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Vil found it a few months after Rook’s transfer to Pomefiore. It wasn’t in his intentions to pry into Rook’s affairs, really — he wasn’t that kind of person. But he needed something from the other boy, and so he rushed into his bedroom, only to find it empty.
He had arranged for Rook’s room to be right next to his, wanting to keep an eye on him, yet he never actually set foot there before. It was only natural that Vil felt a bit curious, wasn’t it? Somehow (he still wasn’t sure how exactly that happened), Rook had become the person Vil always held close at his side, yet he was always so cagey, so elusive.
Just a little glimpse, Vil told himself as he took another step into the room, and then he’ll be done.
Rook’s bedroom looked surprisingly… normal. Vil wasn't sure what exactly was he expecting, but with how adamant Rook was about not letting him in, it sure wasn't what essentially amounted to a pretty standard room. Everything was clean and in order, which was good because Vil always made sure the other Pomefiore students kept their space clean — a messy room was a representation of an equally messy mind and he couldn't tolerate that. Rook’s bow hung on the wall, a proud, wonderful thing that made Vil smile because it reminded him of how Rook looked while holding it. He always stood straight and calm. The arrow would brush his cheek and he’d just smile, confident. You could see the muscles in his arm flexing under his sleeve as he pulled the bowstring, which made Vil just the tiniest bit weak in the knees.
There were art supplies, too, which were less expected. A colorful array of different kinds of paints, an empty easel, dirty brushes in a water-filled jar. Vil knew, obviously, that Rook was taking art classes, but he never realized he was actually serious about it.
Above the desk hung a collection of paintings, mostly watercolors. They were delicate, almost dreamy in quality, focused more on the atmosphere than getting the details right, drawn in soft, pastel colors. A few peaceful landscapes of the wilderness, animals caught in motion, portraits of some of the other students — mostly of Vil.
He smiled. Is that how Rook saw him? He rather liked that version of himself; Rook made his blonde hair almost resemble a glowing halo. In the paintings, Vil looked like somebody who could be the hero.
And then he saw it. A little table crammed in the corner of the room. Arranged on it was just about the weirdest gallery of items.
Photos of Vil, some framed. Vil could recognize a few of them as either his official press photos or stuff he himself put on social media, but there were even more that even Vil had never seen. They were most probably Rook Originals, as no one else could take photos of him at school; candid shots of Vil in class or in his dorm, studying or doing his makeup, or talking to other people. Turned out, Rook was quite the talented photographer too — not a single one looked even a bit unflattering.
Besides the photos, there were some other trinkets. A ribbon Vil put in his hair the other day. A napkin he used as a bookmark during studying, scribbled all over with nonsense glitter-purple doodles. A pen he had absentmindedly bitten during reading. Things like that; something which absence Vil had noticed, but small enough that he never really cared.
But it was quite obvious that the centerpiece of the collection was a little wooden box carved with floral motifs. Inside, on a wine-red material, laid a lock of purple-blonde hair.
Vil instinctively touched the ends of his hair. Now that surely was something he would notice, wasn't it? But he never noticed anything out of place. He had to admit — Rook did a good job.
He wasn't shocked. Maybe others would be, but he knew Rook, or at least knew him as much as Rook allowed himself to be known. Vil would be more shocked if there were no traces of Rook's deep-ran obsessions in his private space.
And… it was cute, in a way. Rook had always made himself known as Vil’s most dedicated fan.
Vil smiled to himself, then pulled out one of the hairpins holding up his hairstyle in place, then laid it down on the table, next to the ribbon. He left the room like if nothing ever happened, quietly closing the door behind himself.
***
It became a sort of game for Vil. Every once in a while, when he knew that Rook was in class, he’d go to his room and leave something on that little shrine of his. He wasn’t sure why exactly was he doing it. Maybe even he needed his little amusements, and with every trinket he left, it became more fun. Like an inside joke he shared with himself.
He liked the way Rook had no shame. He obviously must have found all of the things, yet he never reacted in any way. He would just come out of his bedroom and give Vil the same besotted smile as always. Like nothing was out of place. Like he was waiting for Vil to say something.
Maybe over time it became more about trying to make Rook admit to having the shrine than anything else. He was stubborn, yes, and refused to talk about his life, but Vil was trained in the same trade. He, too, knew how to craft a persona.
And he was going to win.
***
It was Rook’s birthday and Vil was in a quite agreeable mood. He let Rook dress him up in the morning, something he rarely allowed, partially because he knew just how much Rook enjoyed it, and didn't even say anything when the other boy's hands lingered on his body a few seconds too long.
Maybe his good mood was simply due to the weather, quite warm and sunny for the time of year, or maybe it was because he had woken up with Rook’s arms still close around him, feeling so warm and comfortable, his bones could melt. Or maybe — most probably — it was because he had a plan to carry out this day.
Happy Birthday, Rook, he thought as he stood before his mirror, time to own up.
With the careful precision trained over the years, he applied lipstick; a deep red shade, like ripe apples or wine, or blood. Rook would say that Vil looked good in anything (and he would be right, obviously), but Vil always suspected that he was particularly fond of this color. Whenever Vil wore it, something like hunger shone in Rook’s eyes — he’d grab Vil without the usual care, kissing the lipstick out of Vil’s face, crushing Vil’s lips between his teeth like cherries.
Vil made sure he never ran out of it.
Now he took out one of his handkerchiefs, with his initials embroidered in one of the corners alongside a small crown. He placed a delicate kiss right in the center, then neatly folded it in four and brought it straight to Rook’s bedroom. He laid it on top of the wooden box, still holding a lock of his hair.
All he could do now was wait.
***
He didn't have to wait long. Just after his next class, when he was making his way down the hall, an arrow landed right at his feet. He looked up, but the nearby trees were empty.
There was a card attached to the arrow, because there always was. Rook had a phone and clearly knew how to use it, yet he never did so with Vil. It so lacks romance, he'd say, looking almost disappointed that Vil would even suggest such an idea. Unless it was something important, he communicated solely by letters, delivered either by his arrows or spells.
Vil would put the arrows in his school bag and give them back to Rook afterwards. He cared like that.
The card was a neatly folded sheet of stationery paper, rose gold and smooth, smelling faintly of a rose fragrance because Rook never did anything in halves. The message on it, written in Rook’s overly-familiar handwriting, read:
Mon Cheri,
every minute — non, every second — that passes without seeing your fair face is a torture upon my poor heart. Would you grant me the pleasure of seeing it again? Today’s evening, near the magnolia trees in the botanical gardens, perhaps? I would be much obliged.
Always yours,
Le Chasseur d’Amour
Vil rolled his eyes, hiding the smile making its way on his face behind the card. If Rook wanted to spend his birthday making out against a tree, he could’ve just said so. It’s not like Vil would’ve said no. But well. That was part of the charm, he supposed.
And maybe Rook wanted to talk about something else, too.
***
Rook was nowhere to be seen, which, obviously, didn’t mean that he wasn’t there. It just meant that Vil couldn’t see him. He was surely somewhere in the garden though, maybe perched among the branches of one of the magnolia trees, enjoying the sight of Vil looking for him. Maybe he snapped a new photo for his collection too.
“Caught you.” Familiar arms wrapped around Vil, pulling him close. Vil’s heart skipped a beat, and most certainly not from surprise.
He, too, was only human and so had his own very human weaknesses. It just so happened that those weaknesses were Rook’s hands, calloused from holding a bow (Vil should tell him to use handcream but to be completely honest, he liked feeling the roughness against his own skin enough to let himself be indulgent) and arms hiding a strength honed over a lifetime. A strength that these days Rook used mostly to press Vil against a wall or into a mattress until there was no air left in Vil’s lungs.
Vil turned around in Rook’s hold, finally looking him straight in the face.
Rook wasted no time, pulling Vil into a breathless kiss, pushing onto him, until Vil’s back hit one of the trees. The rough bark dug uncomfortably into him, but it was hard to care when Rook’s hands were pulling at Vil’s carefully pinned hair, needy, impatient. Urgent.
The red lipstick was all over Rook’s mouth now.
“How did you like your birthday gift?” Vil whispered against his lips.
They were going to talk about it and if they were to do it with their hands and mouths on eachother, that counted as a double win in Vil’s books.
Rook smiled, perfectly clueless. It really was a testament to Vil’s strong will that he managed to not get distracted by the smudges of his own lipstick on Rook’s face.
“I’m afraid I must have missed it, my dear.” He raised a hand, wanting to touch Vil’s face or do something else distracting like that, but Vil caught it mid-air. His hold was crushing, manicured nails digging into the exposed skin between Rook’s sleeve and glove. Rook was strong, yes, but Vil was still stronger.
Rook’s face flushed, honest to god flushed, and Vil had to restrain himself from laughing. He wasn't the only one with certain weaknesses after all, and he knew Rook’s as well as his own. It wasn't hard; for all his secrecy, Rook was just so easy sometimes.
“Oh, really? That's a shame. I put it in such an obvious place. I would think someone with eyes as sharp and yours wouldn't miss it. Or have your senses become dull?” Vil’s tone was oozing with condescension.
Vil just stared, eyebrow raised, like he couldn't believe Rook was being so stupid about this whole thing. In turn Rook just smiled, calm and shameless like he always was, but there was something behind it, as if he was slowly realizing that there was no getting out.
“Of course not. You know me.”
“Very well.” Vil let go of Rook’s wrist, instead delicately raising up his chin. “Did you like my gift, then?”
Heartbeat. And another. And another.
“...Yes.”
The sense of satisfaction that flooded Vil’s chest was almost sweeter than any kisses he had ever had. What could he say? He loved winning.
“Good,” he said, barely restraining his smile. “I’m glad, then.”
The height difference between them was more apparent than ever now, with Rook looking up at him, eyes wide and dark. Like a dog waiting for orders. How lovely.
“You can just ask, next time, you know that? Or do you like the thrill? Is that a hunt for you too?”
He was taunting poor Rook now, he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. Maybe he would’ve felt bad, if he didn't know that his companion was enjoying this just as much. Rook liked his men tall and mean.
“It's devotion, my fair Vil.”
How very Rook of him to say. It probably made sense in his mind.
“I just want to know,” Vil said, leaning down. “The hair. How did you do it? I never noticed.”
“Ah.” Just for the briefest of moments, Rook had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “That would be after the first time you made love to me. I figured you would be too distracted to care.”
Vil stared at him for a second, the words slowly sinking in his mind, then laughed. And laughed, and laughed, even as he pulled Rook in for another kiss.
He rather liked that impossible boy at his side.