✨ Shine Bright Like a Shrimpy ✨

MC's observation makes Napoleon let out a quiet snort, the kind that is inevitably accompanied by a ruffling of her hair, an old habit of his. She recognizes it already as the gesture of adoration that it is, even if annoying, and refrains from fixing her messed-up hair as it hardly matters in the dark. Right, it has indeed gotten quite dark in the garret. Lost in chatter, neither of them seems to have noticed the last bits of daylight dying out to make way for a starlit sky. But now even the full moon has hidden behind a fluffy cloud, adding another layer to the darkness inside the garret. Napoleon takes a mental note to ask MC if she's scared of the dark. And then to use the excuse to give her a comforting cuddle. But not without teasing her about it first.

"I keep telling you, Nunuche, I'm not that old. I might have had an eventful life, but it all still feels like yesterday to me. Maybe that's because I've made a point of never forgetting these times."

Napoleon goes quiet for a bit. This principle of his goes hand in hand with the bitterness of regret; it lingers on his tongue. But he'd be a fool to poison such a pleasant conversation, so he thinks of a more light-hearted direction to drive it in.

"…Besides, few meals in life are worth remembering, anyway. You're good."

His ever-curious Nunuche makes a humming noise as soon as he throws in that bold claim. Even though it's dark, Napoleon can almost see her tilt her head, like a cute little puppy. His mind is already cleansed.

"Now I'm curious! Wait, let me think about mine, and you can think about yours in the meanwhile…"

"Sure, I'm sure it won't take you long."

"Napoleon!!"

It takes Napoleon everything not to give MC another hair ruffling. His grin is hidden in the darkness, and it remains on his face even after he sinks further into the pillow propped against the wall and begins reminiscing about the new topic.

What is food to him? In the aforementioned busy life of his, there has been little time for such mundanities - that’s it, at first thought. At second, it's something so fundamental in life that it naturally takes up a good chunk of it.

A colorful flash of memories floods his mind, all framed by a stark white plate. The dim and quiet room seems to sharpen his senses, and his imagination does a great job of even replicating the very taste of those memories…

***

Chestnut porridge. A deep frown spreading on his youthful face, eyes still heavy with sleep as the first disappointment of the day is already served in front of him. Chestnut porridge - again! To his left, there's Joseph, already gobbling his own meal like there's no tomorrow. When there surely is a tomorrow - one filled with even more porridge, that’s for sure. 

Ever since little Napoleone remembers himself - even if that's not a very long time -  he remembers the taste of chestnuts. It's all they eat, it seems. They are in the bread and they’re even in the deserts his mom surprises the family with for special ocassions.

Napoleone knows there's a good reason for that - he's heard about a million times now the tale of the old chestnut tree in the garden of their family home, under which he plays. Something about his grandparents taking pride in managing to save it when they were told to cut it down. He doesn't understand what could be so special about it when chestnut trees are everywhere in town. Apparently, there used to be even more of them back in the day, but something happened. He is not in a hurry to remember the details when he's sure to hear that story again sooner or later. And, besides, remembering about it doesn't help him gulp down his porridge any faster. 

To his right, there's his baby brother Lucian. He seems to have stalled eating, imitating his older sibling. Napoleone thinks about how much worse hunger is compared to porridge, and for the first time, he realizes he's the big brother now. 

There's also little Elisa, still in mother's belly. He will be sure to teach them to eat their meals! That's what big brothers do.

***

A dry piece of bread. At the table of an Emperor, there surely are bigger plaisirs de la bouche. Yet, Napoleon couldn't care less. He has things to do, places to go, and having a feast is the last thing on his mind. He's barely slept, again, and maybe that's half the reason he does things on auto pilot yet again. He could, at the very least, dip his bread into the rich and flavourful sauce of his poultry dish (those are all the talks lately, as gastronomy seems to reach new peaks day after day!) - but he doesn't. 

Or, perhaps, that's a deep-seated habit from his soldier days, which were not so long ago. The rations were hard to swallow back then, both in the figutive and in the literal sense.

 Upon coming to power, one of his first priorities were to feed his army better, and it led to innovations in food preservation. "An army marches on its stomach!", he likes to say, and upon making the observation that he fails to listen to his own words, all while being head of said army at that, he makes a promise to eat better.

***

Overcooked rice. Even though, at the time Napoleon is eating it, it's just rice - though he can tell there's something not quite right with it. But much later, when looking back to it, he'd remember it as the most overcooked rice that ever grazed his palate, the self-critic that he is.

But right now, it's just rice, the rice he made. Attempted to, anyway. This is all so new to him.

This reincarnation thing aside, cooking on its own is a whole new world for him. He's been so kindly housed by Le Comte, the last thing he wants to do is make himself even more of a parasite by requiring special service, seeing that his housemates don't have the same…erm, dietary needs as him. Interestingly, living with vampires has proved to be easier to get used to than living with himself, it seems, as he still hasn't found a very useful way to spend his time. This, right now, however - it feels like progress. He's alone in the kitchen just like he wanted to, and he's about to make his first meal… even if it costs him his (second) life. 

Why choose rice of all things? Recently, he had a change of heart when it comes to it. All his life, he's known rice to be this luxury food that was sometimes prepared for his imperial table, and like with other specialties, he had little interest in it. Knowing Le Comte's wealth, it was no surprise to find it at the noble's table as well. But prepared by the mansion's trustworthy butler Sebastian, rice has a new name. No longer the star of the plate, yet a thousand times more delicious; served the way it was meant to be eaten, Napoleon thinks.

And now, standing before his creation, he enthusiastically digs in. It tastes…pretty mild. But for once, he's taking his time. Paying attention to texture, saltiness, to those experimental spices he used and how the whole thing comes together. The strange trill of this new experience gradually calms down to a pleasant warmth residing within his belly. 

For the first time, he understands the power of a comfort meal.

***

Blood. Hot on his tongue; unexpectedly sweet. That's the first thing that gets him. The metalic, salty taste of blood, Napoleon thought, could be enjoyed only by a monster. Yet, as he helplessly drinks, and drinks, his body cares little about such philosophy. Morales make way for nature - in the same ugly way in which some species' offspring devour the body of its mother for survival. Awakening his vampiristic self feels a little bit like yet another rebirth for Napoleon. He has to start all over and accept himself yet again. But as he takes his full, looking at the eyes of his beloved who did this for him, warm and alive in his arms, same as Napoleon himself, he realizes nature is not so cruel if it finds a way for him, for them. He's sure he'll think a lot about this dreadful first taste of blood, but for the time being, he lets it be his life source just like any other food he had to gulp down for survival.

***

Wedding cake. White and fluffy whipped cream smeared on Nunuche's cheeks. Cutting the first piece of the wedding cake together with Nunuche. The surprise on Nunuche's face when it was first brought into the reception's hall, so tall and lavish and making Nunuche resemble a kid in a candy store, quite literally. Eating leftovers of wedding cake with Nunuche much, much later that night, tired from the long day; yet happy, so, so happy as Napoleon never felt before. And the taste… 

The taste of the cake, what was it, even?

***

Napoleon snaps from his deep thoughts. He feels a little embarassed to have spent so much time overthinking such a silly question, and thankfully, MC couldn't hear just how unnecessarily dramatic his inner monologue turned at one point. 

Even though, his most recent memories seem to be nothing of the kind. Every next meal he can think of is no more than a glimpse and a smile on his face. Nothing more and nothing less. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

There will surely be other meals to remember. A warm chicken soup to soothe a sick throat… Why not a few more cakes for good measure, to mark celebrations. The foreign and memorable taste of the dishes of some far-away country, once he finally embarks on his dream travels, together with Nunuche. Preparing baby food…

Napoleon’s face burns red.

"Whatever, Nunuche. I give up. When I think of food, I can't seem to think of anything else but the way you stuff your cute cheeks full,” he lies.

A second of silence is followed by a soft murmur.

Napoleon isn't sure how much time has passed, but MC seems to have fallen asleep in the meantime. As he scoots closer and pokes her cheek, but gently enough not to wake her up, he wonders if she's having any yummy dreams right now…

“Is that so?” He tried not to show his pleasure, not that you would have known he was smiling with his mouth covered by a mask, “Even with this kind of attire, you find me beautiful?”

“Yes! I do suppose the attire is unusual. I have certainly never seen anything like it,” If he had seen until the upper half of your body before, now he could only see your head, as though you neared the glass to take a better look. “Still, no odd clothing can hide your beauty.”

“Never seen anything like it?” he repeated. It was a white long-sleeved shirt, a pair of gloves, and a disposable face mask. It was hardly a pretty outfit, but the items singled out were not at all out of the ordinary. From that alone, Vil was able to make an easy assumption. “How long have you been cursed to stay inside this mirror?”

He watched your throat as you swallowed before you spoke.

“I do not know. I think I might have been asleep for… years before you woke me up.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” 

He had only intended to put the mirror down for a few minutes, quickly scan the bookshelf not only for that potion book, but for one about magical artifacts or curses, but you suddenly looked panicked as he began to walk away.

“Wait! Do not leave me alone, please!” you exclaimed, almost desperately. “Bring me with you! I am sure I can be useful to you!”

Vil had not planned on leaving the mirror — or rather you, that would take some time getting used to — here in the attic, but he was interested in what value you seemed to have for yourself.

“In what way? I’m sure you’re quite limited being stuck in there.” 

You looked a little upset at the reminder and he could not help but sigh. He had not meant to be mean, he was simply stating the facts, but he supposed sensitivity should’ve been implemented considering your pitiful position. “Just so you know, I had no plans of leaving you here. I’m not heartless,” and the mirror was rather beautiful, but he did not know if you would appreciate hearing that.

That seemed enough to reassure you, the nervousness leaving your expression. 

“If you ask me a question, I am cursed to only give you the truth.”

Vil knew of several people who would simply hate to ask you anything, the fear of the truth in favor of living in a delusion, but Vil was not one of those people. Empty compliments, lies told with good intentions — they held value lesser than the harsh truth, less than even a truth told with bad intentions.

As horrible as a fate as it was to be cursed, he could not help but smile, and although you would not be able to see it with his lips, perhaps you would through his eyes.

“My name is Vil Schoenheit. Let’s get along, shall we?”

When Vil had packed to go back to Night Raven College after the holidays, he had made sure to bring a certain mirror along with him. He did not always bring you around everywhere, you stuck somewhere in his room as he attended classes, but he did his due diligence to talk to you every day. 

The connection between the two of you was admittedly strange — him asking for your honesty about his hair and make-up, you happy to be able to talk to anyone — but it was something mutual in the sense that you both got something you wanted out of the other. Not exactly a healthy friendship — would something like this even count as a friendship? — but a beneficial partnership.

Sure, your compliments and opinions were nothing unheard of, if only a little odd with how fascinated you could get about modern clothing and sparkly cosmetics, but he enjoyed hearing them with the added knowledge that it was honest and, quite frankly, he just enjoyed getting praise out of you. 

Plus, there was the novelty of simply having a magic mirror just like the Queen he admired so much, although one not as powerful and clearly cursed, but that aside, conversations with you were always a good way to entertain himself. A presence distant enough to not bother him when he needed quiet and some time to himself, but present enough a presence for when he needed to talk.

“Vil, what was that thing you were talking about earlier?” you asked, “The thing you said you were acting in. A moving, was it? Is that what they call stage plays nowadays?”

“You were close. It’s a movie,” he corrected, wondering how to best explain it to you, plus storing some new information he had learned about you — you were cursed during a time before motion pictures had been invented. Would you even know what a photograph was?

“Imagine being able to watch the same play over and over again,” he explained, hoping his descriptions were enough to paint a clear picture, “and the actors never change. When you watch it for the first time, it’ll be the exact same the second, third, twentieth time.”

“That sounds wonderful!” you exclaimed. Vil notes how among all the new technology and entertainment he had introduced you to, this was what you were most interested in. Well, lucky for you, he knew a good amount about movies and he was actually willing to talk about it for more than a few minutes. “And you actually act in these movies?”

“It’s been a while because of school, but yes,” he replied with a short laugh, finding your amazement amusing to watch. For all you knew he could have been some background character and here you were, lauding him for something you barely knew anything about.

“And just what stories, characters do you act out?”

Vil paused before he answered, lips pressed tight.

“Movies can have any genre, theme, story. It’s even more versatile than theatre in some ways; you’d definitely be surprised at how different they all can be from each other,” and how bland and stale they could also be, but nothing wrong with only mentioning the good things.

“But, ah, just where can you watch a movie?”

“That’s the beauty of it — it can be watched anywhere these days. You can watch one at home on your phone — the device I told you about before, remember? — but the traditional way to watch one would be at a cinema… cinema basically being a theatre, but for movies.”

He had his eyes off you for a few minutes, busy cleaning his face to prepare for the night, so when he had his eyes on you again he was slightly intrigued by how wistful you seemed to look at the thought.

“It would be nice to see one…” 

Vil was, for the most part, immune to being affected by sad expressions and pouty faces, but you did seem genuinely upset that you couldn’t so he supposed he wasn’t annoyed by it. On the matters of actually doing something to resolve it…

“Bringing you to a theatre is out of the question,” With his lack of free time, going to a cinema was impractical. Why would he do it for you? And having to bring a magic mirror, having to point you towards the screen, making sure you stayed quiet to avoid suspicion — all of it seemed like a hassle. However, “but… I suppose I could set up a device or something to play movies while I’m gone.”

“Really?! Could you do that?”

He wasn’t technologically inept so of course he could. All he had to do was make sure the volume was low enough and put on subtitles for you.

However, there was something in it for him. He wasn’t just going to put on some second-rate movie, or a reality TV trash fire that might risk you getting addicted to them, oh no, certainly not.

“The condition, of course, is that you’ll be going through every film I’ve starred in since I was a child. I’m sure you’ll be able to give me some good criticism and comments, no?”

“Ah, then I will work on making my comments as eloquent and detailed as possible! Just to show you how really grateful I am!” What I’m doing hardly requires any effort, he would say, but he won’t deny liking your sudden enthusiasm. Even with your constraints you were doing your best in whatever way you could, and that kind of quality was always something to be appreciated in a person.

Vil was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was not a matter of simply waking up on the wrong side of bed, but a series of unfortunate events that made it difficult to hide his growing irritation. 

It started with the blender not working. Health-wise he had already been feeling pretty off that morning, maybe he had accidentally consumed too much dinner the night before or something of the sort, so he had been looking forward to making a particular smoothie that would help him but no, the blender had been broken. 

He would say that was alright, what was one missed smoothie when you can get one from the cafeteria, but breakfast was easily the most important meal of the day and it most definitely worsened his mood to miss it.

Then there was Epel. Sure, he had accepted that the boy would never be the definition of being prim and proper, inwardly rowdy boy that he was who seemed to secretly crave a fight, but that did not mean he was okay with his junior literally getting into a fight! Just what was he thinking? Was he not concerned that his dorm leader was going to get a heart attack just hearing it? 

(Plus, if he was going to get into a fight, at least make it a clean and elegant sweep! And hidden too so nobody would ever know! Would his blood pressure have risen if Epel had managed to keep it a secret? Absolutely not!)

Then he was paired with someone much too clumsy when it came to choosing herbs for the potion — they clearly had different smells despite similar appearances; then there was the call from his manager, and not to mention-

“Vil, you’re back!” Unlike him, however, you always seemed chipper and cheerful, at least by how excitedly you seemed to greet him. It was odd, considering how you probably shouldn’t be so happy stuck in a mirror, but maybe that was just how you are. 

“You know you- oh,” you trailed off, apparently noticing how dreadful he must have looked. Normally he would not have shown his true emotions so blatantly on his features, but he didn’t think you’d mind too much.

Plus, it was a good chance to try something.

“I look terrible, don’t I?” You blinked once, then twice, at the question, and then looked almost as if you were trying to hold back from what you actually wanted to say. Then, with a scrunch in your face, as if you were desperately focused on not sounding too mean, you replied,

“To be honest, a little bit. Your hair is out of place, your eyebrows are furrowed, you...” An awkward laugh escaped your lips as you continued, “you are still beautiful of course, no irritation is going to change that, but… you… you looked better yesterday than today.”

Vil just had to laugh at how intimidated you looked, when really that was the exact answer he was looking for. Oh dear, how adorable was it for you to be so concerned over how he received your words.

Unless you were one of those people who found negativity and messiness beautiful, he doubted you would find him the fairest of them all in this particular scenario. In fact, he was likely more beautiful in that cleaning garb than now — evidence of rising stress levels were unbecoming on anyone, even him. Thus, you actually giving an honest opinion, one that he could believe, as opposed to just another shower of praise, had resulted in him placing more value on you as a person.

“I was wondering whether you truly were telling the truth all this time,” Vil said, not failing to notice the way your eyes widened slightly. He’s not surprised considering he had never really let on that he might have not believed you.

“You might think I just want compliments out of you, but that would make you no better than the barrage of comments I get on MagiCam — I’ll explain what that is later — which while I appreciate my fans, most comments are hardly interpersonal and unwilling to critique me,” He extended a polished nail up to the mirror, pointing at the glass to make sure you really paid attention. 

“And because this is a partnership, I expect you to be more honest than you’re forced to be — that is, even when I’m not asking you a question, feel free to state your opinion. That’s how the curse works, right? The stipulation being that I have to ask you a question, but you’re free to lie as you wish elsewhere.”

“Right,” you breathed out, as if unable to say any more, with any less being utter silence, “however… this is a partnership?”

“I suppose we never discussed this formally, but I do believe so. You tell me exactly what I want to hear, and in exchange I offer you the fairest person in Twisted Wonderland as a conversation partner,” he said, and although you laughed he was only half joking, “and, of course, on the off chance I learn anything about your curse, I’ll let you know.”

“Wait, you will actually help me break free from the mirror?” More than looked, you sounded shocked, like you had not even thought that it was possible to break a curse.

“Now I didn’t say I would go out of my way to help you,” In the same way that the headmaster was helping Ramshackle’s prefect find a way back home, though he’d argue he would somehow end up doing even more than him. “However, curses all have something in common — they can’t be cast without having conditions setting it, conditions that can be fulfilled to break the curse. I’m sure there’s something out there to help you out.”

Sure, he wasn’t going to go out of his way, but the offer stood, and somehow that was more than enough for something to shift in you. Heavens, had you really not thought of it before? Was it a situation of lost hope, or a lack of opportunity? Unless it was a curse cast by one of The Seven, he was certain he could aid you if needed be.

“Now it feels as if I am offering too little, not that there’s much I can offer in this state — you would not happen to want my friendship, would you? I am a good listener!”

“That would mean I’d need to tell you my woes and worries in the first place. Do you really expect me to do so? I don’t give that kind of information for free.” 

“Not right now, but who can say?” The answer is noncommittal, the likelihood of change hanging above you. “It is good to let the truth out sometimes, sometimes better than keeping it within, and what harm is there in telling a mirror? Who could I go to, who could I tell? Where would I even begin?”

You had a point there. 

“Fine, I suppose I could let you in on a secret,” Vil said, smiling at how surprised you looked. So you really didn’t think he would say anything, hm? Of course, the secret was not so interesting a secret, but he had yet to verbalize it, and only to you he would.

“Today was a terrible day.”

He wondered if you would laugh at how silly it was before asking for the details, perhaps whine at how anticlimactic it had been and to tell you a real secret — that was the point of him telling you that, he had no intentions of pouring his deepest and darkest thoughts to you — but even though you smile and your eyes seem to crinkle slightly neither happen. Instead, you say,

“Thank you for telling me.”

Vil’s face is bare, unadorned with makeup. It’s not too big of a deal — makeup enhances his beauty, but he knows how pleasing he is to the eyes even without it — but it’s odd to be seen by someone without it, like a vulnerability he’d rather not expose.

It’s just you, though, and he hadn’t been wearing makeup either the first time you had met him. There was no real reason to have any on in the confines of his room as well, not when he could be putting on cleansers and toners and serums and the sheet mask you screamed at the first time you saw it.

You seemed to like the idea of it though, especially the cucumbers on the eyes.

“It would be nice if I could simply… manifest cucumbers with me, or have you pass me one through the mirror,” you said, wanting and whining, “It seems fun and relaxing.”

“Then add it to the list of things you want to do when you break your curse,” he replied, as if it was an inevitability. Vil honestly wasn’t sure, not when he hardly knew anything about how you ended up in this situation in the first place, but a possibility was worth being optimistic about on your end. 

“First, watching a movie in a cinema-”

“-to see your movie in a cinema,” you interjected, and he could not help but laugh at that. The specificity is appreciated, particularly because he knows you’re not saying it just to flatter him.

“Then you’ll have to wait a while for that. I won’t have any for a while,” Unless luck struck and he landed himself a particularly desirable role, but his pessimistic — no, realistic outlook on life and the industry made him doubt that. “You’ll have to settle for the cucumbers.”

“Is it really settling if I desire it?” 

He did not answer the question, rhetorical in its nature. He had a question of his own instead, one lingering in the back of his mind. 

“Do you…” The question itself was completely valid, that is, if you really wanted some help in breaking your curse, but he could not bring himself to ask it. There must have been some reason you had kept a rather tight lip on any details of your past, and to ask you would mean you would be compelled to spill what could very well be the depths of your soul. With the nature of your curse, it hardly seems fair.

But when has that ever mattered? Fair he may be, but fair he was not.

“Tell me what you can about your curse.” 

The wording is not lost on you.

“First and foremost, you must know that I was not exactly a good person,” you said, as though ashamed at the recollection. Vil raised his eyebrow, unaffected and unimpressed. 

“Many people are not. In fact, goodness could be subjective rather than objective.”

The students of Night Raven College, as wonderful of friends they could be, were not exactly known to be “good” people to the general populace — and even if they were good deep down to their very cores, their reputations would claim otherwise.

He himself was not known to be good, and how hypocritical would it be for him to count on you being a good person? It was difficult to be good, much more good to everyone, when all that really mattered was that you were good to the people who counted — in this instance, him.

“Yes, well,” you laughed, “I wronged the wrong person… rather, being.”

“Meaning?”

“I was cursed by a fae.”

“A fae!” he exclaimed, before groaning at the thought. Now he was certainly impressed — just what exactly did you do to have a curse to this degree? On one hand you’re certainly not dead, neither have you ever claimed to be in any sort of physical pain, but to be trapped? Either the one who cursed you was incredibly petty, or you had greatly upset them, or both.

“In the first place, to get involved with a fae with enough power to plant this kind of curse…”

“It is a long story,” you replied, clearly unwilling to expound any further. That was fine, he had not posed it as a question purely so you could omit any details you wanted, but it only made him more curious as to how you even found yourself into that kind of entanglement. “Essentially, faes do not like being lied to, and I had to learn the difficult way.”

Oh, now he understood how your curse came to fruition.

“And because you lied a little too much, you wound up in a mirror, cursed to only tell the truth should someone ask you a question,” His conclusion was backed up with a nod of agreement on your part. Dishonesty, a mirror, and some fae you would not talk about — what was the relevance?

“Somehow, I think you got lucky with the conditions. At the very least you’re not forced to say the truth in every sentence,” Vil pointed out. “Thinking about it now, I wonder if you’ve ever lied to me.”

Now that he had more insight into your situation he certainly wouldn’t blame you if you had — self-preservation called for drastic measures, after all. 

“I might have exaggerated a few times at first,” you replied, tone indicating some weight had left your shoulders, “but I have yet to lie. Never with you.”

He can’t tell if you’re lying — what would you even look like if you were? — but he chooses to believe it, believes he won’t regret it. 

“Then I ask you — who’s the fairest being you have ever seen?”

Vil’s face is bare, unadorned with makeup, but just this once he thinks he might not need it, for he blooms like a flower when you reply —

“It is you.”

He chooses not to comment on it, but you both know he is appreciative — not just of the compliment, but for telling him as much as you had. 

“Then, in exchange for your secret, let me tell you some of mine.”

He tells his secrets — still hardly real secrets, more simple things he would prefer not to spill for the sake of his image, but something kept to himself still counts as a secret — secrets told through a whisper, carried through a mirror.

And the mirror will hold your secrets; will learn of his.

It is not out of the ordinary for a Pomefiore student to look into studying up on curses. Pomefiore was known to house students excellent in both potions and curses, the expertise of the Fairest Queen herself, so Vil looking to read up on a few books outside the recommended reading was nothing to bat an eye at. 

Or it should not have been, but Diasomnia’s Vice Dorm Leader seemed to think otherwise.

“There’s a faint trace of something on you.”

“What, my perfume?”

“Kufufu, I’m sure you know what I mean,” Lilia said, peering over the stack of books he had intended on borrowing from the library. “Just what is causing you to borrow The Complexities of Curses, Volume 2: Fae, Merfolk, and Other Creatures? Meddling with an artifact, a cursed human?”

“Both. I am both of those things,” he stifled a laugh as you spoke from inside his designer handbag, and then he realized something — it was one thing for Lilia to be able to sense you, but could Lilia perhaps hear you? 

“Interesting,” Lilia did not wait for him to reply, smiling in that mischievous, almost all-knowing way of his. “I doubt you want me getting the way, so I’ll leave you to it! Who knows, maybe the answers you seek are easier to find than you may think!”

Before Lilia could fully leave his line of sight he had brought you out of the bag discreetly, giving you a peek of the fae’s retreating form.

“Just making sure, that’s not who cursed you, right?”

“No, he didn’t have black hair,” Then that crossed out Malleus as well, much to his relief. While he did not care too much about finding the perpetrator, the caster was hardly ever essential in curse-breaking, it would be troublesome if he was trying to break a curse cast by someone currently in the vicinity. 

“You really do not have to put too much effort in looking for a way to break the curse,” you told him gently, for what might have been the third time today. 

“This benefits me too. My signature spell has to do with curses, so any additional knowledge would be of help to me as well,” he replied. To himself he would admit that the main idea was to be of help to you, but the idea of being capable of not only casting curses but breaking them as well was enticing.

“Then just make sure not to rush. Even if you did succeed, what would happen to me? Where would I even go?”

Vil said the first thing that had popped up in his head.

“I’m more than capable of helping you out,” he told you, as if it was the inevitable next step. He had the money, and he was certainly interested in seeing you in some modern clothing, as well as the pampering you seemed intrigued by. He could always use another assistant, and he finds your company was pleasurable enough to the point that he would not mind having you around all the time — you technically already were so he doubted a physical form would change much of anything.

There was the matter of where you would reside, more than complicated if he broke the curse in school grounds as compared to back at home, but-

“Really, do not even think about it unless you plan on being in a new movie!”

“Quiet, we’re still in a library,” he hushed you, and though you had already been tucked back in the depths of his bag he imagined you were sticking your tongue out, maybe rolling your eyes at him. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve been a lot brattier lately? You used to be much nicer before.”

“But you don’t like nice,” you reminded him, “you said you like me best when I am being honest.”

“When I said you should be less conscious of trying to please me, I didn’t think it’d be like this. Sooner or later we might have our first argument,” He flapped a book open, looking through the table of contents. “Now, let me do some research while I have the free time-”

“But Vil,” you whined, “I’m bored… It's dark in here and I am sick of looking at your makeup products. What even is a primer anyway?”

Vil is as used to observing as he is used to being observed, and he knows you’re distracting him from actually diving deep into the pages of the books. He indulges you well enough, partly because talking to you is a joy he can indulge in, but mostly to keep you from complaining. He’s engaged, but not to the point that his full attention is on you.

There’s just something about you — your attitude towards your curse — that has him suspicious enough that he can’t simply shake it off. Since you’re doing so well in being honest, should he not extend that same honesty to you?

“You’re hiding something important. I know you are, and I know it’s something that can help you with your curse,” There was neither elegance nor subtlety in the question, very unlike him in phrasing, but he had figured that bluntness was better suited for the topic at hand. 

You went silent, cutting yourself off from whatever it was you were talking about, but Vil was not having it; so he took you — the mirror, that is — out of the bag, staring intently as though you were his reflection. 

(Hardly a difference when, these days, he looks at you as often as he does his reflection.)

You would not look at him, and when his fingertips glide atop the glass as a feeble attempt to grab your attention you merely shriveled up, shrinking, shameful, and shy like a touch-me-not.

“You don’t have to tell me, but it would be nice if you let me know if something was wrong.”

“But why?” you responded, “Why does it matter?”

Vil was unsure. He’s neither delusional nor in denial so he’s aware he’s come to care for you, although he’s unsure if it's a particularly good idea to care about someone stuck in a hand mirror, neither is he sure if the term friends applied to situations like yours and his— but yes, despite it all he does care for you.

“Because I want to help you.”

“Vil,” You smiled at him and he had wanted to smile back instinctively, but your reply stopped him from doing so.

“I do not think you will be able to break my curse.”

Vil had numerous ways of destressing, but picking up the hand mirror to talk to you had been his main way of doing so as of late. However, it was difficult to do just that when you were the one causing him distress. 

It should not have been a big deal when there were numerous things he did before you came along — getting a massage, online shopping, yoga, lighting some scented candles, and even the rare cheat day were all things he could have done, but instead he found himself staring at the two not-cursed mirrors in his dorm room. 

You were ridiculous, Vil thought to himself, because why could he not break your curse? Who else was capable of doing so? Who else would you turn to? What more would he have to do to become someone who could do so?

And not just that, but he had, in fact, caught onto the implication that you did have a clue as to how to possibly break your curse, maybe even knew exactly how to do it yourself! There was just some reason that you refused to tell him, refused to have him try; for the life of him he did not know why.

It was one thing to tell him to take his time with it, that was consideration, and it was one thing to tell him to not do it, that was a request, but it was another to tell him he could not do it. That he was incapable. How dare you imply that he could not do it! Worse, to have him wonder why he would not be enough? 

Vil does not pressure you into telling him, not after the first time you told him you did not want to tell him the details, nor does he use your curse against you because he cares for you regardless, but he still seethes at the thought.

Despite there being no confession it feels like a rejection, a call for introspection; he wishes you would tell him what imperfection you saw within so he would no longer have to question.

He had thought the two of you good at communication, one of the best things about the two of you since he had the mirror in his possession, and yet… was he really going to wallow like this? He, who had always been called mature, slumped in dejection like this? 

Was he worthy of being Vil Schoenheit if he continued like this?

“You,” Vil does not shout, he does not show his anger, because he is angrier at himself more than at you. Instead, Vil does something he never does — he pleads. “Tell me, please.”

“Why?” you ask. Lately, you ask more questions than he. “Why do you want to help me? You don’t have to help me, I never asked for it.”

“Because you have become dearer to me than should be normal,” he replies, exasperated, and draws himself closer to the mirror, “and it has never been clearer to me that, even with all your delays and denials, you would be far happier out here, curse removed from someone hardly even a sinner.”

You let out a little laugh, expression containing the same smile you had adorned in the library, and although he had thought in mocking in his previous perception, he now knew what it truly was — self-deprecation. 

“To have become dear to you is a start, but I cannot tell if it’s enough,” you reply, a little ominously, and though he does not speak, the look in his eyes is pressing enough to get you to continue. “It is never good to lie to faefolk… especially worse to mess with their feelings, to take their love for granted.”

The missing link. That information you hid was all it took for it to click.

“Someone has to fall in love with you,” he guessed, “even with you being in a mirror, even with you being cursed to tell the truth when asked.”

He isn’t surprised of the nature of the curse, fae have been known to craft their curses around love and intimacy of all things, but what he is surprised by is that such a thing had been bestowed to you, how you seem to think you have earned it, and —

“Did you not want to try?” Vil asked, “Did you not want to try to get me to fall in love with you? Did you not say you weren’t a very nice person? Unless I’m wrong, you don’t have to return anyone’s feelings to break the curse.”

“I tried to do that, twice,” you admit, looking the most ashamed he has seen you, “not with you, but two other people who had the mirror before you. I suppose I just gave up at some point; I just wanted to try to be a nice person with you.”

Vil had not even entertained the idea that there would be others before him, but now that he thought of it, it simply made sense. But that begged the question… What happened to the others?

“Did they ever try to break your curse?”

“Yes. The first one actually figured out how to do it. Begged him to help me, and he liked me enough to try,” Which was why you were in no rush to try to figure out how to break it — because you already knew, and you knew, as he was, just like the ones before him, he would not succeed.

“Vil,” It’s your turn to plead with him, “you don’t have to do anything with this information. I told you because I don’t want to force you — I don’t want to force anyone anymore.”

“You—”

“Do not make yourself love me.”

You might not think yourself a good person, but Vil thinks he might be worse than you.

Since learning the full details of your curse, or as much about it as you yourself know, he had been more conscious of you, in the sense that he was actively trying not to fall in love with you, even the slightest degree. 

Of course, Vil doesn’t get what he wishes for, because despite you not pulling any stunts and him trying not to entertain the idea, his perception of you changes — he isn’t sure if it’s love, but if it is, it is terrifying.

How does one measure love? Is something that’s only beginning to bloom, neither nectar nor fruits of harvest available for collection, counted as love? Would his feelings be casted aside for not nearly being enough, not something worth writing scripts about, not worth the poetry of the greats?

Ironically, Vil tried to not fall for you simply because he had grown to love you, somehow, someway, maybe not to the point that would be needed to break the curse but it was there.

It is not that he cannot see himself loving you with his entire being, you are a person worth loving, but among all other things it is the uncertainty of the effects thereafter that gives him pause.

One, he attempts to break the curse, and whatever magical conditions were set had decided his feelings were not real enough, then you would end up in some other being’s attic, still stuck in the mirror and as cursed as you had left off. For him, that would mean losing contact with you, likely for good, and for you, it would mean you would have to start over.

Two, say he did attempt to break the curse, and unlike the past two people who had come across the mirror he did manage to succeed… then that simply opened a whole other realm of possibilities. The good thing, the best thing was that you were free from your curse, but where would you end up?

He had talked of still having you around as company, helping you settle into a new time and a new place as if it was a pre-written end goal, but that was easily the best case scenario. As if it was a given, he had fashioned a place for you right by his side. But what if you returned to your original time from some years back? What if you get transported to some other world, just like Ramshackle’s prefect was? 

He has his worries, he has his feelings, but he chooses not to keep it to himself for too long; he has learned from the last time to simply share it with you, especially because it had to do with you.

“Truthfully, I am just happy you have come to care for me this much,” He cannot blame you for thinking such a thing, even he thought it had been an odd turn of events, but he supposed odder things have happened to him before, things far more unpleasant. In his time with you, he has felt nothing less than pleasant.

“I am more than grateful for even that much love,” you tell him, “because at least, a small amount that is true is better than immense amounts falsified and forced.”

“I still wish I could love you a little more,” because it gave him more security that he could properly break the curse, because you deserved it, but he knows he could not show you the love you deserved like this. Still, it brings him comfort that you at least feel the same way.

“Right now… you’d easily be my whole world,” you admit, “so I can’t really tell if the love I have for you… I want to try, I want to confirm it, but not like this.”

“But not like this,” he agrees.

Thus, a date is set.

“Vil, if this works…”

“It will work,” he insisted, hoping it would not be wishful thinking on his behalf, “it will work, and then I’ll take you to the movies, and I’ll finally introduce you to my friends and my father, and then-”

“-then we can try this love thing again. Properly this time,” you said, uttering a small laugh to try and break the serious atmosphere. It did not work. “I was pretty lousy at trying to get you to love me, was I not? I know you said I could try, but I just could not-”

“No, you did not have to do anything in particular,” Because Vil never had a moment, nothing like the films the two of you would watch on slower, lazier days. One day he just looked at you and realized he would do anything for the chance to break your curse, even if it meant he might never see you again. “But you’re welcome to try. I think I want to see you try.”

“Then you have to wait for me,” you told him, wishing to share a promise with him “I don’t know where I’ll be in the world, when it’ll be, but I’ll come looking for you. Even if I somehow get thrown back hundreds of years from now, I’ll… I’ll find a way to become immortal! I’ll even go make a deal with-”

“No more getting entangled with fae, please,” he bemoaned, before letting out a huff of laughter.

“Just wait for me,” you repeated, before momentarily looking away, “or, if it’s too much to ask, then just don’t forget about me.”

As if he could ever forget you.

“I’ll wait for you, I will,” Vil promised, “and then I’ll show you just how it feels to carry the affections of the Vil Schoenheit — actor, supermodel,” and occasionally selfish fool.

What is a promise if not a vow, and what are vows exchanged between two people without a sign, a symbol, a gesture to seal everything together.

He is like a narcissus, the flower which kisses the river, and you, the reflection, comes as close as he goes. Two fingers press against the mirror to emulate petals, the shape of lips, and though the glass is cold itself there’s a warmth that it inflicts.

When Vil readies himself to smash the gem, he cannot look at you, but belatedly he will wish he did, for it will be the last time he will see you in a long, long while.

“I’ll see you soon,” Those are your last words to him. Not goodbye, not farewell, for you carried enough hope for both him and you that winter will come to pass and spring will cause the wilting flowers to bloom again.

Crack. When he hears the noise the eyes he had not realized were closed open instantaneously. It had cracked — the heart had not fallen off, but cracked, fractured into several pieces. That had to mean it had worked, that the curse had been broken, and yet… and yet you are nowhere to be seen  — not in the mirror, not in the room, and not by his side like he had hoped.

It had worked, and you were gone.

He misses you, yearns for you, faster than he expects.

It is his yearning for you that he cracks the gem, but it is that same yearning that he finds his hand hovering above the pieces, wanting to piece the heart back together. He picks up a piece, but it crumbles immediately, disintegrating at the tips of his fingers — no, he had not expected that it would ever work regardless, but in his shock he looks down and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He never should have tried it — he has never been uglier than at that moment.

There is dust left in your place, as if nothing had really changed when really, everything had.

Vil is an actor, a professional, so it’s easy to pretend that everything’s back to normal, as if you had never existed, because you hadn’t — not to the rest of the world who knew nothing about you, never with he who had never, and for as long as he could help it would never, say anything about you. Maybe a few people had noticed something was off at first, but concerns were quickly forgotten as they had their own troubles to deal with, chalking it up to some vague career frustration on his end that they could never truly understand.

Even if he explained it, he doubted they would understand.

Vil, himself, tried to not spend more than a minute thinking about where you could be, but when he stares at the mirror looking for traces of you he knows it to be an impossible task.

Nothing had even happened, he reasoned, feelings that had barely bloomed and had no time to cultivate, and yet he mourned something that never was, doing so despite not knowing if he should even be allowed to. 

How can he properly mourn the disappearance of someone he has never truly seen even once?

Perhaps absence did make the heart grow fonder.

But it had been the right thing to do, Vil would always conclude in the times that he had doubted, maybe not what he would have thought of as the right decision because what did righteousness have to do with anything, but it was what was best for the both of you — both of you had agreed as much.

(Yet he still thinks of the what-ifs. What if you were out there, somewhere in the world and at the same time as him, waiting to be found, even searching for him; consequently, what if you had forgotten him, or returned to the time you originally belonged? What if he spent a little more time with you, and what if he had met you in different circumstances — what would have become of you and him?)

It was okay for the heart to grow fond, but all was said and all was done, what-ifs will stay as what-ifs, and he has to move on. Forcing himself to forget is out of the question, so he allows you to live in the back of his mind, and although he looks at the mirror and fails to find you there, the self-criticism and praise sounds like you in his head, as though you had never left.

In some ways, it’s better this way. He has always been harsh on himself, harsher than he needed to be, but when it’s your voice he imagines the comments are more than pleasant, criticism not hateful, not expected but suggested.

He allows himself to look at the mirror once again — cleans it dutifully so that no dust would ever rest atop it. The crystal that once decorated the antique is gone, but even when it is clear something is missing he feels a little less so just by clasping the handle in his hands.

(It is said that he is often seen with that mirror, tucked somewhere in his bag or even used as an accessory. Nobody bats an eye because it’s Vil Schoenheit, of course he would look at a mirror constantly… but they do find it odd when he murmurs from time to time, as if speaking to it. Nobody has the guts to call him out, though.)

A little later, near the end of his fourth year, Vil gets an offer to star in a movie. It’s not from some director who’s made hit after hit, nor is the franchise particularly popular or known — in fact, he’s surprised his manager even let him know of the offer without rejecting it outright, that is, until he hears the details himself. 

Lead. Not just the main character or protagonist, but the hero. A little morally grey by the looks of it, but that aside it was enough to catch his interest. He knows what he’s best at, how he’s usually typecast, but he’s always wanted to play the lead, and you wished it for him too. 

When he takes the opportunity it’s primarily for himself, but he would not deny thinking of how you would undoubtedly support the decision, how you would have likely celebrated with him. 

At the very least, he hopes you’ll be out there, somewhere, watching him on the big screen like you’ve always wanted to.

And time moves on once again, fast and in a flurry that Vil himself had hardly noticed it.

It’s been a while since he had taken to actually going to a cinema, and a public one at that, but he supposed the nostalgia had gotten to him — when had he last visited the remote island where his alma mater resided? 

When had he last seen that poison apple of his, all grown up but still a baby potato in his eyes; the prefect, well adjusted but still getting dragged into trouble; Jack, infinitely taller where even his heels couldn’t compare; even his favorite hunter, who had dragged them all to the movie theatre in the first place?

He looks at the poster, his name being the first name printed out, and he thinks of you again. Even now he carries that mirror, and even now he wonders where you could possibly be. Selfish wishes aside, he just wishes you were safe, and that you were happy.

He wishes he had brought you to the movies just once — even if it wasn’t starring him.

He sighs wistfully, belatedly noticing someone sidling up next to him.

“Excuse me, could you recommend a movie for me to watch?”

He knows that voice, has never forgotten that voice. 

Vil is an actor by profession, but it’s difficult to hide the surprise that seeps into his expression. Then again, he doesn’t even bother hiding it, the fact that he was in public and in the company of friends is the farthest thing from his mind. 

“You-”

“Perhaps this is silly of me to say, but I have never been to a cinema before to watch a movie, so this is all new for me,” you laughed, and Vil, just to himself, weeps a little — at how your smile is unchanged, if not a little brighter, and at the sheer audacity of how ridiculous it was that you made him wait this long. 

Really, you had no shame! Could you not have at least found a way to let him know where you were, that you were in the same timeline, but most of all that you were alive and okay?

“You’ve waited that long?” Exasperation dripped from his voice, but the eyes were the windows to the soul, and nothing could hide the joys, the relief that laid within. 

“It is your fault for taking this long to be a part of another movie,” you said, huffing playfully as you directed the blame at him. “And even then, it is so difficult to find you! You have the money between the two of us, you should have been the one looking for me!”

Vil could not help himself then, dropping all pretenses and laughing — at you, at himself, at everything. 

Heavens, he had missed you.

“Do you remember our promise?” There were numerous other places he could have brought that up, but the lingering fear of you just disappearing into thin air compelled him to simply speak of it. Eavesdropping friends, if they were trying to do so, be damned — he needed to get something out of his chest now.

“I have never forgotten.”

“Then let’s try again this time,” he tells you quietly. 

Maybe things won’t work out this time around again, but he had wanted to give the two of you a chance — to get to know each other better, to catch up with each other’s lives, to see that now that the circumstances were finally right, maybe you two could make lingering feelings flourish into something beyond the two of you.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie took the breakup well. Or at least, that was the impression he worked very hard to give. He laughed a little too loudly at everything, kept his tone light and breezy, and absolutely would not stop making jokes. About anything. Including your name, the concept of heartbreak, and on one occasion, a broom that somehw reminded him of you for reasons he refused to explain.

He also always seemed to know where you were. He could recite your schedule better than most professors, which was concerning considering he never wrote anything down and clearly wasn't trying to remember it for academic purposes.

That was around the time the snacks started appearing.

A variety of edible items were now being left on your windowsill with increasing regularity. One day it was a crumpled bag of crackers. The next, something that looked like it had been stolen from the cafeteria. The quality varied, but the intent was consistent: he was absolutely not going to speak to you, but he was going to feed you like you're a raccoon whose trust he's trying to earn.

Eventually he started doing things "just because." Favors you didn't ask for, tasks you hadn't gotten around to, errands you never mentioned. You'd open your bag and find things you lost last month. Your laundry got done at suspiciously convenient times. When your dorm got mysteriously dusted while you were in class, you caught a faint trace of a very familiar scent and found a magift disc that definitely wasn't yours under the bed.

You stepped outside your dorm one afternoon to find him lying on the ground in the grass, dramatically clutching his ankle and squinting at the sun like it had personally wronged him.

When you asked what happened, he made a vague gesture and said he "might have twisted something," although there was no visible injury and his shoes were off for some reason he refused to explain. He stayed there, groaning softly, waiting for you to help him, and occasionally adjusting his pose whenever you looked away—presumably to appear more pitiful.

When you finally helped him stand, he immediately stopped limping, dusted himself off, and suggested that maybe you could "hang out or whatever, since we're already here."

And how could you say no?

Jade Leech

Jade didn't make a scene. That wasn't his style. After the breakup, he went about his life with the same calm demeanor he always had. There was no change in his expression or his routine but there was a slightly unsettling increase in how often he happened to be standing somewhere near you, doing absolutely nothing.

It wasn't stalking. That would be unrefined. But it also clearly wasn't coincidence. He never approached you directly, he just loitered with purpose, nearby, always pretending to be on his way somewhere else.

The mask only cracked once, when Floyd casually brought you up in conversation and Jade's smile froze so precisely mid-expression it looked like it was carved onto his face. He just stopped blinking for a moment, like he'd mentally stepped out of his own body to scream into a bucket somewhere. Floyd stared at him, then slowly reached across the table and took his drink without asking.

He never brought you up directly. Instead, he asked theoretical questions that weren't quite as subtle as he believed.

"If one were to mend a broken relationship," he asked Azul one afternoon while reorganizing in the lounge, "would it be wiser to reintroduce emotional intimacy gradually, or would a surprise approach prove more... efficient?"

Azul didn't respond. He just walked out of the room.

Every time he ended up beside you, always by coincidence, of course, he acted surprised.

Jade didn't sit next to you on purpose. That would imply intent. He simply appeared, occasionally, in the seat beside yours with a faint expression of interest and a stack of papers that had no relevance to the current activity. He never made conversation. He'd just sit there, glancing sideways every so often, not enough to be obvious but enough to be very clear that he was waiting for something.

Eventually, during one of these "well-timed encounters," you shifted slightly toward him.

He didn't say anything and he didn't look at you. But his posture straightened, and he put the papers away.

They had been blank the entire time.

Jamil Viper

Jamil tried to maintain the illusion that everything was fine but it was convincing nobody. It was the kind of performance that might have fooled a distant acquaintance or a houseplant, but not anyone who had seen him operate at full power.

He still showed up where he was supposed to be, still got things done, but he looked like he hadn't been sleeping, hadn't been resting, and had possibly stopped eating.

The worst part was the silence. He didn't correct anyone, didn't complain, didn't throw out any of his usual quietly exasperated commentary. The version of Jamil who rolled his eyes at other people's nonsense had vanished. In his place was a pale imitation who sat in the corner during group work and didn't even make a face when someone proposed an obviously bad plan.

People stopped bothering him with small talk. It was like he had been quietly reclassified as an emotional hazard zone—calm on the surface, but likely to combust without warning. Even Kalim gave him space, which was saying something.

Eventually, something gave out. He cornered you after class and he looked like he had rehearsed being casual and then immediately forgot how to be human. He asked, very quietly, why you were still being nice to him if you were done.

His voice cracked on the last word in the most inconvenient, humiliating way possible. You didn't even have a chance to respond. He just blinked like he wanted to walk into a wall and left before he could hear whatever answer might make it worse.

You caught him pacing behind the library one day, clearly in the middle of talking to himself.

"Just say you want them back. Just say it. Just—"

He noticed you and immediately fell into silence. He tood perfectly still like he thought if he didn't move, you might forget he existed. The silence stretched for so long it started to feel like you were intruding on a wildlife documentary.

And when you stepped closer and reached for his hand, he didn't pull away. If anything, he looked offended it had taken you this long.

Rook Hunt

Rook didn't take the breakup well, but in typical fashion, he made it everyone else's problem long before it became obvious to you.

Every animal in the woods now had an opinion about your relationship with Rook. Squirrels paused on branches when you walked by. Birds gave you judgmental side-eye. There were rabbits that watched you like they knew something.

Rook took the breakup in stride, if your definition of "stride" included extended lurking behind trees and several suspiciously well-tended patches of flora outside your dorm.

He didn't approach you or speak to you but somehow, your favorite flowers were always in bloom, even out of season, even when they shouldn't have survived.

When this failed to produce results, Rook made a tactical shift that alarmed everyone more than the silent stalking ever did. He became "normal."

It had people watching him out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for him to snap. He spoke plainly. He answered questions without dramatic pauses or poetic tangents. He didn't climb anything. He didn't even add French into his sentences.

It was so unnatural that Epel asked him, in all seriousness, if he had been replaced with a government clone. Vil asked if he'd taken a blow to the head. Trey nearly dropped a tray when Rook said "thank you" without calling him "chevalier."

And through it all, he stayed out of your way.

If you went to the greenhouse, he was suddenly busy elsewhere. If you entered the courtyard, he exited as though he'd simply remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of campus. It was like he was trying to give you something you hadn't asked for: peace or space.

Then one afternoon, you saw him outside your dorm, kneeling beside the flowers with a small trowel while performing an act of unspoken devotion.

You didn't say anything and just knelt beside him in the dirt.

And when he shifted slightly closer, you stayed exactly where you were.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia claimed to be doing fine. He laughed about it and told everyone he was at peace. He tossed out a few remarks about how heartbreak was good for the bones, and then promptly vanished for three days.

When he returned, he looked like he'd been emotionally dry-cleaned and hung out to air. The sparkle was gone from his eyes. His posture was slightly hunched, like he'd lost a duel with gravity.

No one mentioned it. He brought it up before they could.

"Refreshing trip," he said, standing perfectly still in the doorway. "Cleared my head. Found myself. Spoke to a bird."

From that moment on, the descent was slow and profoundly unserious.

He started texting you again, always in the middle of the night, always with images no one could trace to a known source. Memes of screaming frogs, unidentifiable creatures holding signs that said things like "miss u" and blurry screenshots from ancient anime with captions he had clearly written himself.

The culinary sabotage began shortly after. Each dish felt like a personal challenge to every culinary rule known to man. There was something that resembled soup but smelled like pickled beans.

One meal arrived in a jar, bubbling slightly. Silver tapped it with a spoon and backed away slowly. Sebek refused to eat altogether and Malleus did not comment—but the haunted look in his eyes said enough. If he ever got down on one knee, it would be to beg you to fix this.

Lilia, of course, pretended to remain blissfully unbothered. He'd hum quietly to himself while pouring powdered sugar into things that weren't desserts and casually mention how lovely it would be to "have someone to experim—I mean, cook for—again."

One evening, as you were winding down, you heard a strange tapping at your window. It wasn't the usual rhythm of branches or wind so you pulled the curtain aside.

And there he was.

Lilia, suspended upside down from your roof. He was perfectly still while grinnimg. Hanging there as if this was the most natural way to say hello. You screamed. He screamed back. It was as though he'd forgotten that normal people didn't expect unsolicited nocturnal bat-visits from their ex.

The silence afterward stretched far too long. He remained dangling. You stood frozen. It became a standoff of mutual embarrassment and stubbornness.

And then, with a sigh, you opened the window.

Not because it was a good idea or because you'd forgiven him. Not even because he'd apologized.

Because, in some twisted way, you had missed him too (and honestly, it was starting to rain.)