Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vil Schoneheit stared at the chessboard—

The pieces were immaculate—polished, aligned, perfectly weighted. The board itself was Pomefiore-issued, custom lacquered, the squares a tasteful gradient instead of vulgar black-and-white. Everything about it was beautiful.

Everything except the outcome.

His king was cornered. His bishop was trapped. All of his pawns had been eaten, and his queen? His queen had fallen ten moves ago.

Vil frowned.

Leona Kingscholar was draped across the sofa, smirking, as his tail flicked lazily against the velvet cushions. “That’s, what, five wins in a row?”

“Four,” Vil corrected begrudgingly. “Four wins. That first game doesn’t count.”

Leona turned his head just enough to look at him. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“The first game was a warm-up,” Vil said crisply, “you were half-asleep.”

“I’m always half-asleep,” Leona replied. “You still lost.”

Vil had to remind himself that the murder he had attempted at the culture fair was very much unbecoming and was very much something he had promised not to do.

His queen lay toppled near the edge of the board. Leona’s rook—ugly, brutish thing—stood victorious at the center, smug even in miniature. Promises could have some exceptions, surely…

“You’re infuriating,” Vil said, eyes still on the board, “truly. Unbearably so. It’s almost impressive how you manage it without trying.”

Leona smirked without looking. “Thanks. You’re glowing today, by the way. Real ‘about to flip the table’ radiance. Really brings out the cheekbones or somethin’.”

Vil rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. Already did.”

Vil stood, the fabric of his dorm uniform garments swishing as he turned away from the board. “Diversion’s over. I have a photoshoot in an hour.”

Leona hummed, already closing his eyes again. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Rook,” Vil said, already touching up his makeup, “escort the Housewarden of Savanaclaw out of Pomefiore, if you may do so kindly.”

Rook Hunt, who had been standing far too attentively near the door, straightened immediately. “Oui! I shall ensure the Roi des Lions exits safely through—”

“No,” Leona said immediately.

Vil raised a perfect brow. “And why not?”

Leona sat up, grimacing. “Just no.”

Rook tilted his head, though he did not seem at all perturbed. “Ah, but even your defiance is c’est magnifique! May I inquire as to why—”

“No.”

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rook is a perfectly capable escort. I don’t see the issue.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Leona replied. “I just don’t want to feel like prey.”

Rook brightened. “Ah! Then perhaps like a fellow hunter—”

“No.”

Vil turned away sharply. “Fine. Leave us.”

Rook bowed. “As you wish, my queen. I shall remain… alert.”

He did not leave. He merely stood farther away, watching the walls.

Vil let the silence sit. He was very good at silence. Silence bent to him eventually.

Leona, unfortunately, was also very good at silence—specifically the kind that came with eyes closed and the unmistakable posture of a man about to fall asleep in someone else’s dorm.

“This was a mistake,” Vil said aloud.

“Mm,” Leona replied. “You inviting me or the chess?”

“Both.”

Leona’s mouth twitched. “You invited me back after the second win.”

“Because,” Vil said, “I assumed statistical variance.”

“And the third?”

“Fluke. And because I was gracious.”

“And the fourth?”

Vil turned. “You are pushing your luck.”

Leona opened one eye. “You’re the one who brought out the fancy board.”

Vil gestured at the chess set. “That board is a work of art.”

“And yet,” Leona said, nodding toward it, “it’s seen nothing but your defeat. Another round?”

“No,” Vil said, retrieving his gloves. “I am leaving.”

Leona shrugged. “Have fun.”

Vil stopped.

He turned back, expression carefully neutral. “The shoot is off-campus.”

Leona didn’t turn. “Wow.”

“A countryside estate,” Vil continued, clearly displeased. “Remote. Inconvenient. And before you say anything—no, I will not be taking public transportation with equipment.”

Leona hummed. “Sounds inconvenient.”

“It is.”

“So cancel.”

Vil looked at him like he had suggested waddling around in the muck. “Absolutely not.”

“Then reschedule.”

“No.”

“Walk?”

Vil inhaled sharply. “Do you have any concept of time, effort, or professionalism?”

Leona shrugged. “I’m twenty.”

Vil stared.

“You’re insufferable,” Vil said, again, but this time there was something sharper underneath it. “Which is why,” he continued coolly, “you will drive me.”

Leona laughed. “No.”

Vil blinked. “No?”

“I don’t want to,” Leona said. “I’m tired.”

“You are always tired.”

“Yes,” Leona replied patiently. “And yet I endure.”

Vil stared at him, then smiled. Slowly. Sweetly. Dangerously.

“I will excuse you from Trein’s classes for a week.”

Leona froze. Then he barked a cough.

“Hah. And you can do that?”

“Who do you think reserved that meat pie in the cafeteria last week? The one that even the Headmage couldn’t touch?”

Leona sat up fully now. He squinted.

“How many classes?”

“A week.”

“All of them?”

“Correct.”

“No essays?”

“None. No exams, either.”

Leona considered this carefully, eyes narrowed. “Gas money.”

Vil scoffed. “You’re second in line for the throne. You can’t afford gas?”

Leona’s brows furrowed in thought. Vil could almost hear the mental math.

“Sevens, you can’t hire a driver, or somethin’?” But he was already standing and heading for the limo.

Vil smiled. “Complaints can wait until we reach the venue, Kingscholar. Try not to ruin my hair on the way."

Chapter Text

Leona had, in fact, been legally allowed to drive for years.

This was not new. This was not impressive. This was not a rite of passage. In the Sunset Savanna, if you were old enough to be trusted with responsibility, you were old enough to be trusted with a vehicle. End of discussion.

Which was why Vil staring at his hands on the steering wheel like he expected disaster was deeply irritating.

“You’re grippin’ your little purse like it’s going to attack you,” Leona said.

Vil didn’t look at him. “You accelerated again.”

“I’m driving?”

“Yes,” Vil replied. “Aggressively.”

Leona snorted. “Didn’t know you were so keen on driving styles.”

They drove on.

The road stretched out, clean and winding, framed by trees and sunlight that filtered lazily through the windshield. Leona settled into it easily—one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the window, tail flicking in a slow, absent rhythm.

He didn’t need a map. Roads were roads. You followed them. Simple.

Vil, on the other hand, had pulled up the directions anyway.

“You missed a turn,” Vil said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were supposed to turn back there.”

Leona flicked his eyes to the sign ahead. “Shortcut. Also, I know what I’m doing, ‘kay, princess? You can stop adjustin’ the mirror.”

“I wasn’t,” Vil replied.

“You were.”

Vil sniffed. “I was ensuring visibility.”

“Of the backseat?”

“Yes.”

Leona smirked, pulling onto the road. “Relax. I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been moisturizing.”

Vil shot him a glare. “That is both incorrect and offensive.” 

“Pick one.”

Vil crossed his arms. “I moisturized before you were legally allowed near heavy machinery.”

“Yeah? And yet I’m the one with the license.”

Vil eyed the steering wheel. Then Leona’s hands. Then the road. “Barely reassuring.”

“Hey,” Leona said, casual, “if I wanted to crash this thing, we’d already be upside down in a ditch.”

Vil stared at him.

“…That is not helping your case.”

Leona smirked. “You’re still alive. That’s a good sign.”

Vil frowned, then looked at his hands. He adjusted his gloves.

“You nervous?” Leona asked.

“No.”

“You’ve fixed those a hundred times already”

Vil paused, then smoothed the cuff once more. “I like symmetry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I don’t trust other people’s driving.”

Leona raised a brow. “Even mine?”

Vil glanced at him. “Especially yours.”

Leona laughed. “Wow. You wound me.”

“I doubt it.”

They passed a sign for a small town—blink-and-you-miss-it kind of place. Leona slowed slightly without thinking.

Vil noticed immediately. “Why are you slowing?”

“Sharp turn up ahead.”

“There’s no sign.”

“There doesn’t need to be.”

Vil frowned, pulling out his phone again. He glanced at the map, then back up just as the road curved sharply.

“…Fine,” he admitted. “Lucky.”

“Experienced,” Leona corrected.

Vil hummed. “Where did you even learn to drive like this?”

Leona shrugged. “Home.”

“That explains nothing.”

“Does to me.”

Vil studied him for a second longer than necessary, then looked back out the window. “You’re not reckless.”

Leona glanced over. “You sound disappointed.”

“I expected worse.”

“Ouch.”

“Take it as praise.”

Leona smirked. “Careful. I might.”

Another stretch of road. Quieter now.

“So,” Leona said, breaking the silence, “you gonna tell me where we’re actually headed, or is it a surprise?”

Vil blinked. “You didn’t ask earlier.”

“Didn’t care earlier.”

“And now?”

Leona shrugged. “I’m driving you into the middle of nowhere. Feels like something I should know.”

Vil sighed, then relented. “It’s a seasonal shoot. Autumn collection. Outdoor set.”

Leona glanced at him. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“No weird concept?”

“No.”

“No ‘suffering in style’ nonsense?”

Vil shot him a look. “Excuse you.”

“Just checking.”

Vil sniffed. “It’s coats. Scarves. Layers. Very tasteful.”

“Riveting.”

“You’re not the target audience.”

“Thank Sevens.”

Vil paused. “You’re allowed to watch.”

Leona scoffed. “Lucky me.”

They pulled into the estate driveway not long after—white stone, neat hedges, painfully expensive but not obnoxious about it.

Leona parked smoothly, killed the engine, and leaned back. “See? No casualties.”

Vil inspected the surroundings. “We’re early.”

“Told you.”

Vil gave him a sideways look. “Don’t get smug.”

“Too late.”

♕

The estate was too loud, too bright, and smelled way too much like expensive chemicals.

Leona stayed in the car for a long beat after the engine died, just watching the chaos through the windshield. People were scurrying around like ants whose hill had been stepped on—carrying racks of clothes, dragging light stands, and shouting about "the golden hour."

Vil, of course, was already halfway out the door. And, no, he didn’t just exit the door. He debuted out of it.

"Remind me why I’m wearing the muzzle?" Leona’s voice was a muffled, low-vibrating growl as he tugged the black face mask up and shoved his cap lower.

Vil was busy handing the keys to a stunned valet. "Because," Vil said, not even turning around, "the last thing I need is a headline about the prince of the Sunset Savanna acting as my personal chauffeur. It’s gauche. It’s messy. And it’s a distraction I don’t have time for."

He finally glanced back, his eyes scanning Leona’s masked face with a critical, clinical air. "Now, look intimidating and don’t speak. If you’re lucky, someone might mistake you for a bodyguard who took a wrong turn."

"I’m already doin’ the intimidating part for free," Leona muttered, stepping out of the car.

As they walked toward the main staging area, a man with three different scarves wrapped around his neck and a camera the size of approximately one Cheka came sprinting over.

"Mr. Schoenheit! My muse! You are late—well, you are exactly on time, but I have been anxious!" the photographer wailed, his hands fluttering. He stopped dead when his gaze landed on the hulking, masked figure towering behind Vil. "And... this? This is a, um, choice? A new look?"

"My personal assistant for the day," Vil said, his voice smooth and utterly convincing. "He’s efficient, but he has a very short fuse. Don’t let the crew touch his things, and for the love of the Great Seven, don’t make eye contact."

Leona let his tail give a heavy, deliberate thwack against the side of his leg. The photographer actually jumped.

"Right! Efficient! Scary! Love the energy!" the man chirped, though he took a very deliberate step away from Leona. "To the tent! We must begin!"

The next hour was a slow-motion car wreck of ‘organized vanity.’

Leona was relegated to a folding chair in the corner of the dressing tent. The chair was made of thin plastic and felt like it was going to snap under his weight at any second. He sat there, knees practically at chest level, watching the magic happen.

It was a circus.

"The foundation is too matte! More glow! I want him to look like he’s made of moonlight!" the photographer shouted from outside.

"The hem! Fix the hem!" a stylist shrieked, diving toward Vil’s ankles with a handful of pins.

Leona watched through hooded eyes. Back at the dorm, Vil’s obsession with looks was just an annoyance—a reason to get lectured about unsightly napping habits. But here, the guy was a tyrant. A beautiful, terrifying tyrant. It was as if he were commanding the space. He knew exactly where the light was hitting him, exactly how much of his neck was showing, and exactly which assistant was shaking because they were nervous.

"The lapel is off by three millimeters," Vil said. His voice wasn't loud, but the entire tent went silent. "Fix it, or I am leaving."

"S-sorry, Mr. Schoenheit! Right away!"

Leona leaned his head back against the tent pole, a small, hidden smirk tugging at his mouth. He’d always known Vil was high-maintenance, but seeing him run a professional set like a military operation was... something else.

"You."

Leona didn't move. He knew that tone. That was the tone Vil used when he wanted to win an argument.

"Assistant," Vil said, louder this time. He pointed a gloved finger at a tray across the room. "My water. The one with the lemon infusion. Not the plain one. I can taste the mineral imbalance in the tap water from here."

Leona stayed still for a second. He looked at the bottle, then at Vil. Vil was staring him down, violet eyes sharp, dancing with a challenge. He was testing the leash. He wanted to see if Leona would actually fetch him water in front of a dozen people just for a week of skipped classes.

Slowly, Leona stood. The tent went quiet again.

He picked up the tiny plastic bottle, walked over—his heavy boots thudding on the floorboards—and held it out.

Vil reached for it, but Leona didn't let go immediately.

For a second, they were both holding the bottle, the air between them suddenly thick and heavy. It wasn't the hairspray or the perfume; it was something sharper.

"Careful, princess," Leona said, his voice so low it was basically a vibration in the back of his throat. "Don’t choke on the lemon."

Vil’s grip tightened. Leona watched as a faint, almost invisible flush of pink touched the tips of Vil’s ears. He yanked the bottle away, his expression settling into a mask of icy professionalism.

"Get back in your corner, Kingscholar," Vil snapped.

"Gladly."

The shoot moved outside to a set of stone ruins. The sun was starting to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the grass.

Leona leaned against a stone pillar, out of the way of the reflectors, and watched. The second the camera started clicking, Vil transformed. In Pomefiore Housewarden’s place was something ethereal—something that moved with the kind of calculated grace that made it hard to look away. He looked cold, untouchable, and perfectly composed.

Leona’s tail went still. He’d seen Vil in the halls, seen him at lectures, in the garden, and fuming over a chessboard. But seeing him like this... 

Vil wasn't just all talk. He worked for this. He worked for every single inch of that "perfection" he preached about.

Leona shifted, his gaze following the line of Vil’s jaw as he tilted his head toward the light.

Four wins at chess, Leona thought, his eyes narrowing. The fifth hasn’t even started yet.

Chapter Text

Vil Schoenheit prided himself on preparation.

Which was precisely why the wind was unacceptable.

It caught the hem of his coat again—just enough to pull, to disrupt the line, to ruin the clean fall of fabric he had approved three days ago. He felt it before he saw it. A fraction too much movement. A fraction too little control.

“Again,” Vil said calmly, which was always worse than shouting. “From the mark.”

The photographer hesitated. “Vil, the light’s shifting—”

“Then keep up,” Vil replied without turning. “I refuse to be immortalized mid-mistake. If I wanted lighting like this, I would have gone to the Scalding Sands.”

Someone scrambled. Someone apologized. Someone nearly tripped over a cable.

Vil adjusted his stance himself, precise and practiced, eyes already tracking the sun’s descent. Golden hour was a narrow window, and he knew exactly how long they had left. He always did.

The reflector wobbled.

Vil’s jaw tightened.

“Who is holding that?” he asked.

No answer.

Then, irritatingly casual, from the edge of the set—

“It’s not steady ‘cause you’re fighting the angle.”

Vil closed his eyes.

Leona was leaning against a stone pillar like the entire operation was mildly entertaining background noise. Mask on, cap low. Arms crossed. A posture that screamed I am not impressed and I am still right.

“You are not part of this shoot, assistant,” Vil said, opening his eyes.

“Didn’t say I was.”

“Then kindly refrain from commentary.”

Leona tilted his head, gaze flicking between Vil and the equipment. “I’m refraining from silence instead. You’re gettin’ shadowed on the left.”

The photographer sucked in a breath like someone had insulted a deity.

Vil turned slowly.

“Excuse me?”

Leona shrugged. “Not bad. Just… heavier than you’d want. Jawline’s sharper than that.”

The audacity of it. The accuracy of it.

Vil stared at him, expression unreadable, and the set went still. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if waiting to see who would be struck down.

“Fix it,” Vil said.

Leona blinked. “What?”

“You identified the issue,” Vil replied. “Correct it.”

“That’s not my job.”

“Still,” Vil said pleasantly, “you involved yourself. You broke my focus, so fix the shoot.”

Leona studied him for a long second, then sighed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still standing there,” Vil shot back.

Leona sighed and pushed off the pillar and crossed the set with infuriating ease, movements unhurried, like he wasn’t walking into a room full of professionals who were suddenly terrified of him. He adjusted the reflector in two motions—lowered, angled—then braced it with his foot without even looking.

The light shifted.

Vil felt it immediately.

Sharper and more controlled. Cleaner, somehow?

The camera started clicking.

“Oh—yes, that’s it,” the photographer breathed. “Hold that—don’t move—”

Vil didn’t.

He held the pose effortlessly, but his awareness sharpened. Leona wasn’t hovering. Wasn’t fussing. He just… stayed. Solid. Quiet. Exactly where he needed to be.

That worked, Vil thought distantly. And, Sevens, did he just loathe that it did.

When the photographer finally called a pause, Vil stepped back, turning on Leona at once.

“How,” Vil said, measured, “do you know about lighting?”

Leona shrugged. “You notice stuff when you’re not the center of it.”

“That explains nothing.”

“Does to me.”

Vil narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You like being right.”

Leona snorted. “You don’t?”

Vil scoffed. “I don’t tolerate freelancing.”

“Good thing I’m not free,” Leona replied.

Vil paused.

He did not miss things like that. He resented that he had noticed.

“Stay nearby,” Vil said, already turning away. “You’re useful.”

Leona chuckled without smiling. “Wow. Glowing endorsement.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The rest of the shoot should not have gone as smoothly as it did.

Vil didn’t need to explain adjustments. Leona anticipated them, knew what was supposed to be done. When the wind shifted, Leona compensated without being told. When someone blocked the light, Leona moved them—politely, firmly, without drawing attention.

Vil found himself working with him instead of around him.

That realization sat badly in his chest.

It was efficient. Effective. Dangerous.

By the time golden hour slipped away entirely, the photographer was nearly incoherent with praise.

“Vil!” the photographer called, practically glowing. “That was spectacular. Truly. I don’t think I’ve ever had a shoot run that cleanly.”

“As it should,” Vil replied, already moving past him. “I expect nothing but competence from people I work with.”

“Yes, yes, of course—”

Vil did not stop.

He found Leona where he’d left him, leaning against the stone wall near the edge of the drive, mask tugged down just enough to drink from a bottle of water someone had handed him. He looked… fine. Annoyingly so. Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour being useful in a way Vil did not care to examine. Well, it wasn’t really anything exceptional. Leona was a prince—he was bound to have some sort of natural good looks. 

“You’re loitering,” Vil said.

Leona glanced at him over the bottle. “You told me to stay.”

“I told you to stay nearby,” Vil corrected. “The shoot is over.”

Leona straightened. “Yeah. You came over here.”

“I was heading to the car.”

“Uh-huh.”

Vil shot him a look. “You may remove that tone.”

“Didn’t know I was wearing one.”

“You always are.”

Leona smirked, slipping the mask back into place. “So. I did good?”

Vil hesitated.

Only a fraction of a second. But Leona noticed.

“You were… adequate,” Vil said at last. “For someone untrained.”

Leona barked a laugh. “Wow. I’ll frame that.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

They started walking toward the limo together, unhurried now that the pressure was gone. The estate was quieter, the light softer, the kind of calm that settled after something intense and exacting.

Leona stretched his arms overhead. “Didn’t think you’d actually let me stick around.”

“I didn’t let you,” Vil replied. “You proved useful.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Leona glanced at him sideways. “You always like being right this much?”

Vil lifted his chin. “I like things being correct. Symmetrical, in a way. Beautiful.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s called standards.”

Leona hummed. “Funny. I thought you just liked being in charge.”

Vil stopped walking. Leona halted, too. The former turned to face him fully, eyes sharp but not angry. Assessing. Measuring.

“Do not mistake discipline for ego,” Vil said. “I don’t demand control for my own sake. I demand it because chaos produces mediocrity.”

Leona studied him for a moment. Then—unexpectedly—he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “That makes sense, I guess.”

Vil blinked. “You’re agreeing with me?”

“No, actually. I think it’s stupid and that you should stop having a stick up your ass.” 

Vil stared.

“Don’t get used to it,” Leona said again. “I don’t usually agree to your structured ideologies.”

They reached the car.

Leona opened the driver’s door, then paused. “You usually get tense when you work?”

Vil scoffed. “I get focused.”

“Same thing,” Leona replied easily. “You should loosen up.”

“Absolutely not.”

Leona grinned. “Suit yourself.”

Vil hesitated before opening the passenger door.

“You were competent today,” he said, quieter. More deliberate. “I don’t say that lightly.”

Leona froze for half a second—then recovered, expression casual, but strangely careful.

“Careful, princess,” he drawled. “You’re almost being nice.”

Vil met his gaze. “Don’t let it go to your head. Brute.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Leona said, starting the engine. “But hey.”

“Yes?”

“This was kinda interesting. Anytime you need a driver again,” Leona added, emerald eyes forward, voice lazy, “you know where to find me.”

Vil settled into his seat, smoothing his coat.

“Kingscholar,” he replied coolly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Leona smiled anyway.

And that, Vil realized with no small amount of irritation—

was the problem.

Chapter Text

Leona woke up knowing—knowing—that he was not going to class.

This was not a decision so much as a truth that settled into his bones the second consciousness hit. His eyes stayed shut. The room was quiet. Blessedly so. No shouting. No obligations. No Ruggie hovering with some kind of nagging about him having to go to class so he wouldn’t have to repeat another semester.

He rolled onto his side, burying his face in the pillow.

Yesterday lingered in annoying little flashes. Gravel under tires. Sunlight catching on glass. Vil’s voice—sharp, precise—cutting through noise. The way he’d stood there on set, unmovable, untouchable, like the world had arranged itself around him on purpose.

Leona clicked his tongue.

Stupid.

He cracked one eye open. The clock glared back at him.

…Yeah. No.

He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, tail flicking once in irritation. He could skip. He should skip. The class wasn’t hard, just tedious. He’d already read ahead. Twice. What was the point of sitting through something that moved at half speed?

He shut his eyes again.

And then—very, very annoyingly—Vil crossed his mind.

Not in any dramatic way. Just the memory of that look yesterday. The one that wasn’t performative. 

You drive carefully.

Leona scowled at the ceiling. “Tch.”

He dragged himself out of bed anyway, mostly out of spite. If he stayed, he’d think too much. Thinking led to irritation. Irritation led to worse decisions. And, wow, was Leona’s life just swarming with those.

He dressed, movements lazy but practiced. Hair unbrushed. Uniform pulled out of the cabinets, wrinkled and unbuttoned. Crown in place—not literal, but felt. It always was.

The dorm halls were quiet as he left. Too early for the loud ones. Too late for the disciplined ones. Perfect.

He didn’t head toward class.

Instead, his feet took him where they usually did when he didn’t want to be perceived.

The greenhouse.

Warm air hit him the moment he stepped inside, thick with green and damp earth. The tension in his shoulders eased before he could stop it. He liked places that didn’t demand anything. Places that just… existed.

He wandered between the rows, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded. Plants leaned toward the light without caring who he was. No expectations. No comparisons.

Must be nice, Leona thought.

He crouched near one of the beds, brushing his fingers against a leaf, grounding himself.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Grow or whatever.”

Footsteps crunched behind him.

Leona didn’t look up. “If you’re here to nag me, save it.”

“Wow,” Ruggie said. “And good morning to you, too.”

Leona huffed. “You’re early.”

“You’re awake,” Ruggie shot back. “That’s rarer.” 

He grinned, hands tucked behind his head. “Figured you’d be here. You always are when you’re dodging somethin’.”

“I’m not dodging.”

“You’re in a greenhouse during first period.”

“Coincidence. And I’m always here during first period.”

Ruggie snorted. “And second. And third.”

They stood there a moment. Comfortable. Ruggie glanced around, then back at Leona, eyes sharp in that way that meant he was paying attention.

“You got that look,” Ruggie said.

Leona frowned. “What look.”

“You know… the look!” Ruggie waved his hands around as if Leona would actually get what he was trying to say. “The one you got when you broke that flask in Professor Crewel’s class and tired to sweep it under the pots.”

Leona clicked his tongue. “That didn’t happen. You’re imagining things.”

“Uh-huh.”

Leona changed the subject before Ruggie could dig. “Go get lunch.”

Ruggie blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“For you?”

Leona hesitated, then shrugged. “Get some for yourself too.”

Ruggie’s grin went feral. “Wow. Generous today. Did someone finally teach you how to share?”

“Go,” Leona said flatly.

Ruggie laughed and took off. “Same order!”

Leona leaned back against a table once he was gone, arms crossed, tail flicking once.

He stared at nothing.

Yesterday hadn’t been nothing. That was the problem.

The drive had been easy. Too easy. Vil hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t even corrected him more than usual. And that… stuck.

He exhaled slowly.

Footsteps echoed again.

Different this time.

Measured. Precise.

Leona didn’t turn right away.

“You’re skipping,” Vil said.

Leona glanced over his shoulder. “You’re stalking.”

“I’m observant.”

“Creepy.”

Vil stepped fully inside the greenhouse, immaculate as ever. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in sight. He looked deeply, personally offended by the humidity.

“You weren’t in class,” Vil continued. “And neither were you yesterday morning.”

Leona scoffed. “You keep tabs on everyone?”

“Only on people who disrupt my schedule.”

“I disrupt your schedule now?”

Vil’s eyes flicked to him. “You drove.”

Leona stilled. Just a fraction.

“…And?”

“And I dislike unpredictability,” Vil said. “You were punctual.”

Leona barked a short laugh. “Congratulations. You survived.”

Vil ignored that. “You slept through breakfast?”

Leona frowned. “You following me around campus now?”

“I have eyes,” Vil said coolly. “And standards.”

Leona straightened, turning to face him fully. “What do you want, Schoenheit?”

Vil paused. Studied him. Then—

“The shoot went well,” Vil said.

Leona blinked. “Yeah? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“…You came all this way to tell me that?”

Vil crossed his arms. “You’re insufferable.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Silence settled. Not awkward. Heavy. Like something unsaid pacing between them.

Vil broke it again.

“I have another shoot,” he said. “Next week.”

Leona raised a brow. “Thrilling.”

“Off-campus.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My driver cancelled.”

Leona stared. “…You’re kidding.”

Vil didn’t blink.

Leona let out a laugh. “No.”

“I haven’t asked,” Vil said, frowning.

“Good.”

Vil stepped closer, voice lower now. Intentional.

“Would you say no?”

Leona’s mouth opened.

Vil didn’t move his eyes away.

“…Depends,” Leona said slowly, finally. “What’re you offering?”

Vil smiled.

Vil’s smile was never accidental.

Leona knew that. Everyone knew that. Vil Schoenheit didn’t do anything without intent—every blink curated, every breath measured like it was part of a campaign. So when that smile landed, slow and precise, Leona felt it like a threat.

Ruggie, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, set the food down on the nearest table. “Man, the cafeteria’s wild today,” he said, already unwrapping something greasy. “They had that pumpkin bread again. The good kind.”

“Ruggie,” Leona said without looking away from Vil. “Leave.”

Ruggie paused mid-bite. “Huh?”

“Go. Eat literally anywhere else.”

Ruggie’s eyes flicked between the two of them. Vil—perfect posture, chin lifted, that smile. Leona—arms crossed, already irritated, tail twitching like it wanted to commit a felony.

“…Oh,” Ruggie said slowly. “This is one of those.”

“Go,” Leona snapped.

Ruggie bolted. “Thanks for lunch!” His footsteps retreated at record speed.

The greenhouse settled again. Suspiciously.

Vil finally spoke.

“I’m offering you work,” he said.

Leona stared at him.

Then he laughed.

Like—actually laughed. A sharp, disbelieving sound. “That was good. You rehearse that in the mirror?”

Vil didn’t rise to it. He never did. “I’m serious.”

“No, you’re delusional.”

“You drove well,” Vil said calmly. “You were punctual. You followed instruction. You didn’t speak unless spoken to.”

Leona bristled. “Wow. Your standards are on the floor.”

“And yet,” Vil continued, unfazed, “you exceeded them.”

Leona’s smile dropped. “I’m not modelling.”

Vil blinked once. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Leona shot back. “I know how your brain works. Driver cancels, boohoo, tragic. Next thing I know, you’re putting me in a coat worth more than this school and telling me to ‘stand naturally.’ Not happening.”

Vil tilted his head. Studied him like he was assessing fabric quality.

“You have the bone structure,” Vil said.

Leona recoiled like he’d been slapped. “Don’t.”

“The height,” Vil added. “The posture when you’re not slouching on purpose. And”—his gaze flicked briefly to Leona’s face, then away—“a presence people look at even when they don’t want to.”

Leona’s jaw clenched. “You’re not convincing me.”

“I’m not trying to,” Vil said. “I’m informing you.”

Leona pushed off the table. “Inform someone else.”

Vil stepped closer.

Not aggressively. Not dramatically. Just enough that Leona noticed.

“This is not a request for a runway debut,” Vil said. “It’s a single shoot. Editorial. Autumn line, again. Neutral concept.”

Leona snorted. “Neutral.”

“Yes. No theatrics. No makeup beyond correction. You’d be styled minimally.”

“That’s supposed to help?”

“It should,” Vil said. “You hate being ornamented.”

Leona froze.

Vil’s eyes sharpened—just a touch. Like he’d hit something true and knew it.

“I don’t hate—” Leona stopped himself, scowled. “You don’t know anything about what I hate.”

Vil didn’t argue. “Then prove me wrong.”

Silence stretched.

Leona ran a hand through his hair, irritation buzzing under his skin. This was stupid. This was absolutely, profoundly stupid. He didn’t do shoots. He didn’t stand under lights while strangers poked at him. He didn’t let people look.

“You said driver,” Leona said finally. “You’re changing the deal.”

“The driver is back,” Vil replied smoothly.

Leona’s eyes snapped up. “What?”

Vil smiled again. Smaller. Sharper. “An hour ago.”

Leona stared at him. “…You absolute menace.”

“Language,” Vil said, pleased.

“So this was a setup.”

“This was an opportunity,” Vil corrected. “You can still say no.”

Leona exhaled slowly through his nose. “And if I do?”

Vil shrugged. “Then I’ll hire someone else. Life will continue. You’ll go back to skipping class and pretending you don’t notice when people stare.”

Leona’s teeth ground together.

“You’re annoying,” he muttered.

“Yes.”

“And manipulative.”

“Also yes.”

“And I hate that this is working.”

Vil’s brow arched. “So it is.”

Leona looked away. At the plants. At the light filtering through the glass. Anywhere but at Vil.

“…One,” he said.

Vil’s smile sharpened. “One.”

“One shoot,” Leona continued. “No interviews. No press. No stupid ‘mystery model’ teaser nonsense.”

“Agreed.”

“No makeup.”

“Correction only.”

“No crowns. No animal themes.”

Vil paused. “…Fine.”

Leona sighed. “And if anyone recognizes me—”

“They won’t,” Vil said immediately. “And if they do, I’ll handle it.”

Leona glanced back at him. “You swear.”

Vil met his eyes. Serious now. “I swear.”

That did it. That stupid, earnest look. Like Vil took this—took him—seriously.

“Damn it,” Leona muttered.

Vil’s eyes lit. “So—”

“Don’t get excited,” Leona snapped. “I’m not agreeing.”

Vil waited.

Leona dragged a hand down his face. “…I’m considering.”

Vil smiled like he’d already won.

“Tomorrow,” Vil said. “After classes.”

Leona frowned. “That’s fast.”

“You strike while the light is right.”

Leona scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Vil said softly, turning toward the door, “you didn’t say no.”

He stopped at the threshold.

“Wear something simple,” Vil added. “Black, if possible.”

Leona stared at his back. “You’re already styling me?”

Vil glanced over his shoulder, lips curving.

“I always am.”

Then he left.

Leona stood there, alone in the greenhouse, heart doing something deeply inconvenient in his chest.

“…This is a terrible idea,” he muttered.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

A message from Vil.

Vil: tomorrow, 4pm. don’t be late.

Leona stared at the screen.

Then typed back—

Leona: if this ruins my life im blaming you

Three dots appeared.

Then—

Vil: i’ll take it as something to look forward to.

Leona groaned, shoving the phone away.

“…I’m doomed.”

Chapter Text

Vil did not return to his room immediately.

Instead, he changed direction halfway through the corridor, heels clicking with purpose as he headed toward the west wing. The Film Research Club met twice a week in a converted studio classroom—blackout curtains, adjustable lighting rigs, editing stations pushed neatly against the walls. It was one of the few spaces on campus Vil tolerated for long periods of time.

Order lived there. Thrived.

When he entered, conversation dipped—his presence recalibrated the room. Students straightened. Someone hastily minimized a tab. A camera tripod was nudged into proper alignment.

“Positions,” Vil said calmly, setting his bag down at the front desk. “If you’re not actively contributing, observe quietly.”

Chairs scraped. People moved.

Good.

He shrugged off his coat and draped it with care over the back of a chair, then crossed to the central monitor. The screen displayed paused footage from a student project—composition clumsy, lighting uneven, framing indecisive.

Vil pressed play.

He watched for exactly twelve seconds before lifting a hand.

“Stop.”

The footage froze.

“This shot tells me nothing,” Vil said, folding his arms. “You’re afraid to commit to a focal point. Decide what you want the audience to look at, or don’t shoot at all.”

A student swallowed. Nodded.

Vil adjusted the lighting levels himself, fingers deft, practiced. He spoke as he worked—about intention, about restraint, about the difference between excess and impact. His voice was steady. Controlled. The kind that made people listen even when they didn’t fully understand yet.

This—this was familiar. This was safe.

For a while, he almost forgot about the greenhouse. About the heat. About the way Leona Kingscholar had stood like he did not belong to anyone’s composition but his own.

Almost.

“Vil.”

Rook’s voice drifted in from behind him, bright with interest.

Vil didn’t turn right away. He finished adjusting the levels, issued a brief instruction, then pivoted.

“Yes?”

Rook stood near the back of the room, hands clasped loosely, eyes alight like he’d stumbled upon something delightful.

Vil’s gaze sharpened. “Rook. Why are you here?”

Rook smiled. “Ah—Science Club. Professor Crewel dismissed us early. Though I believe that observing the beauty of that chemical explosion would have been… merveilleux.” He shrugged lightly, sighing. “So I decided to take a look at the other clubs.”

Vil stared at him. “You’re… sightseeing.”

“Observing,” Rook corrected cheerfully.

Vil gestured toward the room. “This is not a zoo.”

“And yet,” Rook said, eyes flicking briefly to the monitor, then back to Vil, “it is fascinating to see what draws your attention.”

Vil turned away, addressing the room. “Five-minute break.”

Chairs scraped. Low conversation resumed.

Rook didn’t move.

“You were difficult to find today,” he said mildly.

Vil kept his back to him. “I was busy.”

“Mm. Of course.” Rook tilted his head. “Still—one cannot help but notice when a pattern breaks.”

Vil turned then, slow and deliberate.

“Be careful,” he said, voice perfectly level. “You’re entertaining conclusions that don’t concern you.”

Rook’s smile widened. “I only admire what I see. And you know that best, ma reine.”

Vil held his gaze for a beat too long. Then sighed.

“We can talk about this later,” he said. “For now, I’d appreciate being left alone to handle my club.”

Rook raised his hands in easy surrender. “As you wish. I will not intrude.”

He turned and left, whistling softly, as if nothing of consequence had passed between them, a small smile on his face that Vil knew couldn’t ever be truly contained.

The session resumed. Vil corrected, refined, and directed. By the time the club ended, the footage had improved—and his composure had settled back into place.

He dismissed them and gathered his things.

Only once the room was empty did his phone vibrate.

Vil glanced down as he stepped into the hallway.

Not a message.

A notification.

He stopped.

A photo filled the screen.

Grainy, but deliberate. Taken from a distance. The greenhouse doors, sunlight spilling through the glass—and framed within it, Leona Kingscholar. Unaware. Unposed. Expression caught in a quiet moment he clearly hadn’t meant to share with anyone.

Vil’s fingers tightened around the phone.

Who’s your new model, Vil~?

Vil stared at the screen.

Slowly, he locked the phone.

His reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass—composed, flawless, furious.

“So,” Vil murmured under his breath, voice barely audible in the echoing hall. “It begins.”

Chapter Text

Leona was already annoyed before the day found a way to get worse.

He sat on the edge of his bed with one boot on, the other kicked off somewhere behind him, elbow braced against his knee as he tugged at a stubborn lace. The fabric bit back like it had a personal grudge. He yanked harder than necessary.

“Tch.”

The dorm room was too quiet. Not peaceful—never that—but hollow. Like sound had decided not to linger. Sunlight slipped in through the half-open curtains, landing across the floor in a way that felt intrusive rather than warm.

He finished tying the lace and stood, stretching with a low groan. His shoulder popped. Great. Add that to the list.

He wasn’t going to class. That much had been decided hours ago. But skipping didn’t mean doing nothing. It just meant doing things on his terms. Right now, that meant retrieving the jacket Ruggie had borrowed weeks ago and never returned—something about ‘emergency funds’ and ‘temporary redistribution’.

Which translated to: Leona was cold and irritated. Sure, he’d been generous and given Ruggie that go-signal to get a meal for himself, but that’s where it ended.

He grabbed his wallet and his phone, shoved both into his pocket, and left.

The halls were in that awkward in-between state. Classes ongoing, but not so empty that said halls felt abandoned. Footsteps echoed occasionally. Distant chatter leaked through classroom doors. Leona kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched, and eyes half-lidded in his usual don’t-look-at-me posture.

He cut through the west wing to save time.

Halfway down the corridor, he slowed.

Not stopped. Just… slowed. Something tugged at the back of his awareness. Not a sound. Not a smell. Just that faint pressure between the shoulders that said: pay attention. Instinct?

Leona glanced sideways.

Nothing.

The corridor looked the same as always—rows of doors, polished floors, a security mirror mounted high in the corner. He clicked his tongue and kept walking.

The storage room door was at the far end. He reached for the handle. It didn’t move.

Leona frowned and tried again, harder this time. The handle rattled uselessly.

“…you serious?” he murmured.

He leaned his weight into it. The door shuddered but stayed firmly shut.

Fantastic.

He stepped back, considering his options. Kicking it would draw attention. Waiting would waste time. Calling Ruggie—

Leona reached for his pocket.

Nothing.

He froze.

He checked again. Slower. More deliberate. Vest pocket. Pants pocket. Back pocket.

Empty.

His jaw tightened.

“No,” he muttered. “No, that’s not—”

He patted himself down again, irritation spiking. His phone was always in his pocket. Always. He didn’t misplace things, ‘lazy’ as he could be. Other people misplaced things. He noticed things.

He scanned the hallway, half-expecting to see it on the floor.

Nothing.

The lights flickered.

Leona looked up.

Once. Twice. The overhead lights dimmed, then steadied. Old wiring, maybe. NRC wasn’t exactly known for its maintenance budget.

Still.

He shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how quiet the corridor had become. The background noise—footsteps, distant voices—felt muted. Like someone had turned the volume down a notch.

He exhaled slowly.

“Alright,” he said to the empty hall. “Real funny.”

No response.

He glanced at the mirror.

His reflection stared back, warped slightly by the curve of the glass. For a second—just a second—it lagged behind his movement.

Leona stiffened.

Then the reflection corrected itself, snapping back into sync.

He stared at it, muscles tense.

“…Yeah. No.”

He turned away sharply, irritation crawling up his spine. He wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t in the mood for whatever nonsense the school felt like pulling today.

He started down the hall again—

—and nearly walked straight into a cart that hadn’t been there before.

“What the hell?”

He caught it instinctively, metal cold under his palm. The cart wobbled, stacked with sealed black cases, each stamped with bold lettering.

PROPERTY OF NRC
MEDIA DEPARTMENT

Leona frowned.

This corridor didn’t connect to the media wing.

He shoved the cart aside with more force than necessary. “Who leaves this junk—”

Crunch.

He looked down.

A shard of glass lay near his boot. Clean-edged. Fresh. Not dusted over. Not cracked from age.

He crouched, picked it up between two fingers.

Too curved to be from a window.

A lens fragment.

Leona straightened slowly.

The irritation had shifted. Sharpened. Focused.

He scanned the hallway again. Still empty. Still quiet. Too tidy. Like everything had already been reset.

His phone buzzed.

Leona startled, then scowled as he pulled it out.

There it was.

In his pocket. Screen lit. No notifications. No missed calls. Battery full.

As if it had never been gone.

He stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen.

“…I’m not doing this,” he muttered.

He shoved the phone away and walked off, pace faster now, jaw clenched. He didn’t look at the mirror when he passed it again.

He didn’t look back.

♕

By the time he reached the main stairwell, the feeling had faded—just enough to be infuriating. Like waking from a dream and only remembering the discomfort.

Ruggie was exactly where Leona expected him to be: lounging near the vending machines, counting coins.

“You’re late,” Ruggie said without looking up.

“I didn’t ask,” Leona replied, dropping into a seat beside him. “Where’s my jacket?”

“Oh, I got it laundered like two days ago. It’s in your closet.”

Leona’s eye twitched.

“You’re kidding.”

Ruggie shrugged. “You mad?”

“I’m not answering that,” Leona said flatly. “We’re going the long way.”

They didn’t talk about it after that. Leona didn’t bring it up. There was no point. No proof. No explanation that didn’t sound ridiculous.

Still—

Later, when he finally checked his phone again, there was a new notification.

No sender. No preview.

Just a timestamp.

Taken earlier today.

Leona stared at the badly-framed thumbnail.

The west wing corridor.

Him—caught mid-step, head turned slightly, eyes sharp like he’d almost noticed something just out of frame.

The message underneath was short.

You almost looked at the camera, Leona~
I wonder what my queen sees in you.

Leona’s fingers tightened around the phone.

First thought: nickname.

Not just his name—Leona~. Familiar. Teasing. The kind of familiarity people used when they thought they were clever, when they thought proximity gave them permission.

Second thought: timing.

The photo wasn’t new. It had been taken earlier during the lull, when the greenhouse had felt quiet enough. Which meant whoever sent it had waited. Let him move. Let the moment pass. Let him forget just enough.

Calculated.

Leona unlocked the screen again and studied the image properly this time.

The angle was too deliberate for coincidence. Too clean. Framed like someone who understood composition. Someone who knew how to watch without being seen.

His jaw tightened.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Because suddenly, annoyingly, a name slid into place.

And if this had anything to do with that damned shoot…

Leona massaged his temple. “I can’t catch one break around here.”

Chapter Text

4:02 PM.

Vil checked the time without looking like he was checking the time.

“Unacceptable,” he muttered. But, really—what did he expect? Leona, showing up early? He had much more hope for Epel to let go of his strange, boisterous tendencies.

He didn’t sigh—that implied impatience, and he was beyond impatient now. He adjusted the fall of a silk drape on the backdrop, smoothing the fabric with precise fingers. The studio lights were already warmed, too. Soft amber wash against a muted autumn palette, with burnished golds and deep moths—a controlled kind of warmth. He’d chosen it deliberately. It was strength without spectacle of any kind. Elegance without effort. It would have suited Leona perfectly.

That is… if he bothered to show up.

Vil straightened his posture, turning to inspect the monitor. The crew moved quietly around him, efficient and respectful. No wasted motion. They knew better.

“Check the aperture again,” he said calmly. “I don’t want the highlights bleeding.”

“Of course, Mr. Schoenheit.”

He folded his arms loosely, phone gripped tightly in his hand.

He hadn’t deleted the message, though he knew he should’ve at one point. Ordinarily, he would have archived it, forwarded it to the appropriate security contact, documented the number, and moved on. He’d done it countless times before—the screenshots, reports. Detachment.

This one remained open in his recents. 

Who’s your new model, Vil~?

He checked the time again: 4:10. 

Vil lowered the phone slowly, expression composed, shoulders squared beneath immaculate tailoring. Suddenly, the backdrop seemed like a stage holding its breath.

He didn’t like being watched—which, as a statement, sounded absurd, given his profession. He had built a career on being seen. On understanding angles, light, narrative. On controlling what people were allowed to perceive. 

But that was the difference. 

The message had not been invasive because it contained a photograph.

It had been invasive because it had been careless with framing.

Leona had not been posed or prepared or curated.

He had been… real.

Vil folded his arms lightly, nails tapping once against his sleeve.

Stalkers were not new.

He was famous. That was a simple equation. Fame created fixation. Fixation created behavior. He had dealt with letters that crossed the line from admiration into delusion. Anonymous accounts that tracked his public appearances down to the minute. Photographers who lingered too long in places they had no business being. He knew how to manage obsession.

This, however—

This did not center him.

The sender had not asked about him.

They had asked about Leona.

The message didn’t sound accusatory. It sounded curious, possessive, even, if one squinted. It was as if the sender believed they were entitled to context. 

Vil’s gaze shifted to the studio door. It was the timing, too, that was unsettling. He had just asked Leona to model—exactly when the photo was taken. Yesterday. The shoot hadn’t been announced, not publicly. Not even widely within the school. Rook wouldn’t have said anything, even with that mouth of his—not without Vil’s permission. So…

The photograph was no coincidence. Someone had been watching before the shoot was official.

And someone had decided Leona was worth watching through Vil. 

The door opened. Vil did not turn immediately, nor did he rush to do so.

“Fifteen minutes late,” he said coolly, looking at his watch. “I expected better.”

Leona’s voice answered, dry as ever. “You always do.”

Vil turned then.

Leona stood in the doorway like he resented the light itself for touching him. Long hair slightly mussed. Expression unreadable. Irritated in that quiet, simmering way that meant he’d already decided something today had been beneath him.

Vil’s eyes swept over him once, assessment instinctive.

There.

Tension. Subtle, but present anyway.

Alertness. Alertness that Vil didn’t think was possible for Leona.

He stepped closer, adjusting Leona’s collar without asking for permission. His hands brushed the fabric, smoothed it down.

“You’re distracted,” Vil said, trying to sound light.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Leona’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t pull away.

Vil’s own reflection flickered briefly in Leona’s eyes, warped by the studio lights.

He considered his next words carefully.

“Have you been in the greenhouse today?” he asked. “Since yesterday?”

Leona paused.

A fractional pause.

“Why?”

Vil’s expression did not change. “Humor me.”

Leona studied him for a second too long—evaluating. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. 

“Did anything… unusual occur?”

Vil felt it the second he said it. Leona’s shoulders squaring—not defensively, but deliberately. The way his eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Define unusual,” Leona said.

Vil reached into his pocket.

He turned the phone around and held it up between them.

The image glowed under studio lights.

The greenhouse doors. The sunlight. Leona, caught mid-moment.

Unaware.

Unposed.

Leona went very still.

Vil watched him carefully.

“Someone sent me this,” Vil said evenly. “Last night.”

A beat. Silence stretched between them—not loud or dramatic. Somewhere behind them, a camera lens adjusted with a quiet, mechanical click. 

Vil’s eyes flicked toward the sound. All equipment had been accounted for. Every angle approved. And yet—

For the first time since stepping into the studio, he did not feel entirely in command of the frame.

He looked back at Leona.

“Now,” Vil said quietly, “tell me why you look like you’ve seen this before.”

♕

Leona didn’t answer immediately. 

He didn’t blink, either. His eyes moved over the image once—slow. Clinical. Not shocked or confused, but calculating. Vil knew that look.

Recognition.

The silence stretched just long enough for the crew to start pretending they weren’t listening.

“Answer me,” Vil said.

Leona exhaled through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’ve seen it.”

Vil’s fingers tightened around the phone. “When?”

“This morning. Around before I headed out—maybe two or three hours before.”

A flicker, just barely there, but Vil felt it anyway.

“You received it,” he said carefully.

“Something like it.”

Vil lowered the phone by an inch. “Be specific.”

Leona’s jaw flexed.

“You almost looked at the camera, Leona,” he recited, tone dry and mocking. “I wonder what my queen sees in you.”

It was Vil’s turn to go still.

The words echoed in his head in the same sing-song cadence as the other message.

Same tilde, same voice, same assumption of familiarity.

“Show me,” Vil said.

Leona didn’t move.

“Leona.”

A beat.

Then, slow and reluctant, Leona reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone. He didn’t hand it over immediately. His thumb hovered over the screen like he was reconsidering this entire interaction.

Then he turned it.

Vil stepped closer.

The photo was different.

Not the greenhouse doors.

The studio.

Taken earlier today.

Vil adjusting the silk drape. Back turned. Crew blurred in the background. Framed from the doorway.

Vil’s stomach dropped.

“This was sent when?” he asked, voice steady by sheer force of will.

“Just a few minutes ago,” Leona replied. “I was parking.”

Vil checked the timestamp.

4:02 PM.

He had been standing exactly where he was in that photo.

Which meant—

“They’re here,” Vil said.

Leona’s gaze slid to the corners of the room. The ceiling. The lights.

His posture had changed completely now.

No more lazy slouch. Predatory.

“Could be old,” Leona muttered, though his voice signified he knew it wasn’t.

“It isn’t,” Vil said instantly. “The drape was adjusted at 4:02. I was waiting on you.”

Leona glanced at him.

“You notice everything, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

A crew member shifted nervously near the monitors.

“Mr. Schoenheit?” they asked carefully. “Is something wrong?”

Vil turned, smile already in place. Perfect. Polished. Untouchable.

“No,” he said smoothly. “We’ll begin shortly.”

The crew relaxed.

Leona did not.

Vil stepped closer to him again, lowering his voice.

“This is not a coincidence,” he said. “Two separate messages. Two separate angles. Same tone.”

Leona’s mouth twitched faintly.

“Your fan club’s getting creative.”

“This is not admiration,” Vil replied coolly.

Leona’s eyes flicked back to the doorway.

“You think it’s someone in here?”

“I think,” Vil said evenly, “that whoever it is knows our schedules.”

Leona’s gaze sharpened.

“That means access,” Vil continued. “Observation.”

“Who knows about today?” Leona asked.

“Officially?” Vil replied. “Some of the housewardens—Azul and Riddle. I had to excuse us from the meeting. My crew knows. And Rook.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed slightly at that.

Vil noticed.

“You suspect him,” Vil said.

“You don’t?”

“Rook is theatrical. Not careless.”

Leona huffed faintly.

“Everyone’s careless.”

Vil studied the image again.

The framing was intentional.

Not rushed.

Not shaky.

The sender… didn’t seem like they were just watching.

And that bothered him more than anything.

“Why send them to us?” Leona muttered.

Vil didn’t answer right away. It could have meant anything. Attention. Reaction. Division.

The messages were testing.

Vil looked up slowly.

“They want us to know,” he said.

Leona’s expression darkened.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s the annoying part.”

Silence fell again, but this time, it felt heavier.

Awareness.

Vil lifted his chin.

“We proceed as planned,” he said calmly. “We do not react publicly. We do not alert the crew.”

Leona raised a brow. “And privately?”

Vil’s eyes gleamed faintly.

“Privately,” he said, “we find them.”

Chapter Text

Nothing about the situation was funny. 

And yet, Leona almost laughed. 

“We find them,” Vil said, like he was announcing some kind of skincare regimen. Like it was a matter of preference—like Leona hadn’t already started. 

He watched Vil’s expression reset—the sharp edge smoothing into something polished and fit for the public. 

“Fine,” Leona said. “You lead. I’ll watch.”

Vil’s brow arched. “How generous.” 

“You’re the one who likes plays.”

“So what? You’re the one who pretends not to.” Vil turned away as Leona rolled his eyes. “Positions.”

The crew snapped back into motion. Leona stepped into place under the lights. He hated studio heat—it clung. Artificial warmth, glow, everything. It was nothing like real sunlight. Nothing like the greenhouse. 

Vil picked up his tablet, reviewing the framing.

“You think it’s someone inside the school?” Leona asked casually, as if they were discussing the weather. 

“I think the timing suggests proximity,” Vil replied without looking up.

Leona shifted his weight. “You’re ruling out random fixation?” 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Random fixation doesn’t escalate strategically,” Vil said as he adjusted the lens focus slightly. “Not ones like this, anyway.”

Leona thought about it. The messages weren’t frantic or messy—they were composed, targeted. They were studying one of them, or both of them, he thought. Vil seemed to think the same thing, from the way his eyes stayed fixed on the lens. If he wasn’t, then the silence was out of place—which Vil never was.

“They’ll expect a reaction,” Leona said, tilting his head slightly.

Vil hummed. “Yes. We won’t give them one.”

Leona nodded. “‘Kay. Fine by me.”

Vil stepped closer to adjust his collar again. “You’re taking this rather calmly.”

Leona’s eyes lowered briefly to Vil’s hands. “Am I?”

“Yes. But I shouldn’t have expected less, really. Not from you.”

Leona held his gaze but scoffed anyway. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh? I don’t scare easily.”

Vil’s lips curved faintly. “I know.”

Leona… didn’t like how that landed in his chest. Before he could process it, Vil stepped back.

“Enough,” he said smoothly, snapping back to director mode. “Focus. Alain! Go get Maria. Let’s begin.”

The crew snapped back into motion—though not without a few lingering glances.

A lighting assistant stared a second too long. Someone near the backdrop whispered something that cut off too quickly. The photographer blinked, looked at Leona again, then away.

Leona caught the word prince.

Of course he did.

Vil didn’t look up from his tablet. “If you’re going to gawk,” he said coolly, “at least do it productively. He is not an exhibit.”

The assistant flushed and scrambled back to work.

Leona exhaled through his nose. “You’d think they’d have figured it out before I walked in.”

“They did,” Vil replied mildly. “They were simply hoping they were mistaken.”

Leona scoffed. “Disappointed?”

“Intimidated,” Vil corrected. “There is a difference.”

Leona’s eyes slid toward him. “And you’re not?”

Vil finally looked up.

“It’s not just you who doesn’t scare easily.”

A beat.

“But it would be foolish to pretend you aren’t… noticeable.”

Leona smirked faintly. “That almost sounded like praise.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

♕

The shoot began.

Leona shifted into his pose, looking past the camera. He watched the reflections in metal surfaces, the glints in the glass. Movement where there shouldn’t be any.

“Relax your shoulders,” Vil instructed from behind the camera. “You’re too rigid.”

Leona groaned. “You said strength without spectacle.”

“Yes. Not suspicion without subtlety. Fix it.”

Leona almost smirked. Vil saw it.

CLICK!

FLASH!

The lights dipped—barely. But Leona saw Vil see it. And Vil knew Leona saw him see it.

Neither acknowledged it out loud.

Leona adjusted his stance slightly.

“Tell me something,” he said, voice low enough that only Vil could hear between shots.

“This is hardly the moment for idle curiosity.”

“Humor me.”

Vil sighed—controlled, minimal.

“Speak.”

“As if I need your permission,” Leona said, eyes still fixed forward. “If it were someone close, would you want to know for certain?”

Vil didn’t answer immediately.

The shutter clicked again.

Finally:

“Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

“None.”

Leona glanced at him.

“Liar.”

Vil’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“You think I would prioritize comfort over truth?”

“I think,” Leona said evenly, “you’re tired of being written out before the final act.”

The shutter clicked again.

“And you hate that you can see it coming.”

The words hung there.

Vil stepped closer again under the guise of adjusting the fall of fabric at Leona’s shoulder.

“Do not project,” he said softly.

Leona met his eyes.

“I’m not.”

Another flicker overhead.

This one longer.

The photographer frowned.

“Did that just—?”

“It’s fine,” Vil said smoothly.

But his fingers lingered on Leona’s collar half a second too long.

Leona noticed.

“You feel it too,” he murmured.

Vil’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Yes.”

There it was.

Something was off.

Leona straightened slightly. 

“If they’re studying us,” he said, “they’ll want data.”

Vil frowned. “And?”

Leona smirked. “Let’s give ‘em that show.”

“I’ve no qualms. You’re suggesting we perform?”

“I’m suggesting we control what they think they’re seeing.”

A slow smile formed on Vil’s lips—almost impressed.

“Careful,” he mused. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Don’t insult me.”

But Leona stepped closer anyway.

Close enough that the tension read differently on camera. Close enough that the framing shifted.

The photographer blinked. “Is this… intentional?”

Vil didn’t look away from Leona.

“Yes.”

CLICK! FLASH!

The air felt heavier. Charged. And for just a moment—

Leona thought he saw movement in the reflection of the monitor behind Vil. Not crew. Not equipment. A… shadow. One that disappeared too quickly.

He didn’t react. He leaned in.

“They’re watching right now,” Leona murmured.

Vil didn’t pull away. “I know.”

CLICK!

FLASH!

BZZT!

A phone’s vibration. It wasn’t Vil’s—his was in his hands. Wasn’t Leona’s either—it was in his pocket.

One of the crew froze. Slowly, he looked down at his pocket.

Leona smiled without breaking pose. “Now that’s interesting.”

Chapter Text

The room went quiet.

The crew member’s hand trembled as he pulled the vibrating phone from his pocket—and Vil saw it before anyone else did.

The fear.

It moved through the room in a subtler wave akin to the tightening of shoulders or a shift in breathing. People instinctively glanced at one another as if looking to confirm—despite seeing the event unfold before their own eyes—that the phone was not theirs.

“Answer it,” Vil said evenly.

The man’s face went pale. "W-What? ”

“The phone,” Vil clarified without raising his voice. “Someone’s calling. Answer.”

“I-It stopped,” the man stammered. “There’s not—it’s n-nothing—”

“Answer.”

The screen lit.

Nothing. 

No missed call, no notification banner. No open application.

But the ringing, the vibration had been real. The reaction wasn’t staged among the staff.

Pulse visible at the temple, Vil thought, cataloguing the crew member’s earlier microexpressions. Slight tremor in the fingers. Confusion seemed to… override embarrassment. Rise above it, in a way. In any case, the crew member was too… unpolished to be an accomplice.

“Open your recent calls,” he said to the man.

Empty.

Leona stepped down from his mark now, circling slightly behind Vil.

Vil didn’t look at him. 

“Messages,” he continued.

Nothing new.

“Camera roll.”

The man hesitated. “W-Why?”

Vil’s eyes flicked up at him. That was enough.

The newest image loaded.

The room went quiet again. 

It was the studio. From an angle no one in the room was currently supposed to occupy. High—slightly diagonal. Framed through the light rigging. Leona was leaning in, Vil’s hand on his collar.

The timestamp read 18:42. Vil checked the wall clock.

18:43. 

“That’s not—” the photographer started.

“Maybe it was transferred?” one of the crew members suggested weakly, as if that explanation would suffice.

“T-There was no prompt,” the man whispered. “It just—it just vibrated.”

Vil crossed the studio floor without hurry, every step measured. He didn’t look at Leona, but he saw him shift half a step closer, the room seemingly bending around him. Watched and watching.

Vil extended his hand. The phone was passed to him.

Cold. No residual heat from prolonged use—and it was an older model, too. The battery was at eighty-seven percent, and there were no active notifications. No tampering anywhere within the phone.

Rear camera, no file transfer data, no external source.

“It believes it took the photo,” Vil said, though he knew that made no sense either. “But the angle’s wrong.”

Leona looked up.

The light rigging stretched in a web of black metal and cables overhead, shadows layering over each other in sharp geometric patterns. Then—

Between the two crossbeams.

A small shape—a small, red dotted light. A compact device mounted high.

The lens caught the light. 

“That wasn’t installed,” Alain said. “We didn’t—”

“No,” Vil muttered. 

Leona moved before anyone else did. Two strides and he was at the edge of the set, craning his neck upward.

“How high?” he asked. 

“Three meters,” someone replied automatically. 

“Ladder,” Leona said.

No one moved. Vil didn’t raise his voice.

“Bring it,” he said.

An assistant rushed toward the storage area.

The man still hadn’t moved. He stared at the image like it might change if he looked at it long enough.

“Zoom in,” Vil said. The man complied.

In the reflection of the monitor—there it was. 

A figure standing near the back corridor door, half-obscured by glare. 

Vil turned immediately. The corridor door stood closed, the handle unmoving.

“Who was back there?” Leona asked. No one answered. 

The assistant returned with the ladder, nearly tripping over a cable in his haste.

Leona caught it before it fell and set it beneath the rigging.

“Careful,” Vil said.

Leona glanced down at him, faint irritation flashing. “I ain’t the one in heels.”

And then he climbed. The metal creaked faintly under his weight.

Every eye in the room tracked him upward.

Vil’s didn’t.

He was still studying the photo. The timestamp. The angle. The reflection.

The corridor door in the image—

Was open. A sliver of darkness visible beyond it.

Vil’s head lifted slowly.

“Leona.”

He didn’t like how his own voice sounded just then. Measured, as always. Collected…

…but thin.

Leona paused halfway up. “What?”

“In the image,” Vil said, “the door was open.”

Silence.

Every head turned toward the back wall.

The door was closed.

Locked.

Leona didn’t come down.

He climbed the rest of the way. Reached the mounted device.

“Camera,” he confirmed. “Compact. Doesn’t look like any of the other ones here. Wrong brand, too. You got any special cameras?”

“No, all our cameras are custom-made,” Vil said. “Can you see if it’s powered?”

A beat.

“…It’s not wired.”

The words settled heavily.

“Battery?” someone whispered.

Leona’s hand hovered near it.

The red light blinked.

On.

The monitor behind Vil flickered. The live feed vanished, replaced.

Not with static.

With the same image from the phone.

Except—

It updated. 

Leona was now visible in the frame—on the ladder, hand inches away from the device. And in the reflection—

The corridor door stood wide open, a shape moving through it.

Vil turned again.

The corridor door behind the equipment cases was open now. Not wide, but enough.

A black line split the wall.

No one had touched it in the past hour. No one had even gone near it.

Leona dropped from the ladder without hesitation.

Vil didn’t think.

He stepped forward at the same time, grabbing the nearest light stand and shoving it sideways, blocking the direct path between the open corridor and the center of the set.

“Everyone behind me,” he said.

No one argued.

The air had changed completely now.

No longer curious.

No longer controlled.

The phone in his hand vibrated again. This time, the screen lit up on its own.

A message preview with an unknown sender.

No number. Just text.

You looked better when you didn’t know.

Vil did not show Leona.

Not yet.

From the corridor—

A sound.

Soft.

Not footsteps.

Breathing.

Close.

Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your sight. As thanks for that…

Why don’t you check back at your room, Vil? I left you a little something.

Just cuz I love ya.

Chapter Text

 One second, Vil was standing there, fingers tight around a stranger’s phone, expression clipped with those violet eyes widening ever so slightly. The next—

 Leona did not believe in panic. It was inefficient and dulled instinct. Panicking got you killed, as far as he knew. But there was something tightening under his ribs—something tight and sharp and very, very wrong.

 He didn’t remember grabbing Vil’s wrist. 

 But he did remember the look Vil gave him when he did.

 Decision. 

 The studio could deal with itself. Security could comb the corridor. Staff could scream or speculate or freeze, but none of that mattered if the message had been real.

 He didn’t miss the way Vil’s pulse seemed to jump at the line or how he hadn’t shown him the message the second it had been sent.

 Leona noticed everything.

 ♕

 The drive was too fast. 

 Leona didn’t speed recklessly. He drove like he hunted—measured and precise, cutting through traffic. But the engine ran hotter and louder than usual, the road stretching further with every passing second, the city lights blurring past in gold streaks against the windshield. Leona had forgotten how far the studio was from Night Raven. 

 Vil didn’t ask him to slow down, his face like frames of a film as they passed intervals. He was looking at his own phone, though he didn’t type or call anything or anyone. 

 He was reading. 

 Leona kept his eyes on the road, but tracked everything else—the subtle change in Vil’s breathing, the faint tremor in his fingers before he deliberately stilled them against his knee.

 “You think it’s a bluff?” Leona asked. 

 “No,” Vil replied immediately. 

 “You think it could still be random?”

 “It isn’t.”

 Leona felt Vil thinking—-thinking fast. Precise. For a star like Vil, stalkers and over-the-top fans were no new thing. Attention followed him like gravity, thousands of eyes watching him comb his hair or brush his teeth. But this—

This was far from adoration. It was orchestration, obsession. Leona had seen it there, that camera that hadn’t been for shock, but to prove access. Obviously, it hadn’t been random. It was staged, not just with the camera, but with the reflections and the doors , the grand messages themselves—

 Why don’t you check back at your room, Vil? 

Leona’s grip tightened on the wheel. “You think it’s him?” He didn’t bother to say the name; judging from Vil’s expression, and the sudden beat of silence, it seemed he picked up on what—who—Leona was referring to.

 “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Which is worse.”

 Leona exhaled through his nose. He didn’t like how quickly his thoughts had jumped to Rook Hunt. It was the most logical explanation—who else would have that much access to Vil’s schedules? Rook had obsession written into his bones like poetry. Rook watched and studied people for sport. 

 But he also adored Vil in a way that was loud. Theatrical, but with a different kind of transparency. 

 But obsession wasn’t the same thing as malice.

 Right?

 Rook’s adoration, to Leona, almost felt surgical.

 He glanced to the seat beside him—Vil’s eyes stayed glued to his phone.

 The gates at Pomefiore loomed ahead. 

 Leona didn’t slow down until the last second.

 ♕

 Pomefiore’s gates opened under Vil’s dorm crest recognition. Students were still out in the courtyard when they arrived. They noticed the car first and stared. Sadly, Leona stepping out of his car wasn’t subtle on a good day. But then again, there was no time to attempt subtlety at all. A few murmurs ripped through the courtyard—confusion, curiosity. They also noticed Vil—well, of course they’d notice Vil.

 He stepped beside Leona, already reclaiming his regal, untouchable poise, ignoring the whispers rippling. Leona saw him reassembling his persona—spine lengthened, chin tilted just enough. Whatever storm existed internally did not reach his face. 

Leona scanned the steps automatically.

 No dramatic entrance from the steps. No amused commentary. No familiar voice greeting Vil like he’d been waiting. No Rook. 

 Vil seemed to notice too. But he kept his lips pursed.

 They moved through the dorm without speaking. Students pressed themselves subtly aside, the air was tense and it was clear that they understood that both Leona and Vil had no time to entertain paparazzi questions. 

 Halfway through the hall, someone nearly collided with them—

 “Housewarden!”

 An ephemeral young man with features so dainty that he could pass as an extremely beautiful teenage girl. Lavender locks curled and arranged, though Leona knew he had not done such a hairstyle himself, and it wasn’t his first time seeing the young man either. 

 “Epel,” Vil said. 

 Epel stopped short when he saw Leona. Blinked.

 “What happened?” he asked, eyes darting between them. “Y’all—uh, you both left before class ended. Rook said it was probably a shoot, but—”

 “Where is he?” Vil pressed.

 Epel frowned. “He said he had something to check, but he didn’t say what. Wasn’t he at the gates?”

 Leona’s ears flattened slightly before he consciously forced them back. 

“When’d you see him last?” he asked.

Epel blinked at him again like he wasn’t used to being addressed—or he was too used.

“Um, an hour, I think? Maybe less. But he looked normal! Well, weird normal. Like, you know, how he always is.”

Vil nodded. “Epel, tell the others to stay in the common area until I say otherwise.”

Epel opened his mouth to argue. Vil didn’t raise his voice. “Now.”

The boy swallowed it and nodded.

Leona didn’t wait. He was already moving.

 ♕

 The hallway to Vil’s private quarters was too quiet.

No perfume in the air. No faint hum of curated ambience.

Just stillness. Stillness that settled into the deepening dread of wrongness.

Vil inserted the key. It didn’t turn. He tried again, but the mechanism resisted with a soft, grinding refusal.

Leona’s stomach dropped. He stepped forward. “Move.”

Vil hesitated only a fraction before stepping aside.

Leona pressed his pen flat against the door.

The magic stirred instantly. Familiar. Ancient. Hungry.

“King’s Roar.”

The wood did not splinter. It disintegrated—grain turning to sand in a controlled collapse, falling inward in a silent cascade of gold-brown dust.

The room revealed itself slowly as the dust settled.

And there—

Rook Hunt lay in the center of the room.

Placed, not thrown. He was on his back, hands folded neatly over his stomach, dorm robes smoothed flat. Hat positioned precisely beside his head, angled just so—as if someone had taken the time to consider symmetry. 

Leona’s stomach tightened.

Over Rook’s eyes, a strip of indigo silk had been tied—Pomefiore indigo. The exact shade woven into their banners and dorm uniforms. The silk itself wasn’t knotted crudely; in fact, it had been folded twice before being wrapped, edges aligned. Intentional, Leona thought.

Across Rook’s chest lay his bow, but the string was missing. In its place was a thin chain. Delicate and metallic and almost pretty. Threaded through the curve of the bow and looped loosely around his folded hands. In the center of the chain rested a small charm—-

 A crown broken cleanly in half.

 Vil moved first.

 “Rook.”

 His voice did not waver. He crossed the room without hesitation, kneeling beside his body, fingers already at Rook’s neck. Leona stayed where he was for half a second too long.

 The windows were locked, the curtains were undisturbed. Furniture looked untouched, and there was no sign of any forced entry besides the door he’d just erased. Everything felt clean. Too clean.

 Vil lifted the silk from Rook’s eyes carefully, like it might bruise him if handled too roughly. There was something in Vil’s posture Leona rarely saw — tension not in his expression, but in the restraint of it. The way his shoulders held just a fraction too still. The way his thumb pressed faintly against Rook’s pulse point longer than necessary.

“He’s breathing,” Vil said. “Steady rhythm.”

Leona stepped forward.

The envelope rested beneath Rook’s folded hands. He picked it up.

Cold paper.

Vil brushed fingers lightly along Rook’s jawline, checking for muscle response. His movements were clinical — assessing pupils, lifting an eyelid, checking for dilation.

“No visible trauma,” Vil murmured. “No injection mark at the neck. Or arms.”

Leona’s gaze dropped to the crown.

“You see that?” he asked quietly.

Vil’s eyes flicked downward.

It wasn’t random jewelry.

The charm had been snapped deliberately. The edges weren’t worn—they were sharp. Recent. There was something ironic about it, or rather, something… like a pattern. A broken crown laid over a hunter. In Pomefiore. 

Leona’s jaw tightened. He unfolded the letter.

 The handwriting was elegant. Decorative, even. The kind of script someone practiced to perfect.

 “You looked so concerned today!” he read aloud, though at the tone his claws threatened to extend again. He forced them back. “I wondered how far you would go if I adjusted the composition.” 

 Adjusted. Not harmed. Adjusted. 

 Leona’s eyes lifted slowly to Rook’s unconscious form again, arranged like a prop. Something styled.

 Vil’s fingers hovered just above Rook’s collarbone now, checking breathing depth. He didn’t interrupt Leona. But Leona could feel him listening.

 “I haven’t harmed him,” he continued, “not yet, anyway. I simply wished to confirm something. It seems I was correct.”

Leona felt something settle into place in his mind. The studio. The camera angle. It was all choreography.

“Now I know which piece to take next.”

The paper crinkled slightly in Leona’s grip.

Vil rose slowly. He didn’t look shaken. He looked as how he always did.

“Sedative,” he said, more to himself than to Leona. “Likely inhaled. There’s a residual scent, can you smell it? Synthetic. It would have dispersed quickly.”

Leona raised a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning whoever did this was in here long enough to administer it. To stage this. To leave.”

“And not trigger anything? With Rook?”

Vil’s eyes lifted to meet his.

“No alarms. No forced entry. No visible damage. Access—internal.”

Leona’s gaze drifted back to the broken crown charm.

Arrangement. Barely subtle.

He felt it then—not panic.

Something colder. Recognition.

“They’re not just watching us,” Leona said. "It's further than that."

Vil’s eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. “I know.”

Rook made a faint sound then.

Barely a breath hitch.

Vil dropped back to his knees instantly.

“Rook.”

His voice softened, but it was not dramatic. But enough that Leona heard the difference.

Rook didn’t wake. His pulse remained steady. Breathing shallow but consistent.

Vil’s fingers brushed stray hair from Rook’s forehead, an automatic gesture, unconsciously done. Then he withdrew his hand like he’d remembered where they were.

“We need to call the infirmary,” Vil said. 

Leona didn’t move yet. His eyes had shifted to the mirror across the room.

There.

On the glass.

At first he thought it was reflection distortion. But it wasn’t.

Written in something nearly invisible, only noticeable because of the angle of the light from the hallway —

A single line traced faintly across the surface.

Not paint.

Not marker.

Something that caught light differently.

Vil followed his gaze.

He rose slowly. They stepped toward the mirror together.

The words in lipstick became clear as they adjusted position.

Two halves make a better crown.

Silence pressed into the room. Leona felt his pulse drop into something dangerous and steady.

Symbolic, the whole thing. Not random.

The broken crown charm. Two halves. Composition. Pieces.

Vil’s reflection stared back at him—perfectly composed, perfectly upright. Only his eyes betrayed anything.

Anger.

Calculated.

“Authorship,” Vil said quietly, almost a gasp.

Leona didn’t look at him. That word settled heavier than the rest.

Someone was constructing a narrative. Positioning them, testing reactions. Measuring attachment.

Rook stirred faintly again, but did not wake.

Leona folded the letter once more, sliding it into his vest.

“I can get him to the infirmary,” he said.

Vil’s gaze lingered on the mirror one moment longer.

“No. He's my hunter. I'll do it.”

Leona did not understand why that line bothered him so. But there were more pressing matters to attend to than what he felt—

—there were always.

He shook it off, taking another look around the room. He had the distinct, chilling awareness that, though the whole thing was a ploy for them to panic with his being harmed, this room had not been staged for Rook.

And as he watched Vil carefully lift Rook into his arms, Leona realized.

It had been staged for them.

Chapter Text

Despite finding it so, so undignified, Vil did not hesitate.

Rook’s weight settled against his arms—lighter than expected, though that was not surprising. Rook had always been lean, more tendon than muscle, built like a creature made to move quickly through forests rather than stand still beneath chandeliers.

And yet, his breathing remained shallow.

Vil adjusted his grip slightly to keep Rook’s head supported.

“Leona,” he said, already turning toward the doorless frame.

But Leona didn’t move. Vil followed his gaze once more to the mirror.

Two halves make a better crown. The words settled somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs. It wasn’t admiration, no, but it certainly wasn’t madness either. Arrangement, as he knew it was. Like they were testing where both Vil and Leona would move on the black-and-white board.

Leona’s voice finally broke the silence. “We should move.”

Vil nodded. They stepped into the hallway—

—and were immediately greeted by a gathering of students.

Not many, somewhere around eight or ten, but enough of them to notice the missing door, the sand scattered across the floor, and the sight of Vil carrying Rook in his arms. To the last sight, a ripple of alarm spread instantly.

“H-Housewarden?”

“Is… is that—?”

“What happened?”

They continued to crowd around the three of them. Vil felt Leona’s fists clench from behind him.

“Outta the way, herbivores,” he said flatly.

It wasn’t loud, but it worked. The students parted immediately. Vil paid them no mind and kept walking.

His expression had returned to something perfectly composed, but his mind was cataloguing every detail again and again. The crown charm. The letter. The mirror message. All of it…

Something shifted in his arms.

Vil felt it immediately.

Rook’s hand twitched weakly against his shoulder.

“Rook?”

A faint breath escaped him.

His eyelids fluttered once, twice.

Then slowly opened.

His vision was unfocused at first, pupils still dilated from whatever sedative had been used. But recognition arrived quickly.

“…Vil?”

His voice was hoarse.

Vil stopped walking.

“Do not attempt to move,” Vil said immediately. “You were drugged.”

Leona stepped closer, arms folding.

“Well look at that,” he muttered. “Hunter’s harder to knock out than they thought.”

Rook blinked again, trying to orient himself.

His eyes moved sluggishly from Vil’s face to the corridor behind him, then toward Leona.

Recognition flickered slowly into place.

“…Ah,” he murmured faintly.

Vil could already see the sedative dragging him back down again. His pupils were still wide, focus lagging.

“That would… explain the unfortunate nap,” Rook said weakly.

Vil frowned. “Do you remember what happened?”

Rook’s gaze drifted again, the effort clearly taxing.

“…Conversation,” he said quietly.

Vil’s attention sharpened. “With who?”

Rook exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing as if trying to catch a memory before it slipped away. “…Someone who did not belong.”

Leona raised a brow. “Yeah, that definitely narrows it down.”

Rook gave the faintest hint of a smile despite the weakness.

“They were very polite,” he murmured.

Vil felt his fingers tighten slightly. “Polite?”

Rook’s gaze shifted back to him, unfocused but intent.

“…They apologized.”

“For what?” Leona asked.

Rook blinked slowly. “For ruining the composition.”

The phrase sat wrong in the air. Vil filed it away immediately.

“Did you see their face?” he asked.

Rook’s eyelids lowered halfway again. “No.”

A beat.

“But they knew yours.”

Vil’s expression did not change, but something cold slid through his chest.

Rook’s head tipped slightly then, the brief consciousness clearly draining fast. His hand lifted weakly as if trying to gesture toward Vil’s shoulder. “…Ah.”

Vil waited.

Rook’s voice dropped to a soft murmur. “…You look very angry, Vil.”

Leona huffed. “He ain’t even started yet.”

Rook’s lips curved faintly. 

Then his hand fell again. His breathing evened out. 

Unconscious once more.

Vil stood still for a moment longer, assessing. Pulse stable. Breathing steady. The sedative had simply worn thin enough to allow a brief return.

“We’re not waiting,” Vil said finally.

Leona nodded once. “No argument there.”

They resumed walking.

The infirmary wing wasn’t far, but the walk felt longer tonight. Students pressed themselves against the walls as they passed, whispers trailing behind them like wind through leaves.

Vil ignored all of it. When they reached the infirmary doors, Leona pushed them open ahead of him.

The lights inside were still on. Vil stepped through without hesitation, laying Rook carefully onto the nearest bed.

“No nurse,” Leona said, emerging out of one of the curtains. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, watching Vil with narrowed eyes. His tail flicked once behind him, slow and irritated.

Vil did not immediately respond.

He adjusted the blankets beneath Rook’s shoulders, ensuring his airway remained unobstructed. Even unconscious, Rook had a habit of turning his head at odd angles, as if he might spring upright at any moment to narrate about the beauty of the nurse’s office.

Vil had always found it ridiculous. Now it was merely… inconvenient.

When he finished, he finally looked up.

“Then we wait,” he said.

Leona snorted quietly. “That’s your plan?”

Vil smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the sheet.

“My plan,” he replied evenly, “is to ensure my dorm member does not stop breathing while the rest of you attempt to pace holes into the floor.”

Leona’s ear twitched.

“Relax,” he said. “If someone wanted him dead, he wouldn’t still be breathing.”

Vil’s eyes sharpened slightly. “Your optimism is charming.”

“It’s realism.”

Leona pushed off the wall and wandered a few steps closer to the bed, gaze dropping to Rook.

For someone who had spent the better part of the last hour unconscious, the hunter still looked irritatingly composed. Even now, his posture had settled into something deliberate—hands loosely folded, hair fanned slightly over the pillow.

Leona clicked his tongue.

“Guy gets staged like a centerpiece and still looks like he planned it.”

Vil did not smile.

But the corner of his mouth shifted faintly.

“That would not surprise me.”

Leona studied Rook a moment longer before his gaze shifted to the thin chain still looped loosely around the bow resting beside him.

“The crown thing,” he said.

Vil followed his gaze.

“Yes.”

Leona picked up the charm carefully between two fingers. The broken crown gleamed faintly under the infirmary lights. He turned it once between his fingers.

“Subtle,” he muttered.

Vil crossed his arms. “Not particularly.”

“Depends how you look at it, really.” Leona tilted his head slightly. “Broken crown. Hunter knocked out in your room. Message about two halves.”

He tossed the charm lightly onto the bedside table. “Feels a little on-the-nose.”

Vil’s mind had already begun rearranging the pieces. 

“Symbolism only works when the audience understands it,” he said finally.

Leona glanced at him sideways. “And you think we’re the audience?”

“I think whoever staged this expects us to understand.”

Leona hummed quietly. “Tracks.”

Vil’s gaze drifted back to Rook. A faint crease had appeared between his brows, like his body was trying to process something even while unconscious. Vil reached out and brushed it away automatically.

Leona noticed. Or he didn’t. But if he did, he didn’t comment on it. Which Vil… appreciated.

Instead, Leona moved toward the infirmary window, peering out into the dark courtyard.

“You ever had someone go this far before?” he asked after a moment.

Vil’s expression remained neutral. “Yes.”

Leona looked back.

“But not like this,” Vil added.

Because this wasn’t screaming fans.

This wasn’t obsessive letters or people trying to sneak into dressing rooms.

This had planning.

Leona leaned his shoulder against the wall again.

“You think it’s someone inside the school?”

Vil considered the question carefully. “No. They wouldn’t go this far for a look. But whoever it is should understand that—understand us. How we think.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Vil said. “Rook said they were polite. Which… would be consistent. In a way.”

Leona raised an eyebrow. “With what?”

Vil sighed. His gaze drifted back to Rook again, more specifically, the small details most people missed. The slight flutter beneath his eyelids. The shallow shift of his breathing. The faint tightening of his fingers against the sheet as the sedative slowly lost its grip.

Vil had spent enough time around film sets, around exhausted actors and fainting extras, to recognize the stages of someone fighting their way back to consciousness.

“People who plan things like this,” Vil said after a moment, “rarely behave erratically.”

Leona huffed softly. “Yeah. Real comforting.”

“They are controlled,” Vil continued, ignoring him. “Deliberate. Courteous, even. They want the situation to remain… clean.”

Leona tilted his head slightly.

“Clean.”

“Yes.”

Vil gestured faintly toward the chain and broken crown resting on the bedside table.

“No struggle. No damage to the room. No injury beyond sedation.” His gaze sharpened. “Everything arranged.”

Leona crossed his arms again.

“You’re saying this creep cares about presentation.”

“I’m saying they care about control.”

That seemed to satisfy Leona more. He pushed off the wall again and paced once across the room before stopping near the foot of the bed.

“Still think it’s someone outside the school?”

Vil considered. 

“I think,” he said carefully, “that whoever it is had enough access to enter my room, incapacitate Rook, and leave without interruption.”

Leona’s ears flattened slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning they either know this place very well,” Vil said, “or they were confident no one would question their presence.”

Leona clicked his tongue. “Great.”

Silence stretched again.

Outside the infirmary windows, the courtyard lamps cast long pale rectangles across the floor. The entire dorm seemed quieter than usual—as if the building itself had sensed something was wrong.

Rook shifted.

Both of them looked down immediately.

His breathing hitched slightly before settling again. His fingers curled faintly against the sheet, then relaxed.

Vil leaned closer, resting two fingers lightly against his wrist.

Pulse steady. But faster now.

The sedative was wearing off.

Leona noticed the gesture.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said.

Vil didn’t look up. “What thing?”

“Acting like you’re not worried.”

Vil’s gaze lifted slowly.

“I am not worried,” he said coolly.

Leona snorted.

“You busted your door down, carried him halfway across the dorm, and you’ve checked his pulse three times in five minutes.”

Vil said nothing.

Leona’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah,” he said. “Totally calm.”

Vil straightened, smoothing his sleeve with deliberate precision.

“I prefer preparedness.”

Leona opened his mouth to reply—

—but Rook made a faint sound.

Not a breath this time.

A quiet groan.

Vil was beside him instantly.

“Rook.”

His eyelids twitched again, slower now, like someone waking from deep sleep rather than sedation.

“…mm.”

Leona leaned closer from the other side of the bed.

“Well, wouldja look at that,” he muttered. “Hunter’s back.”

Chapter Text

Recognition came quickly, flooding into Rook’s eyes as they landed on Vil’s face.

“Vil..?” he murmured weakly.

Vil had already leaned closer, one hand braced on the mattress beside him. “You’re in the infirmary, Rook. Don’t attempt to sit up.”

Rook’s eyes then moved sluggishly to Leona.

“Ah, and the Roi des Lions is here still,” he said. “You certainly have been… inseparable lately.”

Leona rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with that.”

Rook’s lips curved faintly, though the effort looked exhausting.

“How… disappointing,” he said. “As beautiful as this setting is, I had hoped to awaken somewhere more dramatic.”

Leona folded his arms. “You woke up on the floor of Vil’s room with a ribbon over your eyes like some creepy birthday present. That dramatic enough?”

Vil shot him another warning glance.

Rook blinked again, slower this time. “Ah.”

The sound came softer.

Then his gaze shifted to the side table. The broken crown charm caught the light.

Rook stared at it. For the first time since waking, his expression changed.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Leona noticed it immediately.

“Something click?” he asked.

Rook didn’t answer right away.

Instead he tried—very poorly—to push himself up. To which Vil responded immediately with a hand against his shoulder.

“I told you not to move,” he said, very obviously worried.

“Forgive me, Vil.”

He didn’t stop trying, though. Leona sighed and stepped forward, grabbing the back of his collar and forcing him gently but firmly back onto the pillow.

“Sit your ass down, Hunt. We ain’t rushing around.” He gestured, a thumb towards Vil. “‘Specially not Princess over here.”

Rook exhaled slowly, conceding the point. “Very well.”

But his eyes hadn’t left the charm. Leona followed his gaze.

“You’ve seen that before?”

Rook took a moment to answer. “Not exactly.”

Vil’s attention sharpened. “Explain.”

Rook lifted a weak hand and gestured faintly toward the broken crown.

“The symbolism is familiar. Fascinating. To me, at least.”

Leona lraised a brow. “You think everything is fascinating.”

Vil crossed his arms. “What do you mean by familiar?”

Rook’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling, his expression thoughtful, despite the obvious effort it took.

“…They spoke to me briefly,” he said.

“You told us that. You said they were polite.”

“Yes.”

Rook’s eyes closed for a moment as if replaying the memory.

“They were behind me,” he continued softly. “Very quiet. I assumed it was a student.”

Leona huffed. “Bad read.”

Rook nodded, but his expression didn’t change.

“You didn’t hear them approach?” Vil asked.

“I did not.”

Leona felt his ears flick slightly upward.

“They matched my pace,” Rook continued, almost thoughtfully. “When one follows you, there is usually a disturbance. A change in rhythm in breathing or footsteps.” His fingers moved faintly against the sheet as if tracing patterns. “It seems they… adjusted to mine.”

“So, what, you’re sayin’ they copied your stride?” Leona asked.

Rook nodded. “Perfectly.”

Vil’s hand tightened on the bedframe. “And you noticed nothing.”

Rook looked at him with dazed eyes. “I only noticed when they spoke. When they apologized.”

Leona sighed. “Well, that’s convenient.”

“But they also asked me a question.”

Vil’s voice was suddenly sharp. “What did they ask.?”

“If I believed a crown became more beautiful before it broke…”

His eyes shifted to Vil.

“...or after.”

Silenced settled heavily. Leona rolled the charm between his fingers.

“Please tell me you didn’t answer that.”

Rook sighed, almost apologetic—almost. 

“Of course I did,” he said. “I told them that… beauty depends entirely on the audience.”

“So you… flirted with the guy who drugged you. Okay. Fantastic.”

“They seemed pleased, at least.”

Vil’s expression cooled further.

“Did you see their face?”

“No.”

Leona frowned. “You’re telling me someone stood right behind you and you didn’t get a look?”

Rook’s eyes moved to him. “Roi des Lions. I am very good at noticing when someone wants to be seen.”

Leona’s tail moved once. 

“This one did not even wish to be known.”

That sat wrong. Leona’s chest suddenly felt very hollow, only filling back up with the sound of Vil’s voice.

“What happened next?”

“Handkerchief. Scented.”

“Classic move.”

“And… they caught me before I fell. Polite, as I said. Apologised again.”

“For knocking you out?” Leona asked.

“For needing to.”

Vil frowned. Leona tossed the charm lightly and caught it again.

“Alright. Officially creepy.”

“Though I believe they knew you were coming. That you’d find me soon.”

Vil looked at him. “We were at the shoot. They messaged us about a ‘surprise’ in my room. We didn’t think it would be you lying unconscious in the center of it.”

“They also said they had been arranging things for quite some time. Or… that is what I remember. This is the point, I believe, where I began to lose consciousness.”

Rook’s breathing had steadied somewhat by the time he finished speaking, though the effort of recalling everything had clearly cost him. His eyelids were heavier now, his focus drifting in and out like a lantern guttering in the wind.

Vil noticed.

Of course he did.

“You will not be recounting anything further tonight,” Vil said firmly. “You need rest.”

Rook blinked slowly, then let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh.

“…Ah. There it is.”

Vil’s brow creased slightly. “There what is?”

“That tone.”

Rook turned his head slightly on the pillow so he could look at him properly.

“The one you use when you are worried.”

Leona snorted from where he leaned against the bedrail.

“Yeah, he’s been doing that all night.”

Vil didn’t look at him. “That is not—”

“It is,” Leona cut in lazily.

Rook watched the exchange with quiet amusement, though the expression softened after a moment.

“You found me quickly,” he murmured.

Vil crossed his arms. “You were placed in the middle of my room like a decorative centerpiece. It would have been difficult not to.”

Rook’s lips twitched faintly.

“Still.”

His gaze flicked between them both.

“Thank you.”

Vil looked away slightly, as if the gratitude itself were mildly inconvenient.

Leona, meanwhile, picked the broken crown charm up again and rolled it between his fingers. “Don’t thank us yet. Whoever did this is still out there.”

“Yes,” Rook said softly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

His eyes drifted briefly toward the charm. “Though I suspect they intend to remain.”

Leona frowned slightly. “Meaning?”

Rook didn’t answer immediately. Instead he shifted slightly on the pillow again, clearly testing the limits of his strength.

Vil noticed instantly.

“Rook.”

“I am only adjusting,” Rook said mildly.

“You are recovering from a sedative.”

“And yet I remain alive. Remarkable.”

Leona huffed. “You’re impossible.”

Rook’s gaze moved back to the ceiling lights.

“…Perhaps.”

A quiet pause passed between the three of them.

Then Rook spoke again. “You need not remain here.”

Vil’s head turned sharply. “That is not your decision.”

Rook smiled faintly. “It is my recovery.”

Leona straightened slightly. “You just woke up from getting drugged, Hunt.”

“Yes.”

“And you think we’re just gonna walk out?”

Rook turned his head slightly toward him. “You both have responsibilities.”

His eyes shifted to Vil.

“You especially.”

Vil’s expression hardened a fraction. “I am well aware.”

“The vicewarden of Pomefiore collapsing in the Housewarden’s room will travel through the dormitory rather quickly,” Rook continued calmly. “You will have questions to answer.”

Vil didn’t respond.

Rook studied him for a moment.

Then he sighed softly. “I… can manage.”

Vil’s gaze snapped back to him. “You can barely sit up.”

“And yet I have survived far worse hikes,” Rook said mildly.

Leona scoffed. “This ain’t a hike.”

“No,” Rook agreed quietly. “It is a hunt.”

The word hung there for a second. His eyes moved between them once more.

“But this particular prey seems quite fond of your attention.”

“So it would seem,” Vil said.

Rook smiled faintly again. “Then perhaps it would be wise not to give them quite so much of it tonight.”

A beat passed.

Then Rook shifted again, carefully settling back into the pillow.

“I will rest,” he said. “Truly.”

Vil didn’t move.

Rook tilted his head slightly toward the door. “You may return tomorrow and scold me properly.”

Leona glanced at Vil.

Vil remained perfectly still for another moment.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

“Fine.”

Rook’s eyes softened slightly. “Merci.”

Vil turned sharply and walked toward the door before he could say anything else.

Leona lingered a second longer. “You yell if someone creepy shows up again.”

Rook chuckled faintly. “I will do my best.”

Leona gave a small huff and followed Vil out.

The infirmary door closed behind them with a quiet click.

Silence fell.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Vil stopped halfway down the hallway. Leona nearly walked into him.

“…You alright, princess?” he asked.

Vil didn’t answer immediately.

“You gonna stand there all night?”

Vil didn’t answer immediately.

His arms were crossed tightly.

Leona leaned against the wall.

“Relax. He’s breathing.”

Vil’s voice came out clipped. “That is not the point.”

Leona raised a brow. “Then what is?”

Vil turned toward him sharply.

“My vice housewarden was drugged and placed in my room like a prop.”

“Yeah,” Leona said. “I was there.”

Vil’s eyes narrowed. “And you seem remarkably unconcerned.”

Leona let out a quiet scoff. “I’m concerned. I’m just not dramatic about it. Besides, he’s not my vicewarden. I couldn’t really care less.”

Vil’s jaw tightened.

Leona studied him for a moment.

Then he added, “Look. Whoever did it wanted your attention.”

Vil said nothing. Leona shrugged one shoulder.

“And they got it.”

Vil’s gaze hardened. “That does not mean I intend to indulge them.”

Leona smirked slightly.

“Good.”

He pushed off the wall.

“Because if this is some creep playing games…”

He tossed the crown charm once and caught it again.

“…they picked a pretty annoying pair of players.”

Vil eyed the charm. “Do stop throwing that.”

“Why?”

“It’s evidence.”

Leona rolled his eyes but pocketed it anyway.

There was a brief silence.

Then Vil spoke again, quieter.

“You noticed it too.”

Leona tilted his head.

“Noticed what?”

Vil’s eyes shifted briefly toward the infirmary door. “He did not hear them approach.”

Leona’s ears twitched slightly. “Yeah.”

“Rook Hunt,” Vil continued slowly, “who can track animals through a forest by the sound of disturbed leaves.”

“And someone still got behind him,” Leona finished.

Their eyes met. Neither of them liked that conclusion.

Leona clicked his tongue. “Whoever it is, they’re good.”

Vil’s voice cooled again.

“Then they should hope they remain unseen.”

Leona smirked faintly. “Oh?”

Vil turned and started down the hallway. “Because if I do find them…”

Leona followed lazily beside him. “You’ll what, poison them?”

Vil shot him a sharp look. “Please.”

A beat.

“I would never waste good poison on someone so unrefined.”

Leona barked a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”