Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You have been following me for another day, Malleus, and I feel there is perhaps a need for me to reiterate my thoughts that I do not quite appreciate your offer.”

“However I may have insulted you, it is to my incomprehension.” The fae prince stands, raising a hand to reenact the privacy barrier Vil had torn down, the barrier that also prevents Vil from leaving. “It is an honourable thing to be offered a suit of marriage.”

“That wholly depends on the recipient, Malleus, and I would like to inform you that there is none I could appreciate from your loud declaration earlier in the middle of a hallway.” The model isn’t that much shorter than him, not with the addition of Vil’s favourite heels, but their heights work in his favour, glancing down into purple eyes of ire. “However did you even decide it to be me, Malleus, and however did that thought conceive in your head without so much as a sliver of mockery? You could not insult me more to my face, Malleus, than declare to me you wish for me to be your consort, than declare your non-existent affection for me in the face of an audience. If I didn’t know better, I’d have almost thought it was unintentional on your part.”

“It has proven consistently difficult to locate you throughout the campus. You left me with no choice—”

“No, Malleus Draconia, you left me with no choice. When you last brought this up, I rejected you with an incredulity not lacking politeness, and yet you have come repeatedly in your pursuit that I cannot think any more positively of this than zero could ever fathom to be.”

Surprisingly, it wounds him to hear his last name spoken from those lips ever elegant. Since the first day at school, Vil Schoenheit has been one of few to call him by his first name, one of few to treat him seriously as a peer. There are many things alluring about the model, and one of them is the lack of pretentiously entitled behaviour that one would expect from someone so popular. There was nothing so granted about Vil except his hard work, his tenacious beliefs and strict frown, strict smile.

“You overly antagonise me, Schoenheit. Asking for your hand in marriage is in no way meant to be an insult to your acclaimed career. One so carefully crafted and tenaciously upheld by your hands; it is a reason why I am seeking your hand—”

“Malleus, stop.” Vil’s magestone glows, his pen in his hand. “Malleus, do you hear yourself? Lilia says you have years ahead of you, and I do not comprehend what this is, this needless rush for proposals for someone like me, someone who has not harboured a single shred of romantic affection or thoughts for you. Find someone more suitable for you, be it in mannerisms, personalities, background, or even better, lifespan. I bid you farewell.”

“Schoenheit,” He reaches out and grabs a thin wrist in his hand, successfully. Vil’s arm thrashes, as though attempting to resist, but the model is smart, as always, desisting after understanding that he cannot possibly overpower the fae. “Then answer me this, if you will: does your rejection stem from your feelings towards Hunt?”

Visibly, Vil’s composure flees from him, the model’s eyes widening with shock, with fury, with horror, his cheeks paler than before. “What?”

“Your love for Hunt.” Malleus repeats, slowly. “The feelings you have harboured for Hunt, are a hindrance to your acceptance of my offer. Is that true, or false?”

“I do not have feelings for Rook—”

“You need not lie.”

“And yet even so!” Vil snaps, whipping their hands again, sending a shockwave down his arm that would have nearly forced him to release Vil, if only Vil had been a little stronger. “This is between you and I, Malleus, and external factors would not have so much to play in this, if I am not willing.”

“So you are not, then.” He breathes, glaring down at Vil. He sees a streak of fear, now, finally a streak of fear, but Vil has escaped from his hand, and a bolt of magic whizzes past his ear, attempting to shatter the barrier again. “You are not willing now, Schoenheit.”

Perhaps Vil was too flustered to hear him accurately. “I am not, Malleus.”

“Very well.” He lifts a hand, and the barrier melts away with Vil’s next spell. “I shall also bid you farewell, Schoenheit.”

A final glare, and the model’s figure disappears into the Pomefiore mirror, even as Malleus lingers by the Diasomnia mirror, and wonders if Vil really thought he could have succeeded at breaking the barrier, if Malleus truly had the intent to keep him trapped there.

Alas.

Such a thought only further incites the unappeasable feelings in his chest.

He’s finally entering his mating stages, as Grandmother forewarned. The stars said he would find someone all too soon, and Lilia had been worried, but there is nothing left to fear.

He’ll have the next few months to conquer this little queen of his.

“You’re not…not really set on getting Vil to be your consort, are you, Malleus?”

“What is the matter, Lilia? You did not seem to think it was problematic when I first mentioned Schoenheit to be suitable.”

“Malleus, I confess I thought it was a passing remark of Vil’s well etiquette,” The nocturnal fae’s eyes widen in alarm. “And not that you have found it apt for Vil to be your spouse.”

“Why not? He is, in every way, fitting. Grandmother will be pleased with such a candidate.”

“Lady Maleficia will be less so if she finds out that coercion was forced into such a union.” Lilia pauses, then sighs. “And with a human, no less. Mark my words — I have nothing against them anymore, humans, but your grandmother is different. There is reason why Silver was not even given his naming rites in the capital—”

“Grandmother will appreciate his personality more than his birth.” The Crown Prince responds evenly. “And Schoenheit’s mortality can be easily erased — it is not difficult to bridge a mortal life into immortality, though certainly it will require careful choosing, prudent execution.”

“Malleus,” Lilia hisses, his smile completely faded. “You are not to attempt that ritual.”

“On what grounds do you speak this to me, Lilia? As my caregiver? Or as my advisor? Neither way can you command me.”

“As your companion, Malleus, it is my advice.” Lilia answers after some thought. “Malleus, these are grounds that can break him, unless he is entirely willing. You cannot be so reckless with your future, nor can you be so obstinate with his future; the latter of which is entirely out of your command, if you want to talk about power.”

“I can convince him.” A small hum leaves black painted lips. “There is nothing so terrible about this proposal — perhaps I just need to find a way that will convince him better. Perhaps then, Schoenheit will be impressed by my tenacity.”

With that, Malleus leaves the lounge, still humming on his way, even as Silver frowns, having rarely stayed awake throughout the conversation.

“That’s not how it works, is it, Father?” Silver asks, as quietly as he can. “Should we talk Malleus-sama out of it?”

“You can’t talk him out of anywhere.” Lilia sighs deeply. “Just like his parents, unfortunately. I just hope…I just hope Vil still has the patience, the will, and the etiquette, to refuse his advancements…before all of this takes a turn for the ugly.”

“Ugly, Father?”

“Yes.” Red eyes have such a depth to them. “Ugly, just how Vil hates it.”

There is a spell, Malleus knows, and he knows it well. There is a spell to overcome the natural, biological limitations of one’s physical body. There is a way to extend life, for mortals only, by turning them into immortals. There is a ritual, there are potions, there are bountiful ways to do it and he knows all of them, he’d studied them when he was bored, when he imagined if he would love a human, if he would choose a human to spend his days with.

“Consent will take time.” He tells Lilia, Lilia who thinks he’s blind to the horror in his mentor’s eyes. “I am not yet asking him to love me, Lilia, but I will first bestow my gifts upon him. They will convince him, of course. They will move him — I am certain.”

“And are you sure you love him, Malleus?” Lilia had asked, warily, wearily. “Are you so sure you love him, Malleus?”

Even Lilia knows it’s futile to talk him out of his plan — it’s the only reason why Lilia would choose to ask such a question.

But of course, of course.

Oh, do I not love him?

Since the day he’d set foot into this college, stepped out of the carriage, out of his coffin, to see a head of blond ahead of him, magical purple tips swaying over the boy’s shoulder. Since that day he saw, to his left another blond boy who’d observed him, then that very boy he’d first seen, and they’d observed him together, up till he walked before the mirror, with his name declared so very loudly, into the quiet murmurings of the hall.

Vil Schoenheit, Lilia had mused by his ear. 

Vil Schoenheit, the mirror had thundered.

Vil Schoenheit, whose soul belonged to Pomefiore.

He’d wanted to kiss Vil on that very day itself, the magnetic drawing between purple eyes that had flicked over curiously, and marked him from horns down, recognised who he was.

He’d wanted to kiss Vil the first time he heard his name, without honorifics, without anything else, called straight from the model’s lips, the model’s lilting voice.

He’d wanted to kiss Vil the first time they had a lesson together, and Vil’s narrow waist was right there, right near him, perfect to grip, perfect to pull close, perfect to hold and to kiss.

His body had ached so terribly since the day he first saw Vil, heard Vil speak, breathed those wafting fragrances created by the alchemical genius’s own hands.

He’s never kissed anyone before, not even for polite greetings. Not even his grandmother.

Vil Schoenheit is to be his, is to be in his arms, spun like a delicate flower, beautiful and fragile but strong like the finest glass ever molten and made.

And there will be more. There will be more, as he stands on the edge of the tallest tower in Night Raven College, the cold winds whipping about him, but not enough to quench the fires burning under his skin, at the singular thought of silky soft skin ever well maintained by Vil himself. At the thought of Vil’s lustrous smile, elegantly bright purple eyes brimming with intelligence and will.

“We will wait till graduation day.” He whispers, to himself or the air, or to Lilia who has followed him the whole way, thinking he wouldn’t notice, or forgetting that the bat has aged. “I have a flawless, seamless plan. We will bring him to Briar Valley, fascinate him with the beauty we have, and I will convince him with my gifts — he will stay.”

“But will he stay for you, Malleus?” Lilia mutters quietly, and the wind carries the words over to him. “Ultimately, he will not stay for you.”

“It bothers me not.” He chuckles, letting it rumble into the whipping winds. “At least he will stay, and he will be by my side.”

After all, a King has to pull the strings himself, sometimes, and lead the battle on the battlefield by himself.

A King must do as he must.

And he, Malleus Draconia, will.

“Is this right, Lilia-sama?”

“I am unfit to comment, Sebek.” Lilia sighs — he’s been sighing endlessly, lately, ever since he realised his mistake, his inability to stop Malleus’ plans from hatching. As the prince’s guardian, he should have seen that things would develop this way. He should have known there’d been something weird going on ever since Malleus woke up from his overblot, and redirected his attention from Lilia’s withdrawal to Pomefiore’s housewardens. 

His heart has not been at ease ever since Malleus willingly let him board the carriage back here to Briar Valley, and told him to wait for the good news. 

His heart had plunged into hell, momentarily, when Malleus returned, with a suspiciously long black bag swaddled in his arms.

“Malleus,” He had urged, when the bag fell apart with his tugging, revealing wisps of blond, their lavender tips the dead giveaway. “Malleus, what have you done?”

“I have woven an illusion.” Malleus breathes, smiling. “Vil Schoenheit is now on his internship, and he shall be away from his career for a solid year, in the duration of his internships. I have sent someone to fulfil the internships on his behalf, under his face, under his mannerisms.”

“But what for, Malleus? You—”

“I will perform the rituals.” The Crown Prince answers, untroubled. “It will only take me a short month, Lilia, you need not fret.”

“Fret, I will.” He snaps, grabbing Vil’s body from his ward, a hundred apologies soaring through his head for Vil, apologising for such object-like treatment that the model is receiving in their hands. “Certainly you did not gather Vil’s permission for your chaotic intentions, Malleus.”

“I invited him to Briar Valley. He did not refuse.”

“Malleus, you could not be more reprehensible for your deeds — do you know what you are about to do? You are about to ruin him, ruin him devastatingly, and in a manner that is irreversible. How could you ever—”

“Do not take up the moral high ground with me, Lilia.” The prince only arches a fine eyebrow in his displeasure, coaxing the body back into his arms with his magic, magic that Lilia no longer quite has. “We all make choices — and I can bear the consequences of my own actions.”

“Can you, Malleus?” Lilia steps into his path, blocking him. “Can you truly, Malleus?”

He hesitates, and he does not answer, only sidestepping his guardian and heading into the cottage, putting up a barrier so quickly that it strands the rest of them outside.

“Should we not have antagonised Waka-sama, Lilia-sama?” Sebek frowns, stepping forward at last. “Now, he’s certainly about to perform the ritual.”

“There’s nothing we can do, Sebek.” Silver answers on his father’s behalf. “Even if we’d invited the Queen herself, there’d be no stopping Malleus-sama. You know how he’s always been.”

“It’s not right, though.” Sebek’s frown deepens. “Blood rituals are the most dangerous of all. And that he’s intending to…”

“Well, boys.” Lilia stops them before they can speak further. “If it is what our King wills, then it shall be done so. There is no one who can stop him, as Silver has said. We can only stand guard, and offer our prayers that the ritual goes smoothly. It would be a shame if…if Vil’s shiny life…”

…was wasted for nothing.

“What have you done to me?”

A month later, looking in the mirror, he looks just the same.

Well, almost.

An intrinsic pattern marks him, like a crossing of thorny brambles and rose thorns, dark enough to be visible in the light. It’s raw, but it’s fully healed over, pain lacing through his midsection as he tries to shift himself, only to realise his legs are numb. “Malleus, what have you done to me?”

“Your beauty has been eternally preserved.” All he wants to do is lunge, lunge at the smug smirk on the prince’s face. “I have bestowed a gift upon you.”

“You have marred my body against my will.” He clutches the markings, clutches the oddness of what feels like an additional organ under his skin, aching with each movement. “And what have you added to it? What do you mean by your talk of immortality? Where even am I, Malleus? This is not my research facility.”

“This is Briar Valley. I invited you, Schoenheit.”

“I scarcely agreed for anything else beyond that.” The model cries, still trying to figure out what the mark entails. “Malleus, I have vehemently rejected your proposal on all of its numerous occasions. Do not tell me you have brought me here to be bound to you by marital contracts. Do not tell me what I do not want to hear — that you have created an organ within me to fit the ideas of your proposal, your obligation to further the line of rulers of Briar Valley.”

The prince falls silent, and Vil has his answer, even as he hurls a curse across the room, a powerful one that misses, unfortunately, and leaves him coughing from its magnitude. There is not a single magestone nearby, not a single one to accumulate his blot, so it comes out almost immediately, naturally expelled through his lips as it burns from the inside, splattering with a hiss on the wooden floor.

“What have you done, Malleus?” This time, it’s repeated with so much horror, so much despair. “I have a life I want to lead, Malleus, and have you gone all ahead and torn it up with your very hands? At least be so kind as to tell me, if all that you have done to me is reversible, as long as I wish for it.”

The prince holds his silence, with an unreadable look in green eyes that almost suggests it’s finally dawning upon him, it’s finally dawning upon Malleus that this was a reckless thing to have done.

“I will marry you to make up for it, Schoenheit.” The prince says, tentatively, after the silence descends into suffocation. “I will take responsibility for it.”

“You will.” Vil repeats, faintly. “Of course, you will.”

And with all of his feeble strength, the model pulls himself off the bed, lunging at the prince’s throat.

“Where is my manager? Where is my father? Malleus, you cannot make such a foolish decision on your own without having consulted anyone at all.”

“I have wanted…” The prince starts, then pauses, staring at him. “I have wanted to marry you. And no one can stop me if I choose…”

“No, Malleus, I can stop you.” Vil spits, but it’s only all words, as the model remains immobilised on the bed. “If I am not willing to marry you, we can never marry.”

“I am not so terrible a candidate, Schoenheit.” The prince mutters in frustration, brushing his fringe back and running his hands over the little scales on his forehead. “Truly, I am not as terrible as you think it would be. I have things in a meticulous plan, Schoenheit—”

“It is not a plan,” Vil strains against his magical bindings. “That I wish to follow.”

“But you will not mind it, Schoenheit, once you stop resisting me.” Malleus sighs, pulling off his outer wear, much to the widening of Vil’s eyes, the veins that pattern Vil’s neck as the model resists his advances, panics amidst the slow kisses on his cheek, his collar, the clothes that melt away between them, as a barrier shimmers into place overhead. “It will be pleasurable.”

“Fuck off, Malleus.” Vil bites his lip, bites his jaw, and a tang of metal wafts through the room as he smiles, oddly relishing the pain that keeps him unwantedly sober, staring down Vil’s beautiful features. Such uncouth words, unrolling one by one, the model’s restraint slipping by the bits, slipping as Vil gasps, and tears slide down the sides of the model’s face. Vil gasps, a soft little sound, delightful to hear, music to his ears, as warmth blooms on the model’s skin, foretelling what’s to come. “Please…please, Malleus, please, just…”

He sucks softly on the edge of fresh folds, letting the restraining spell go as slowly as he can, watching Vil arch into his hands, watching Vil’s tears splash down in horror, the purple gaze tracing down the little ridges at the base of his patient cock.

“You will marry me, Schoenheit.” He whispers, precum dripping off his cock as he licks between the folds, and elicits the very first moan from Vil, just as wondrous as he’d imagined it to be. Just as perfect as he’d hoped it would be, when he’d cast the spell, and tweaked a thing or two for sensitivity. The shivers that run through the model’s silky thighs, nerves and adrenaline thrumming through Vil’s body, the model’s mouth against his and moaning pleas into his throat, pleas mingled with begging him to stop, and begging him for more. “And I will be good to you. I will be good to you, unconditionally so. Is it not a bargain?”

More tears spill down Vil’s cheeks, filled with too many emotions to be expressed, as he starts thrusting deeper, and the moans are tinged with pain, Vil’s words as broken as his gaze, the arrogance Malleus had once loved now slowly shattering into fragments. “Answer me, Schoenheit.” He whispers against Vil’s forehead, enjoying the little pants of pain and exhaustion against his neck, painted nails scrabbling down his back and his side, desperately trying to push him off, trying to stop him before those little ridges can reach entirely. “What say you, Schoenheit?”

Vil opens his mouth, and for a fraction of a second, he sees the refusal in purple eyes, shining ardently.

He angles his hips and pounds harshly, relishing the cry that escapes Vil’s throat, beads of transparency flowing freely down Vil’s cheekbones, down his chin.

“Hnn..n…mmm…”

“Will you offer me a proper answer, my love?”

He thrusts more, thrusts until the markings are fully prominent, glowing softly from sweat and magic, magic that stirs from the bulk of seed unloaded, waiting to bloom into the flowers that swirl into the pattern of thorns. Thrusts until he’s satisfied, until Vil’s twitching all over, too tired to move further, his legs remaining spread as Malleus pulls out to lay beside him, to stroke a strand of his fringe out from his gaping mouth, panting for breath.

“Will you marry me, Schoenheit?”

First comes a warble, a warble of indignance, of hurt, of an arrogance filed down to nothing but wounded pride. Vil turns his head to look at him, and he sees the tears that pour down in streams that haven’t stopped since they started. And then the head of blond rolls back to its default, staring up at the ceiling, tears still flowing as purple eyes flutter, then shut, pale eyelids squeezed tightly together.

“Do I have any other option, Malleus?” Vil laughs bitterly, and he has not even the slightest strength left to close his legs, to stop the uncomfortable leaking of cum from between his legs, from his battered new cunt. “You have thoroughly, fully, destroyed the life I would have wanted to lead. You have reformed it into a life you would want me to lead, and I can walk no other paths at all, anymore.”

Vil’s eyes do not open, and the atmosphere does not lighten, but at least he gets the words he wants to hear, as he shifts closer to Vil, and hugs the model’s nude body, offering him some heat in the cold cottage, cold night.

“I will marry you, Malleus. Are you happy to hear that?”

He kisses Vil’s jaw softly.

“Most sincerely, I am beyond delighted, Schoenheit.”

A sob issues from Vil’s throat, one that's swallowed back immediately, so he wonders. Malleus wonders, what exactly goes into the kiss that’s reciprocated back to him, the kiss on his lips that’s full of salt and a tang of Vil's sweet blood, blood unintentionally drawn by his fangs earlier on.

Chapter Text

Not more than a while later — a week, specifically, not that he has been counting — there is a fact so glaringly obvious that Malleus has no choice but to admit to it.

Vil is not, in the slightest, happy at all.

“Well, what did you expect, Malleus?” Lilia’s voice is sharp, mirthless, accusatory down to his point. No longer the usual gentle Lilia, or the Lilia who’d been trying to speak sense to his lustful mind. “Did we not warn you to ask of his wishes? You have to take responsibility for him now, and yes, indeed you unquestionably will, as you promised so ardently. But the problem was never about responsibility, Malleus, and whether happiness was in the question, but you went ahead at full tilt, and now you have reaped what you have sown, Malleus. There is no further helping you. You must undo the knot yourself, you who first tied it in place.”

He’s left alone, to his bitterness. It is, undeniably, his innermost fear. It is what Lilia knows is his weakness, whisking even Silver and Sebek from his side, leaving him alone to the forest, alone to the cottage he’d usurped from them. 

Vil doesn’t talk to him, through the short days and long nights of Briar Valley. Vil does not talk, even if he caresses the model’s cheek gently, presses kisses to the wound he’d accidentally inflicted during their first union. Vil flinches from his touch, and he feels guilt, a streak of anger mingling amidst itself. He’s not mad at Vil, no. He’s mad at himself, for having taken what once was a glorious, confident person, and smashed it so thoroughly that it is almost entirely gone. He stays away from Vil, watching from the shadows, and wonders what goes on behind Vil’s eyes, the occasional times that they suddenly wander, seemingly looking for him, his eyes that must be glowing green in the darkness.

Vil locks his gaze upon Malleus, almost once a day, a daily occurrence, and holds it for a moment so long that Malleus feels almost comforted by it, even if it is disconcerting.

And then Vil looks away, and he wishes he’d seen it for longer, seen it enough to understand the emotions going on in the former human’s mind.

After all, one can only alter the length of a life, and not the life they have already led.

He promised he’d take responsibility for Vil, and yet now he does not know what to offer. His grandmother has returned a letter to say she will not approve of the union unless she first has a glimpse of Vil, but he has not been able to thoroughly wash away the humanness of Vil, and his hesitation of late has convinced him even further to not do it. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He should have listened to Lilia, should have planned even better, obtained Vil’s permission, before he’d done anything else at all.

Night falls again, and he slips into bed behind Vil, who trembles, still, for the moment that their skins touch, before the younger of the two forcibly relaxes into the embrace of the fae who promises to look after him. Malleus drapes his hand over the pattern, and feels Vil tense in his arms. It has always been his deepest wish, what this pattern has to offer. And he thinks about it, ruminates if it will be more or less helpful in the situation at hand.

“Is there anything you would like, Schoenheit?” The Vil of the past would have gotten everything on his own, or at least asked for ways to get the things he wanted, but perhaps Vil’s still in too much shock, too much fear. Every day passes with the model doodling on his face with nothing but water, fingers conducting imaginary lines in the air. Vil washes his face with tears; this, Malleus knows. “Something to make you a little happier, Schoenheit?”

Vil hesitates, then smiles, or so he can hear it from the model’s voice, bitter amusement as Vil tugs the blanket from him. “My old life, Malleus, but it’s pointless, isn’t it?”

The night is unbearably silent.

The sun is almost about to rise — he’s not slept the entire night, because faes don’t need to sleep, but there’s something that puts him off, something that he can’t identify, creeping out of bed to exit the cottage, standing in his silken robes and observing the trees quietly, green flames dancing around him to illuminate his surroundings.

Then, quietly, an arrow whizzes past his eyes, thudding dully in the bark of the tree nearest to him.

A letter hangs open almost immediately, released by the jolt. A cursive that he doesn’t recognise, but the arrow tells him enough, coaxing it out of the bark as he heals the tree, and reads its contents.

Roi du Dragon, it is a surprise to see you here.

 

I would like to speak with Roi du Poison, s’il vous plaît. Alas, he has hidden himself in that room, and I have been unable to approach when a dragon guards him so.

 

May I seek your countenance in allowing me to see mon étoile again? Merci beaucoup, en avance.

 

I am waiting in your shadow for your response.

 

Rook Hunt.

He crushes the paper in his palm, taking a moment to deliberate the hunter’s intent. Certainly, as plainly as Rook has written, he has found his way here for the sole reason of Vil’s presence.

Would seeing Rook make Vil happier?

“Come out, then, if you are already here.” He growls softly, turning the paper to ash. “Hunt, I know you are there.”

A blond head pops out from the foliage of the tree opposite, and the hunter leaps off the branches, tumbling as gracefully as possible, landing quite lightly. The practice of a hunter, certainly, as Rook sweeps his fedora into a bow. “Roi du Dragon.”

“Say, Hunt.” He eyes the human, but everything seems to suggest that Rook has come forth alone. “Whatever are you doing in Briar Valley, and not peacefully attending your internship?”

“I might ask the same of you, Malleus-kun.” Rook answers, his voice sleek, but the first name address holds its own form of threat, as Rook gestures with a gloved hand. “And mon cher Roi du Poison, bien sûr.”

Stiffly, Malleus glares at the narrowed green eyes, green eyes a shade darker than his own. True, Rook has green eyes, too. Perhaps Vil had been staring at him, only trying to seek the solace the model would have gleaned from Rook’s shade of green instead. They are meticulous, these top Pomefiore students. A shade’s difference is a world’s difference. Something bubbles within, and jealousy is green too, as he answers with the first thing on his tongue. “We are to be married, Schoenheit and I.”

“Oh?” Rook’s answer is soft, with bewilderment, but not the horror that Malleus had expected most. “Then I would suppose congratulations are in order, though I would prefer to offer them to Vil in person as well.”

“He is sleeping.”

“Undoubtedly so, mon Roi du Poison has always cherished his sleeping hours.”

They stare at each other for another minute longer, before Rook, still smiling, tilts his head to the side. “Do we not tire of this endless polite talk, Malleus-kun?”

“A hunter is meant to have patience.”

“And aim, oui.” Rook hides his bow to the back, but doesn’t sling it back, leaving it tucked in his palm. “I would like to speak to Vil. And I would like to care for Vil.”

“What care do you speak of? Schoenheit would be prouder still if you had gone off to study your internship.”

“So tell me, Roi du Dragon, why Vil has not answered my messages for nearly two months? Why is it that when I’ve gone to find him at his research facility, he behaves so oddly to me? Why is it that Madame Adela and Monsieur Venue have no news about him, only a single text from him that he will be going to Briar Valley? Roi du Dragon, your desperation I knew, from Vil’s conveyance of your affection towards him. Alas I had hoped you would be more civil about your wants. Vil is not an object. He is a person of his own.”

“And now he is immortal.” Anger rears its ugly head, like a dragon in his chest, spewing flames. “And now he is capable of bearing children. And now he will stay and I will look after him, and Schoenheit will stay and be mine.”

“Stay, but not for you,” The hunter’s words find their mark almost immediately. “So why do you force it, Roi du Dragon?”

He’s left stumped again, by the same question Lilia had asked, now out from Rook’s lips. He hears curiosity, perplexity, and a great deal of pity, of frustration, of empathy. “When I look at Schoenheit, it is like I cannot resist it, that tugging, the urge to hoard him. He is too beautiful, and I am too deeply…too deeply—”

“Intoxicated? Inebriated? In love?” Rook prompts, so softly he’d nearly missed it, distraught and caught up in his feelings, his thoughts. “In love with Vil, Malleus-kun?”

“Yes.” He answers, equally as softly, with even a slight tinge of confusion. “Yes, I am in love with Schoenheit.”

“It is hard not to be.” There it is, the odd empathy in Rook’s voice, the hunter’s own strange laugh. “I, too, am in love with him. It is perhaps the strongest reason why I have dropped everything and come running for him again. Time and again. I run after Vil, endlessly, and when he looks at me, my chest melts from its implosion.”

“Yes.” The prince agrees, hoarsely. “Precisely.”

“But we cannot selfishly have him, Roi du Dragon.” Rook repeats, his voice a little stronger now. “Everyone has a right to love Vil, and Vil has a right to love whoever he will love. We cannot force him into a union he does not desire. We cannot take away from him everything that proves his tenacity, everything that makes him Vil. And look, Malleus-kun. You cannot even shed his last name from your lips, and yet you want to wed him?”

He blinks at the hunter, the hunter so much shorter than him, shorter than Vil, but the hunter who has always spoken the truth more freely and sharply than any other.

“He is not happy.” Malleus mutters, quietly. “He…Vil has not been happy, at all.”

“I have brought him some of his make-up kits.” Rook hoists his haverpack. “And some of his facial products, too.”

They stare at each other again, for a slow moment, before Malleus sighs.

“Can you make him happy, Hunt?”

“I will try.” Rook answers him in full earnest. “I will try anything, everything, for mon étoile.”

The birds chirp, and the sun has already begun to rise, at the edge of the world.

“Then go and make him happy, Hunt.” The crown prince says, sounding almost defeated. “I will return in the evening, if you will promise me that you will not take Vil and run away with him.”

“It depends on what Vil asks of me, Roi du Dragon.” Rook meets his cowardly gaze. “If Vil asks to leave, then I will take him, and it will not matter how many arrows I will need to put between you and I, or if it is my body I leave behind for mon Roi du Poison to make another beauteous escape. I will listen to Vil, Malleus-kun, and I advise you do so as well.”

Again, stumped, he watches as Rook walks past him, to the door of the cottage, opening it so softly that it will not awaken the queen still asleep inside.

And he has never felt more lost, watching the hunter, until he can bear it no more, green flames embracing him as he returns back to the capital in a matter of teleportation.

What will he do, if he returns and the two of them are truly gone?

He doesn’t know. But if that really happens, perhaps it’s for the better. Is that not so? Rook has come to help him do what he could not think of, could not do.

He takes a deep breath and enters the council meeting, putting it all at the back of his mind.

“Roi du Poison?”

He’s woken up by a streak of sunlight, sunlight he hasn’t seen in a long time, sunlight he hasn’t bothered to notice lately. It hurts his eyes a little, to look up and out through the window, to rise off the bed and head over to the squared panes of glass. To push them open, to exchange a breath of fresh air, fresh forest air.

Air that matches the shade of green he sees, so different from the one he’s memorised lately.

“Rook?” He traces a finger in the air, too afraid to touch the boy in front of him. For fear that if he does, he will disappear, just like every other nonexistent thing he’s made up with his mind, too afraid to mention to Malleus. “It’s not you.”

But how could his mind make up that sunny disposition, golden smile? The gloves feel so real on the back of his hand, leather against his sweating palms, holding it up to Rook’s cheek. Cheeks that mould into his touch, as he slowly sinks against the hunter, and Rook’s frame is ever sturdy, catching him as he pulls the hunter into a hug. 

“Oh, mon étoile, you have suffered.” Rook sighs sadly into his shoulder, caressing his head. “I had suspected so, when you disappeared from your messages for two months, leaving only a single one to mention your sudden departure to Briar Valley. Roi du Dragon’s plans…are you a willing party, Vil?”

“I cannot go out there again.” The model’s unusually soft in his arms, as though Vil no longer has a spine, as they sink to the floor, legs folded. “Regardless of whether I came here willingly, or knowingly, I cannot go back to being Vil Schoenheit.”

“And why is that, Vil?” Rook cups his cheek and frowns. “Non, Roi du Poison, you would not have spoken like this in the past. Remember what I once said to you, Vil? You may cry for as much as you want and I would let you, but only because you are strong, and you will come back to your senses and rise again. Alas, what is this that sends you in my arms like this, so certain that you will never recover again?”

“I have promised him that I will marry him.” Vil curls up, hiding his face from view, tucking his forehead against Rook’s shoulder. “And I have…we have consummated that promise.”

Rook tries, and fails, to hide the tensing of his muscles, because Vil flinches before he can loosen up again, before he can grip his housewarden’s hands and squeeze them inquisitively. “You have made your choice to stay? Mais, pourquoi?”

“Rook,” Vil laughs, so softly, so bitterly, lifting his shirt as he pulls away, wiping his errant tears. “Do you think I could ever go back to my career again, looking like this?”

Because there’s something there, as the hunter blinks, silently tracing his eyes over the thorny vines and roses that pattern the model’s abdomen. There’s something that softens the lines that once used to define Vil’s muscles well enough, a figure that Vil had been proud of, upkeeping it on a daily basis.

“It is irreversible?” Rook asks, mutedly. In his voice there is grief, grief for all of Vil’s efforts, grief for the outcome, as he lifts a hand and carefully runs his fingers over the tattoo. “Oh, cher Vil, even so, why would you still agree to stay? There are many other things that you could pursue—”

“I have no courage to face my audience in the world out there.” The shirt flutters back down, over the hunter’s hand still there. “Whatever else I wish to pursue, I can always try again, in Briar Valley, where the network is so terrible that only a tiny minority has ever heard of me before. I can start again, with whatever Malleus has promised to me, to be responsible for whatever he has done to me. I know it will be inevitable, whatever comes next, after what he has done. But I cannot undo it. And I cannot walk back into a world full of people I know, just to…”

Vil suddenly pauses, tears brimming so abruptly that Rook hastens to find his clean handkerchief, but it does nothing to help, like a pail of water amidst a raging forest fire.

“Just to…?” The hunter urges, squeezing Vil’s shoulders gently. “Vil, qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Just to outlive all of you.” The former model lifts the handkerchief to his face, to hide behind the thin piece of clean fabric. “Just to watch all of you die, while I never age.”

It’s like Vil’s burrowed an arrow in his chest, his quiver’s worth of arrows scattering as he stands abruptly, moving away to calm himself.

“And is this, too, irreversible?” He swallows, looking out of the window, so that Vil will not see his ire, will not take further hurt from his horror, his frustration, his sorrow. “It is, oui?”

“Everything, Rook.” Vil laughs bitterly from behind him. He turns back, for a moment, and the spite reminds him more of the old Vil, the old Vil who would more easily anger than despair. The old Vil that he aches for, with all of him, aches to have protected better. “Malleus has completely constructed a new path for me, in the wake of the old one’s devastation. I cannot turn back, because I was never given a chance to.”

“Ah, beautiful Vil, how I weep.” He clenches his fingers on the sill of the window. “And yet I can do nothing — I spoke with Roi du Dragon, you see, and I promised I would take you away only if you wanted to. Alas, you have chosen to stay, so alas, this is not what you would like, oui?”

“Yes.” Vil closes his eyes, leaning against the wall. “I will stay, and I will marry him, and perhaps someday I will, too, bear his heirs, as needed of me, as of what he has done to me. I will figure out a way to break off my contact from the world outside, to find a reason to never be found again, and let them remember Vil Schoenheit, but never ask of Vil again.”

“Ah, Vil.” Rook whispers. “Have you already set your heart upon it?”

A hand rests over his, as Vil leans into him, and sighs into his hair, softly. “It is to be done this way, Rook.”

The sun inches a little higher in the sky, as he sighs again. “At least he loves you. Roi du Dragon loves you.”

“He told you that?”

“Oui, mais I have eyes, too, Vil.” He turns around, leaning against the windowsill, face to face with Vil, now. “Malleus-kun loves you, and it is not false.”

Something goes on behind Vil’s eyes, a process he can’t read, when Vil lowers his head, picking up one of Rook’s hands and running his thumbs over Rook’s knuckles. “Your nails have grown long, Roi du Poison.” He notes, trying to dissolve the atmosphere into something lighter. “May I assist you in cutting them, later?”

Vil doesn’t answer, still running his thumbs over Rook’s calloused knuckles, turning Rook’s hand over in his hand, over and over again.

And then Vil looks up, looks into his eyes, straight into his soul.

“And you love me, too.” It should sound arrogant, but these months have done plenty to shed Vil’s former arrogance, confidence, from even a sentence as such. “You love me, Rook. I can see it in your eyes, too. I can see it in your eyes, in Malleus’ eyes, what can only be love. You love me as much as Malleus does, if you are not already hiding the bulk of it behind your carefree smile, in the depths of your secrets.”

He swallows a laugh, or so he tries, but fails, his hand curling up in Vil’s, tightening around the model’s fingers.

“Oui.” He’s left to admit it, softly, not looking up at Vil. “I had intended to tell you at the end of our fourth year, if the feelings never changed. I wanted to give myself a year to prove if I had truly loved you, or if I was simply too smitten, too enamoured, by your side. But two months without news from you has ripped me apart entirely, internally. I abandoned everything to find you.”

He glances up at Vil, hesitantly, and it’s the hunter’s turn to study Vil’s eyes, to see the same edition of hesitation branding those pale purple eyes, as Vil laughs, shaking his head.

“I was going to tell you at our graduation.” Vil’s hand shakes in his. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to try something different. If you wanted to stay by my side differently, if you would mind to be in the lenses of cameras other than yours. I was going to ask you out for dinner, someday, a dinner different from the many ones we’ve had. I was going to tell you I love you, and yet I was unsure. And yet I faltered, and then I told him, I told Malleus, that it didn’t matter if I loved you or not, but I panicked, Rook, I panicked when he asked if I did. When he was so certain that I did.”

“Time is such a finicky thing.” Rook laughs, and a different one bubbles in his throat, so bitter that he chokes, chokes out his laughter, hiding under his fedora, hiding away the heat under his eyes, the sting in his nose, as he takes a deep breath, and laughs further. “And yet even if we had more of it, we could not change the course of fate, no matter how hard we tried.”

“I never liked to think that way.” Vil joins, laughing softer than him, but sadder. “Alas there are some things that cannot be changed, no matter how hard we try to intervene. Knowing you loved me and I loved you would not have saved me from the changes imposed. They are not what can free me from the choices I have to make, of the little options provided. Sensibility is a suffering, and it is mine to endure, though it has been pleasant having you, to lighten up the uncertainty of the rest of my path ahead.”

“Indeed.” Rook’s laughter fades. “I will not take you away today, Vil. Not today, not tomorrow, not until you ever change your mind.”

“It is for the best, this way.” Vil exhales, still gripping his hand tightly. “And perhaps it will not be so bad to try and love him, too. The human heart is capable of multifaceted behaviour, isn’t it?”

“I will always be here if you need me.” Rook rummages his pockets, to pull out a satellite phone, at last, pressing it into their joined hands. “Ton chasseur l’amour, à ton service.”

“Come and visit me too, won’t you, Rook?” Vil accepts the phone, holding it in his free hand. “You will come and visit, won’t you?”

“Bien sûr.” The hunter chuckles, then lifts his free hand, too, and touches it lightly to Vil’s collar, a thumb stroking down Vil’s jaw lightly. “I See You, Vil. Always.”

“Always.” Vil whispers back, their foreheads touching. “Fairest One Of All — as long as you want to see me, you will always be able to find me. Just a precaution, should I go somewhere that blocks off your magic.”

“And I will trace you to the end of the world, then. If only to put a smile upon your face, to make you happy, Vil, to remind you of how beautiful you are, regardless of how dire the situation, how grave the circumstances.” Rook smiles, the first smile that isn’t dampened by sorrow, ever since he’s seen Vil. “Now shall we attend to your grooming, Roi du Poison? I have brought to you all your essentials.”

“You always have.” Vil chuckles softly. “You always do.”

“Pour toujours et à jamais, oui. Pour toi, Vil, pour toujours et à jamais.”

“You did not take him away.”

“Well noted, Roi du Dragon.” The hunter laughs softly, lounging against the tree. They’re back in the same place again, as Vil sleeps peacefully in the cottage, separated by a silencing barrier. “Vil did not want to leave.”

“He did promise me he would stay.” 

“And Vil is an honourable person who keeps to his promises, bien sûr.”

“But why would you not have taken him, regardless?”

“My promises aren’t worth any less than Vil’s, monsieur.” There’s a certain crudeness to the angle of Rook’s smile. “And it is against Vil’s will, if I were to take him and leave.”

“I did not expect such obedience.”

“Roi du Poison is not displaying obedience; he has his own will, his own wishes, and he is acting upon what he desires most, at this point. Take it as a reminder from me, Roi du Dragon, that Vil is not a plaything.”

“I am clear of that.” Malleus nods, unfazed. “It is what I have admired him for.”

“Is it what you love him for, or does that lean more towards his visage?”

“You need not snark me, Hunt.”

“Indeed, I needn’t.” Rook sets his bow down, to the fae’s surprise. “In fact, I have not left, only to seek a boon with you.”

“A boon with me? Dealings with fae are no less dangerous than those of Ashengrotto and Leech, Hunt, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Certainly, I would expect nothing less from you, Roi du Dragon. The dragon who kidnapped my fair Roi du Poison, who acted on his own accord, and left Vil with no preferable lane left to walk, only the lesser of evils.”

“I would atone for my rash mistakes, Hunt. I do not want to hear you insult me for my momentary wrongs. If we are to begin the savagery of insults, let it not be forgotten that you caused Schoenheit a great deal of agony as well, during the VDC, as we are all aware, between the three of us.”

“Incivility is unbecoming of us.” Rook’s smile, again, takes on the shape of a leer. “I shall cut straight to the chase.”

“As expected of a hunter.”

“I will come back frequently to ensure that Vil does not suffer from loneliness, to ensure Vil is happy in this path he was coerced into. The exchange is that I request to undergo the same conversion as Vil did.”

“Immortality, Hunt, is something that you seek? One would have assumed a hunter like you would have found beauty in mortality and death, even till your last moments.”

“And there you would further pierce Vil’s heart, as he grieves the world that passes away while he remains youthfully undying. You have made him immortal to accompany you, but you have subjected him to the pains you cannot endure. How is that fair, Roi du Dragon?”

“And yet you would willingly take on such pain?”

“I cannot leave my Roi du Poison behind.” The hunter says, softly. “Even if it is to be some distant day in the future, I cannot be the first to leave, the loyal hunter to serve his queen.”

A silence settles between them, but Malleus breaks it, before it can make itself anywhere near comfortable.

“I confess I do not understand.” The prince glances up at the night sky, the sky in Briar Valley that is full of stars, unlike most of the world, cities chasing the stars away. “I confess I do not understand why you would willingly make such a choice, even if you know I would not let you have Schoenheit, for the rest of all three of our lives.”

“Love does not always need logic, Roi du Dragon.” Rook tips his head back and laughs. “And I am no hunter of logic, for I am a hunter of love.”

They exchange glances, before Malleus sighs, a small smile of perplexity forming on the fae’s lips. “Perhaps time will aid me in understanding you a little more, Hunt. You and Schoenheit, both. Wondrous enigmas I should wish to comprehend before our time is up.”

“Time will unravel some things.” Rook muses. “Not all, certainly, for there would be no meaning.”

They fall silent again, before Malleus raises a handful of green flames, illuminating their faces in the dark.

“I extended Schoenheit’s life,” The fae breathes. “By tying it to my maximum lifespan, my immortality. And so now I shall tie yours to his, for it would be meaningless to have you tied to me, when it is him who you so ardently pursue.”

“Merci, Roi du Dragon.” Rook steps forward, staring into the heart of the flames. “Mais I have one last request.”

“And what would that be?”

“To not tell Vil of our little boon, until the time is ripe.” Rook laughs, and takes the hand of flames in his. “I do not want to aggravate him unnecessarily — Vil’s ire may be beautiful, but I would prefer his smile.”

“Very well, then.” Malleus sighs, and the flames circle by their feet, around the cottage. “Close your eyes, Hunt.”

And when you open them, it will never be the same again.

Chapter Text

“So that was Vil Schoenheit?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware you will have to explain to the country what you have done, aren't you, Malleus?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure he will cooperate? I have heard from Lilia that he has a strong personality…not that I have seen any part of it so much. So much that I would be inclined to take Lilia’s words at face value, but I am not.”

“He is willing.”

“Was he, Malleus?”

“Such questions are futile, Grandmother. He is willing.”

“Ah, but what a disappointment.” Maleficia mutters bitterly. “I remain still in awe that you would do such a thing. The senate is foolish for pressing you for a consort and heirs when you are so young, but—”

“But you never punished them for it, Grandmother, so they run their mouths carelessly still.”

His grandmother pinches her lips immediately, glaring up at him, but her remorse outweighs her anger, when she breaks eye contact first, turning away. “Well, Malleus, it’s not as easy as you—”

“I am willing.”

“Pardon?”

“I am willing,” He shifts to stand in front of her, such that she may face him while he speaks, smirking down at her with his utmost sincerity. “To be wed, and to produce heirs for Briar Valley and the Draconia line.”

“I had not seen that your ambition would be greater than even the Zigvolts’ bite and appetite.”

“It is not ambition.”

“You crave not the throne?”

“I do not wish it.” He answers, enunciating every word with care. “As much as I do crave to see Schoenheit as mine, heavy with child, bearing my heirs.”

“His visage appealed to you, Malleus.” 

“I cannot deny, but there are other things.”

“You would willingly wed a human of no noble birth, merely the gentry?”

“His visage is not so poor that it cannot make up for his stature of birth, Grandmother, is it?”

“No.” She answers, after a brief pause. Something amidst her gaze as she looks at him again, evaluating her own grandson. “To you, I would suppose not.”

“And to you?”

“I no longer wish to partake in the affairs of another relationship.”

“That is very well, Grandmother.”

“I hear your mockery, Malleus, but it is ill-suited. I warn you only this: beware your fair lover has a heart with another within it.”

“I do not fear it, Grandmother.” He smiles, bowing. “I do not mind it, Grandmother, as long as eventually he may find the space to include me as well, and all our children.”

“I fear nothing will satiate you, Crown Prince.” She sighs louder, waving him off with a hand, beginning to retreat from the room. “May the union with this little actor satisfy you, Malleus, though I no longer wish to fathom your thoughts, for they appear to be lewder than I could ever imagine.”

“Take care, Grandmother.”

“And you, Malleus.”

“It is a lovely suit.”

“Well, do you like it?”

“Do you like it, Schoenheit?” He tilts his head, running a hand over the fabric, expensive fabric that he’d supplied to Vil, to entertain his fiance. “I have removed all other designers from the planning, such that you would have full autonomy over our wedding arrangements. As is to your liking.”

“Certainly, Malleus.” Vil finds himself at a lack of proper answers, avoiding the Crown Prince’s tender gaze, too tender for his preference, when there are too many unspoken sentiments, unclear meanings, all buried deep within their chests. “It is to be a grand ceremony; I would still have to be in accordance with the requirements for the decor and design—”

“Alter whatever you deem fit, and I will modify the requirements accordingly.”

“Malleus…”

“Yes, my love?”

“I perhaps wish, at times, that you would be a little more cruel.”

“Why is that, Schoenheit?”

“I wish you would be a little more cruel like the way you took away my life without my permission or my choice.”

“And I thought—”

“Your kindness is a cruelty to me.” The model abruptly lets go of the suit, and before it can flutter to the floor, Malleus dives to catch it. This is how it goes, this is how it goes that Vil’s face will darken into unreadable thoughts, and Malleus is left to clean up whatever he’s done. The lovely suit is crumpled in his hands, every careful iron now bent in one way or another, but even as he conjures a hanger to hang it up, Vil takes the suit from him, and studies him so carefully again.

He’s starting to grow so weary of seeing everything but happiness in Vil’s eyes.

But the suit clinks lightly, hung onto the metal rack, as Vil sits down on their bed and stares up at him, still, before starting softly.

“I think it’s been long overdue that we had a good conversation, Malleus. About us. About the future.”

So why is there such an intensity in his chest, when he’s been hoping for this day for so long?

“Do continue, Schoenheit.”

“With our wedding impending, your promises to marry me are to be fulfilled.” The suit sways lightly, as Vil nudges it about, tweaking it until every little crease has gone littler still. “And yet what then? Are we to live with matrimony in name? Are you to force yourself upon me until your mission is accomplished? Wherein lies my freedom, my will, my life? Surely we ought to give mention to these not-so-trivial things.”

“And I am listening to your suggestions, anxiously awaiting to evaluate their feasibility.”

Vil bristles, at that, but says nothing more, pinching the hems of the jacket sleeve. “I do not want to be bound in a loveless matrimony; this, I am clear.”

Oh, but the iron strength of his neck, to not turn away, to fight to hide the guilt and the pain and the annoyance of hearing, again, all of his careless faults. Yet he understands, certainly, that this he will have to endure for further more, eternity — a cost to bear as gravely as the pain he has released upon Vil, for his errs.

Vil, however, holds out a thin hand. Such a perplexing move, but it slowly dawns upon him, when he realises that the former model’s hand is upwards facing, softly plateaued out before him.

Tentatively, he reaches out his own hand, as well, and flattens his own palm — larger than Vil’s, but almost just as pale — against Vil’s.

And, almost in a practised manner, Vil swivels their hands, fingers pointing skywards for a brief moment, before the human’s fingers curl. 

Vil squeezes his hand tightly, still gazing up at him, and Vil must see the trembling awe in his eyes, the raw relief and the aching that he’s never hidden well.

“Malleus,” Vil addresses him softly, like the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun. “I won’t say that I will never love you, nor will I promise that I will; but, sincerely, I want to give it a try. And perhaps I want it just as much as you do, for all of this to work out, to not let all my uncontrollable losses be in utter vain.”

The temptation to fold his fingers down and hold Vil’s hand is great.

But the urge to pull away is greater still.

He lets go of Vil’s hand, and once again looks into the depths of those purple eyes, into the abyss of Vil’s beautifully complex soul.

And he muses that it should be why he sank into its midst, in the first place. That it should be why he can never get out again, never wishes to get out again.

“I do not wish to push you,” Only their fingertips touch now, like a ghost of the contact they’d had only a moment ago. “Nor do I wish to mention again the ebbing webstrings I can see so easily, trembling between you and Hunt, unbroken, still present. I promised to love you and wed you, Schoenheit, but now that the latter is impending, I have come to the realisation. That I am ever lost when I gaze into your eyes, Schoenheit, and see a shade of purple so pale and critical that I ache. I ache when I know that you are thinking not of me, if you are not, at least, thinking ill of me.”

Fury — for one who closely observes those purple eyes, he knows it when he sees it, fury ablaze, forever so breathtakingly stunning, something so wrong to want, to desire.

“And from whence hails this cowardice, Malleus?” Vil, surprisingly, does not fling his hand away, but instead reaches to entwine their fingers again, only to choke them so tightly perhaps Vil wishes to suffocate them to the point of amputation. “You vex me; that you did not have this much of tentative deliberation back when you chose to alter my life in its entirety, and yet now you tread so lightly that you could not even injure the slightest being. Hark, Malleus: your heart speaks loudly so, through your unschooled expressions, your eyes that roam all over my face, darting everywhere but unwilling to meet mine.”

Their breaths hang heavy in the sudden silence of the cottage, starkly contrasting the warmth they bathe in, filtering in from the ornamental warped glass that casts odd shadows on the wooden floorboards. Their breaths hang heavy while his fingers throb, not quite enough to require medical attention, but Vil’s grip slackens, and he wonders if it’s because the model has run out of strength, or that Vil has lost the will to squeeze his hand until his bones are misaligned.

“I implore you, Malleus, that you make your choice now.” Vil doesn’t let go, but the lack of strength in their intertwined hands suggests the former model is only a step away from their hands falling apart again, their conversation failing again. “I may have an eternity of physical youth awaiting me, Malleus, but for how long shall you drag out this blade stabbed into me? I cannot heal if you dare not to pull the blade from my heart; let me bleed out the wound, and heal into a scar that time can fade. Time only worsens wounds, but fades scars. Which, as it is, already remains an inevitability from such a grievous wound, however much I loathe scars. I plead that you torture me no longer, Malleus, that my words from earlier still remain true to us.”

“Torture you?” The sound that issues from his throat is odd, is foreign. Like rusty old restraints shrieking and snapping under force, grief and confusion that are not his, rising again. “Then I implore you too, Vil, to tell me. Tell me Vil, do you not flinch when you gaze at me—”

“And I do not.” It’s like cool steel binds him, Vil’s hand suddenly cold in his, when the model raises their hands again, and presses it against his chest. “I do not flinch. Nor do I understand, Malleus, I truly do not comprehend, where this surge of self-humiliation stems and spills from. And yet even if I were to flinch, what of it?”

“I do not wish to draw your ire—”

“And we have been here, Malleus.” Vil speaks with a composure, a calm, that he needs to learn, as Lilia and his grandmother constantly remind him. “And it is not my ire that you will receive, Malleus, or do you find me to be so spiteful that all I could offer could only possibly be ire, and nothing more?”

A pause settles between them, if only for him to finally relax his fingers, too, curling them down into the gaps between Vil’s, holding his love tightly. “You are not.”

“Indeed, I am not.” Vil lowers their hands to a comfortable height. “So will you finally look at me, Malleus?”

He does, looking down into Vil’s eyes, without looking away.

“Will you accept, accept all that you have done, and put it behind us?”

“I…I will endeavour.”

“Then I, too, will endeavour.” Vil reaches up, with his other hand, and strokes his cheek so lightly, before bypassing it, going even higher, to trace over the little scales shadowed by his fringe. His markings of a king to be, his vulnerability, and it’s tender, the way Vil traces over them, until shudders run down his spine, and he leans into their intertwined hands, squeezing so tightly that his hand tires, but he can’t let go, his chest suffocating from the racing of his heart.

His breaths are hot against Vil’s forehead, as he breathes, and breathes, and breathes, Vil’s hand still cupping his face as he leans further down, then rests his lips against Vil’s forehead.

“I am deeply, fondly, madly, in love with you, Vil.” He pouts them ever so slightly, leaving a kiss ever so lightly. “Truly, I am, even if it fills me with utmost trepidation and anxiety when I gaze upon you, with uncertainty on how to treat you the best way you deserve.”

“It’ll take time, Malleus.” The model’s thin fingers pinch his chin, tilting his head back mildly. “But you can do it, I’m certain.”

Then, like an afterthought, Vil leans in as well, as though for good measure, and leaves a soft kiss against his lips.

“So will you try on the suit now? I need to take the measurements and send them for refinement tomorrow. I’ll also need the route of the ceremony, if it’s convenient—”

Their wedding is, surprisingly, a quiet little event, in the quiet little long nights of Briar Valley. Not many are invited, for some reason — he’d made a small inquiry to Lilia about it, and while Lilia had generally been cheery through the answer, there’s something a little more apprehensive that belied the smile the bat had worn.

Malleus looks none too affected on the outside, waltzing with him to the customary song, customary length, customary dance. Malleus, unlike everyone else who looks sombre and serious amidst their wedding, is the only one smiling, constantly smiling, guiding him through the rites of the night that seal him the title of Crown Prince Consort.

He quietly asks Sebek — Sebek, who looks around uncomfortably, alone as Malleus’ personal bodyguard, in the absence of Silver — why everyone’s so solemn.

Sebek, naturally, unhindered in his boisterous truth, tells him the truth.

Human, you are. Many are frightened by the immortality they sense from you, unnatural of a human. Though Waka-sama has exercised great prudence in ensuring that there were no laws damaged or broken by his actions, there is a lack of peace amidst the citizens, who cannot see this Crown Prince Consort of theirs that the Prince is about to marry.

And,

They are worried that the Crown Prince may have had his heart blindfolded, misled, by one with ill intentions.

The words surprisingly wounded him more than he’d given them credit for, staggering to the side to take a seat while Malleus continues the customary waltz with his grandmother, almost quite as tall as him, though with a matured gaze that levels evenly across the floor, silencing ill mutters and observing him silently, inspecting him again.

He still remembers how humiliated he’d felt, trying to come to terms with the changes, when Malleus’ grandmother had stripped him bare to inspect the mark made by Malleus, to see if it needed further improvements. To see if it was enough.

He tightens his grip on the bouquet, and a hand of black leather covers his lightly, running a thumb over the black silk that he dons. 

“Roi du Poison,” Rook sits next to him, and Vil smiles in spite of the grim atmosphere, the eyes that glare at the only other human invited in the room. “It would not do so well to see your frown on such an important night. One might think it is your opinion on the unfolding of these events.”

“And you have come to counsel me because you are so much more well-mannered than I am?”

“I am here to be the jester,” Rook bows his head slightly. “Such that my Queen may smile.”

“I haven’t smiled much lately.”

“Then it wounds me to hear that so.” Rook’s smile drops slightly. “Roi du Dragon says that in a week’s time, he shall take you on a tour throughout the country.”

“For the acceptance of the people, certainly.”

“And what about your acceptance?”

“I can’t quite say,” Vil sucks in a small breath, letting it go between his teeth as he gives up on smiling, studying the tablecloth intently for its pattern of roses. “I have very much accepted this arrangement wholeheartedly. Certainly I have made the attempts, but I have not, yet, learnt to embrace whatever may be budding between Malleus and I.”

“I have heard that Roi du Dragon has yet to make any moves for…conception.”

“I have asked that of him.” He lays the bouquet down, careful not to crush the exotic flowers. “I have asked him to withhold his urges, his impulses, his desires, till the day we are genuinely ready to move on.”

“And it is a curse, of course.”

“My unique magic seems to be one of the few things I can trust now, in this place.” He turns back to Rook, and smiles, reluctantly scraping together what he can muster. “You can tell his grandmother is not quite fond of me.”

“This whole valley brims and bubbles with hostility, Vil.”

“I cannot run.”

“Not if you do not choose to.” Rook takes two flutes and fills them with the sweet champagne he brought. “Though I am always here, should you change your mind, Vil.”

“I have promised Malleus, and I have wed him.”

“You have yet to consummate your wedding night.”

“And yet it will be due once the ceremony is over.” Vil takes a flute, and sips it. “Lovely champagne.”

“Ma mère bade me bring it.” Rook clinks the glass with his, and sips as well. “Do you dread it, cher Vil?”

“The consummation?”

“Oui.”

“Not quite.” Heat rises up his neck as he glances away, hoping to blame it on the alcohol, but Rook watches him far too keenly. “Malleus is rather…adept.”

In that moment, he saw a small flash of bitterness in green eyes a shade darker than his husband’s. A shade of green he used to yearn for so much, but all he feels is the fizzling of the champagne bubbles, when he covers his hand over their stacked hands. “Rook—”

“Mind me not, Vil.” The hunter stops him right there. “There is no longer space to turn around, to start over again. I am delighted for you, that happiness is not quite too far from you, from your achievement.”

“I’m sorry that I may not leave the valley to celebrate your birthday with you.” It’s all he can think of, to apologise for. “Though I promise that we can spend good time together on your occasional visits, that we shall not fall apart from a lack of contact, either.”

“Bien sûr.” Rook reaches for his fedora, standing as the music gradually begins to slow. “I await your correspondence, Vil, and I wish you the best of luck.”

“And I you, Rook.” He watches the hunter leave, repressing the emotions in his chest, the turmoil as the music fades out, and Malleus is back by his side, pulling him back to his feet for the final dance to end the night.

“I love you.” Malleus tells him, when they spin again and again and again, twirling under the beautifully intricate chandeliers.

He’s forced to acknowledge that the words leave him much easier now, even as he smiles back, and it hurts less, his hand on Malleus’s shoulder and the other on the prince’s waist.

“And I you, Malleus.”