
He needs to hear that it isn’t ‘can’t love you’, not this. ‘Can’t forgive’, ‘can’t stand’, anything, he can even change the ‘can’t trust’ over time… just not that. But Vil stays silent, and when Rook meets his eyes, when he begs silently to say something that wouldn’t be what he fears the most, his fair Queen just shakes his head. Once, but it’s enough for the huntsman to almost lose hope.
“You don’t love me anymore,” Rook finally realizes, and he sees how Vil wants to protest, his lips parting, but then no words fall from them, they just press together again, and Vil sighs.
He gently unwraps Rook’s arms from his hips, holds the huntsman’s palm, running his thumb over Rook’s knuckles, and smiles bitterly again.
“I would be happy to forgive you if I could, it’s just… let’s just end this on this dramatic, honest note, Rook. It has some beauty in its own way, doesn’t it?” His Roi de Poison chuckles sadly, as if not believing his own words.
“Please,” the hunter repeats, “I can wait. I will wait forever by your side, if needed, but don’t-”
“No you will not,” Vil retorts sharply. “You will grow tired, anxious, you will see me never budging, never forgiving, you will get annoyed at it sooner or later. Then you will leave, and I will be hurt and think that it was all for nothing, and you will think so, too, you will think that you wasted your time and got nothing!”
“I can love you without being loved back,” Rook begs, whispering. He gets up, not as graciously as Vil would like him to, that’s certain, but he needs to meet his eyes, to-
“I don’t want such a relationship!” Vil snaps again. “When I love, I love. I want to trust my partner, I would hate both you and myself for being unable to rely on you ever again! I want love, Rook, not obsession. I want to love as much as I am loved. If I needed someone obsessed with me you would not be the first, not even close, I would have found someone far earlier.”
Rook has no words to argue, nothing to say at all. He knows Vil’s right, he knew it since the beginning, before any of them spoke. Yet he just can't leave him like this, a raw wound instead of a heart beating happily, full of love. He just can't leave him, never.
He just stands in front of Vil, not trying to touch him without command anymore, and claws at his own shirt on his chest, fervently searching for words.
Vil's shaking, his fingers trembling, and Rook feels he stil has got to try, that the chance, however tiny, is still there. So he tries the first thing that comes to his mind:
“I do not love Roi de Neiges the way I love you,” he says. Vil looks away but the huntsman can't miss the way his Queen's body freezes in anticipation. Like he's waiting for something, like Rook finally managed to find the words that are closer to what Vil needs to hear to forgive him, to let him try and prove his loyalty through any testament.
“I do treasure his beauty as something to seek inspiration in, of course,” the huntsman goes on. “But I do not need to embrace him in his sleep, as many nights as possible, I do not feel the urge to kiss his hands while kneeling for the whole world to see just to proclaim my utter devotion, I do not picture myself getting older by his side and changing my life just to be with him. He's not the one for me.”
And with how Vil stiffens, Rook just knows that he finally struck right.
“Vil. I do see him as an idol. And I do see you as the one I love. Deeply, with each ounce of my being, on every possible level.”
He takes a step closer, his hands ghosting around Vil’s shoulders. Vil hugs himself, looks away still, but Rook knows him far too well to let the way his shoulders lose the tiniest bit of stiffness go unnoticed.
“You are the only one I love like this,” the huntsman whispers, his own lips trembling with sincerity. “That's why I feared to lose you, so I kept silent.”
And when Rook touches him now, Vil doesn't shake his hands off his shoulder, yet he's still shaking with sobs.
“You never thought that I feared losing you as well, did you?” He asks quietly. “Sevens, I'm so pathetic.”
“You're not,” the huntsman retorts. “Ma Reine, love isn't pathetic. It's my fault I never made it clear enough that I couldn't even imagine myself leaving you unless you command me to.”
“And if I do?” Vil asks sharply. “Will you, if I tell you to leave this instant?”
Rook chooses his words carefully before answering.
“If you were sure you wanted me to, ma Reine” he finally surrenders.
Vil contemplates him for a long moment, seemingly losing some internal battle, then speaks again.
“You told me that had I believed in myself, I would be the fairest one of all, didn’t you?” he asks, and Rook nods in confirmation. “I don't, though. Now I don't. I don't feel like I'm the fairest one of all, I can't believe it, and I actually am not, I’m not.”
The hunter opens his mouth to argue, but Vil silences him with just a glare.
“So,” he emphasizes, “will you choose me? Now, like this, when I'm still ugly and bitter? Show me, huntsman, that I am the fairest one for you, even when I'm hideous, when I’m at my worst, make me believe it. Love me when I can't love myself. Make me forget the way you looked at someone else by the way you look at me, and maybe… I will be able to trust you with my shattered heart, if you show me you can put every bit in place and make it whole again.”
And his Queen is the first to lean in, tugging him closer, like a dare, but Rook is the one to accept the dare and actually close the distance, capturing his deliciously poisonous lips in a kiss.
Vil throws his arms around Rook’s neck, a collar so delightful, and Rook can't help but gasp happily as he gets to kiss these delectable lips. However dramatic the moment is, it's just pure bliss to kiss his Queen, and if he's got to let him feel loved, oh he will.
“I shall drink the venom from your pretty lips,” Rook promises as they part, breathing ragged, hearts racing, “until there’s nothing left for you to poison your own heart with.”
“And if it never ceases? Will you love me if I cannot, not ever? No, don’t make promises, I won’t take your word for this. Prove it,” Vil demands, clutching the fabric on his back to press their bodies closer. The grip is strong, almost cruel, yet it only lets the huntsman feel that he has got the chance he yearned for. As long as his fair Queen is willing to hold onto him, he will never let him go.
“One day you will look in the mirror, ma Reine, and see the fairest one of all,” Rook whispers, holding him closer. “And that day you’ll just see the world as I see it since the day I first laid my eyes upon you, for loving you comes naturally to me.”
Vil chuckles.
“You know your way with words, my silver-tongued huntsman. I wonder though,” he pauses, letting Rook kiss him once more, “if you know what you are getting into. I will remember this and I will most certainly bring this up. More than once. More than I myself would like to do it.”
Another kiss is pressed against Vil's cheekbone as the huntsman nuzzles against his temple.
“Punish me as you see fit, ma Reine,” he offers, almost reverently. “I shall beseech my atonement in every way you please, just don’t deny me the chance to endure the deserved wrath. Any ordeal I shall overcome to prove my utter devotion to my one and only fairest Queen.”
“I don’t want to give you ordeals to overcome,” Vil sighs, “the problem is, I will nonetheless because it is not a wound that will heal anytime soon.”
Rook kisses his temple and whispers softly:
“You can break my heart as much as you need to heal yours, my Queen. The only remedy I seek is you, in your fair hands my heart finds peace, however shattered. True love is worth the pain, n'est-ce pas?”
“We’ll see.”