sicey

Yes, you tell yourself, staring at the eyeshadow palette sitting in front of you on your bed. You’re being stupid, and you’re so tired. Just because he’d tell you you should, if he bothered to notice, doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you’ve been wearing makeup every day so far doesn’t mean anyone will care if you suddenly stop.

You shut the palette, placing it back on your bedside table. Today’s the last day of your project, anyway, and then you can go back to your regularly scheduled admiring-Vil-from-a-distance. Right?

-------

“You’re not wearing makeup today,” Vil says, immediately, as soon as you sit down in the classroom.

You blink at him, surprised. “Um… yeah, I’m not.”

Vil frowns, taking you by the chin and looking you over. You feel like a creep for wishing he wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Well, why not?” he demands.

“I just didn’t feel like it, I dunno. It’s hard to get it right,” you say. You’re trying not to focus on his hands. Or his lips, which is hard because he's leaning close.

He scoffs and lets you go. “Ridiculous. You just haven’t found what works for you yet.”

You shrug, pulling your notes from your bag.

“I also just wanted to sleep in,” you say. “I had a few big tests yesterday, so I wanted to catch up on my rest. Doing my makeup takes a while, so I figured it wasn’t worth waking up early for.”

Vil sighs. “Sleep is important, but makeup is always worth it. How else are you supposed to make yourself more beautiful?”

You fiddle with your pen, staring down at your papers. “I don’t need to be beautiful,” you say, quietly. “It’s not like anyone would notice anyway.”

Vil doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even have a chance to before Crewel calls for class to start. You do your work next to Vil, trying to pretend your ears aren’t burning. You can’t believe he noticed you weren’t wearing makeup. You can’t believe he bothered mentioning it to you. How embarrassing is that?

As soon as class is over, some kid from Pomefiore rushes over to Vil, something about a messed-up potion and smudged eyeliner and a project due tomorrow spilling out of him. You take advantage of the distraction to sneak away, still feeling the weight of Vil’s judgement on your makeup-less face.

As you’re walking to your next class, kicking rocks off the path and kicking yourself for being so stupid, for deciding to wear makeup in the first place and for deciding to stop, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You turn around and Vil is right there, all six feet of breathtaking beauty. You swear your heart skips a beat at the sight of him. His jaw is tight.

“Must you run away so fast after class?” he presses. “We weren't done talking.”

You blink. “Oh… sorry, I thought we were? And it looked like that kid needed your help.”

Vil scoffs, crossing his arms. “Please. That took two minutes. You just wanted to get out of there.”

It's not like you can tell him that you were embarrassed, that you care that much about his opinion of you. You just shrug and fiddle with the strap of your bag.

He stares at you for another few seconds, and you feel yourself splintering under his gaze. Finally he sighs.

“What time do you wake up?” Vil says.

You stare at him, surprised by the question. “Uh… like 7.30? I guess?”

He tsks, giving your bare face another once-over. “I'll be there at six,” he announces, in a tone that invites no argument. Not that you have any time to say anything, anyway, because he promptly turns on his heel and strides away. Maybe he was thinking to give you a taste of your own medicine.

You slap your hands on your cheeks, watching his back as he walks away. How does he have such a nice walk? You idiot, of course it’s because he’s a model. Or is he a model because he has a nice walk?

You slap your cheeks again. Focus, focus. What did he mean, he'll be there at 6? Where? Your room?? What was he going to do there?

You turn his words and his face and his walk over in your head all the way to your next class.

-------

You could’ve sworn you set your alarm for 5:30, but it isn’t until six o’clock that you jolt awake to a knock at your door. You blink bleary eyes at your clock, trying to make sense of the numbers. Six… oh.

You stare at your clock another moment more. So Vil did mean he’d be at your room at six. But you just woke up. You’re still in your pjs, hair still a ridiculous mess. You can’t let him see you like this.

You can’t not let him in.

You feel your ears, the back of your head, your whole face burning as you open the door. Vil’s there, of course, as immaculate as ever.

“Hi,” you say. “I, um. My alarm didn’t go off.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye at the way you look. He just pushes the bag he’s holding into your arms.

“This is for you,” Vil says. “They should all be your perfect shade.”

You’re stunned into silence, peering into the bag to find every kind of makeup you know, plus a few you’ve never even heard of. Vil pushes past you into your dorm room while you’re distracted, crossing to your bed and smoothing down the covers with one clean motion.

“Sit down,” he commands, so you sit. He takes the bag back from you and stares at you for a moment. You stare back, trying not to get lost in his eyes. Finally he sighs, leaning down towards you.

“If I give you this makeup,” Vil says, “and I show you how to use it right, and you know I’ll notice and care about the way you look, will you actually use it? Will you actually try? I have no interest in helping people who have no interest in self-improvement.”

You’re nodding before you’ve even finished processing the thought.

“I’d love to know how to use makeup, and I want to be… beautiful, I guess. And I know practicing will make it easier, but I just always feel like I’m doing everything wrong and I’m going to form bad foundations and pick up bad habits and I just-”

You fall silent, embarrassed that you forgot yourself and started rambling in front of Vil. But he’s nodding along.

“Good,” he tells you. “You’ve clearly thought about this, so I can tell you’ll have the drive to actually follow through.”

Vil starts taking the products out of the bag and laying them out on the bed next to you, explaining what each one does as he goes. You feel the words swimming before you, still-sleepy brain struggling to make sense of all the unfamiliar products. But you want to try, and you want to make Vil proud.

You summon every ounce of willpower in your body to focus, to understand and remember everything Vil is saying to you. You think you do pretty well, and when he moves on to putting the makeup on you, explaining the steps and all of his tips and tricks, you think you do a decent job remembering all of those too. Hopefully you’ll be able to make sense of them when you try doing this yourself tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll be able to make your makeup look as good as when Vil’s done it. He hasn’t let you look at it yet, but you’re sure it looks wonderful.

You’re still sitting on your bed, fiddling with the string of your pajama pants. It’s almost seven o’clock now, the process taking longer than usual because Vil kept stopping to explain things to you. You’re very grateful for his help.

He’s standing at your desk with his back to you, organizing the makeup before he gives you the mirror to look at yourself. You stare at him, studying the way his hair falls and the measured way he breathes and the easy movements of his hands. You don’t know why he - Vil Schoenheit, housewarden, model, actor - even bothered to take an hour out of his day to help you, of all people, with your makeup. Maybe it just bothered him that much to see someone not striving for beauty like he does. It’s definitely not because he cares how you, specifically, look. But for the moment, you allow yourself to entertain the thought.

Even though he was just doing your makeup, his touch was light on your face. His eyes didn’t leave you the whole time. You know it means nothing. You know. You know.

Vil turns back to you, perfect like always. You feel foolish for imagining you could ever stand next to him. He’s holding your mirror, the makeup he brought neatly stacked behind him.

“Are you ready?” he asks. You nod, bracing yourself for the sight. You’ve never been overly fond of seeing yourself in the mirror. But he hands it to you and you almost gasp.

It’s still you, of course. Your same eyebrows and cheeks and smile. Just… cleaner. Sleeker. More beautiful.

“See?” Vil says, beaming in front of you. “Makeup enhances your natural beauty. Gives it a little boost - not that it needs much - and brings it out a little. You’ve always been beautiful, but now you’re just… more so.”

You feel your heart freeze. Did- did Vil just call you beautiful? You?

“I’m not that pretty,” you hurry to say. “You’re beautiful.”

He pauses, head tilted, silent for a moment.

“You know,” Vil says, “I hear that every day. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard it from you.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror, trying not to look up at him.

“It’s true,” you hear yourself say. “I just thought… you hear it every day, so why would I bother making you hear it from me too?”

You feel the bed sag when Vil sits next to you. He takes the mirror from your hands and turns your face towards him. He touched every corner of it when he was doing your makeup, but none of that felt quite like this. His fingers are firm on your chin, his eyes intense on yours.

“It’s never a bother to hear,” he tells you. “It’s good to say it when you think it. I think you’re beautiful, and denying it won’t change that.”

“You’re beautiful,” you say, again, because you mean it. Because it’s true. Because it’s everything you’ve ever wanted to say to him.

You watch his lips curve into a smile. He’s looking at you, and he’s sitting on your bed, and your legs are almost touching, and you feel more alive than you ever have before. You feel like you can do anything.

“I’ve had a really big crush on you since our first year,” you say, before you can stop yourself, before your brain catches up to what your stupid mouth and heart have been plotting together.

You tear your gaze away from Vil, heart thudding and cheeks burning, but not before you see his eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Oh,” he says. You can’t read his tone of voice. You’re not sure you want to.

Vil doesn’t get up. You thought he would. He stays sitting next to you on your bed, long enough that you finally sneak a glance over at him. He’s still looking at you.

“Is it just because I’m an actor?” he says.

“No,” you say, quickly, forgetting to be embarrassed in your rush to defend yourself. “Of course not. It’s just- I don’t know. I love the way you pay so much attention to people, and to details, and the way you work so hard at- at everything, and the confidence you carry yourself with, and - and you’re so hot and that’s really just a bonus on top of everything else and like -”

You’re surprised you’re not crying. You kind of feel like crying. Vil seems to notice, and he laughs, cupping your face with one of his hands.

“Don’t ruin your makeup,” he tells you. He’s smiling. You thought he’d be mad, or offended, or just tired of people confessing their undying love for him. But he’s smiling, and he has one hand on your cheek, and he’s using the other to brush your hair out of your face. He is sitting very close. You think you might die.

“It’s not a good idea for me to get into a relationship right now,” Vil tells you.

“Yeah,” you say. “I figured. That’s part of why I never… or, well, not that I thought, or think, that I have a chance anyway, but like - anyway. I figured.”

He laughs. His face is very close.

“Promise me that you’ll do your makeup tomorrow,” he says, “and all of next month, at least. If you don’t think you’ve gotten better at it after that, I can bring you some other makeup and we can try this again, but promise me you’ll try for that long. If you promise, I’ll give you a reward.”

“I promise,” you say, “but I don’t need a reward. I was going to do my makeup anyway.”

“Oh, but it’s a reward for me too,” he says. He slides his one hand down so both are on your cheeks, and you think you see his gaze drop to your lips, but you don’t have any time or space to think about that before he’s pulling you close.

Vil Schoenheit kisses you in your room at 7:06 AM, in your pajamas and your messy hair, the lipstick you both wear smudging together. His hands are gentle against your face. You hold the back of his neck like it’s your only lifeline.

His lips are warm, and soft, and you feel like you’re losing yourself against them. One of his hands slips to your back. You press closer to him, relishing the chance to touch him after all this time. He makes some sort of sound in the back of his throat, pulling you even closer.

You think his face is warm, or maybe it’s yours. Maybe it’s both. For the longest time, you don’t think the moment will ever end. When it does, it’s all too soon.

Vil pulls back, face flushed, lipstick messy in a way you’ve never seen on him before.

“I’m still not looking for a relationship,” he tells you. You almost laugh, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours, but he stops you before you can speak.

“But if I were, you’d always have a chance. A leg up, even. I noticed you in first year, too. You really think I pay this much attention to all of my lab partners’ makeup?”

You laugh this time, for real. It just bubbles up out of you. “Well, I did wonder.”

His lips curl up, mirroring the way you feel. He’s still holding you close against him.

“I should get going before Rook comes looking for me,” he says.

It is an honest attestation to humanity—a primordial inheritance that has bled through one’s flesh and bones since breath was first given, and dust became living. 

The phrase has always been bracketed for conquerors and geniuses, for those who have stood on the precipice between will and subjugation—life and death. It is a consensus that has outlived empires, etched onto monuments, and passed down through blood and scripture—scrawled in the handwriting of sleepless architects who drew lines until the graphite snapped, and in the frantic, ink-smudged margins of poets who starved just to feed a single verse.

It is also laced in the mutters of delusion posed by lovesick fools.

“You’re utterly pathetic, do you know that?” 

Ace waves his hand absentmindedly in return, not even bothering to look up from where he has draped himself across your lap in a boneless and shameless manner. He leans his weight entirely to your side with a heavy sigh, polluting the air with the violent smell of cheap roses and synthetic hibiscus.

The air around him is thick with a scent so aggressively floral that it feels like being hit in the face with a funeral wreath. It’s a cloying, syrupy catastrophe of concentrated sugar that seems to radiate off his blazer, making nearby students cough and retreat—even Grim had abandoned you ten minutes ago after loudly declaring that his “snout hairs are being burnt through.”

“I’m touched by your concern, really,” Ace sighs dreamily, his voice dropping into a honey-thick register that makes Epel look like he’s about to physically gag. “But love is just a cruel and incurable affliction.”

“What in tarnation are ya saying?” Epel replies, horrified. “You… you reek of perfume from Sam’s shop!”

“It’s a love potion,” Ace corrects solemnly. “Get your facts right.”

“I told you, it was a complete accident in the lab.” Ace murmurs, his fingers tracing idle, lingering patterns against the lines of your palm. He’s been “unable” to let go of your hand for the last forty minutes, yapping about how the warmth of yours grounds the hazy territory of his tangled mind. “One minute, I’m just stirring the cauldron, the next—bam—pink smoke right at my face, and suddenly, the Prefect is the only person in the world that matters—it’s a tragedy, isn’t it?”

He tilts his head, resting it on your shoulder and peering up at you through his lashes with a gaze he clearly thinks is “smoldering” but is actually just intensely focused on making sure you aren’t suspicious. 

Epel stares at him aghast, disbelief painting his countenance as he tries to blink away the ridiculous sight in front of him. Deuce stands slightly farther away from the scene, partly to stay away from inhaling that biohazard and mostly to save himself from embarrassment, looking deeply conflicted about whether he should intervene or let his friend continue to descend into social suicide.

“You really should pay attention to the steps Professor Crewel gave us.” You sigh, trying to steady him as he practically melts against your form. 

You do not notice the collective agony radiating from everyone else.

Ace suppresses a smirk against your shoulder. He’s a fencer—he knows all about finding an opening, no matter how cornered or tight it might be. If he can’t find a way to your heart through normal, non-embarrassing means, he’ll simply build a bridge out of lies and stinky perfume.

He slackens his shoulders, his gaze turning glassy with manufactured devotion, and with devastating overcommitment, he squeezes your hand like a maiden grasping her final earthly tether.

“Prefect,” Ace calls out softly like he’s moments away from collapsing into an early grave (you swear you can see Deuce grind his teeth in cringe). “I don’t think I can survive this cruel affliction alone.”

Deuce makes a strangled noise. “Ace, it’s not possible to die from a love potion!”

“Oh, Juice… You truly don’t know anything.” He sighs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply—unfortunately, it turns out to be a massive tactical error on his part, because he ends up breathing in a mouthful of his own gas chamber of a perfume. He chokes for a split second, but he recovers with the terrifying tenacity of a man who could take on Lebron in a match.

“See? Love is the most twisted curse of all.” 

Epel physically recoils. “Oh, no way you said that.”

“Ace,” Deuce hisses under his breath, face impressively red from secondhand embarrassment. “You said you were only gonna act a little weird!”

“Well, excuse me for being committed to the role.” Ace shoots back before instantly melting back into his lovestruck persona the moment your attention diverts back to him. His expression softens with almost terrifying speed, eyes half-lidded as he gazes up at you, as if you personally hung the stars, the moon, the sky, and everything under heaven. “Sorry, Prefect… loud noise makes my symptoms worse.”

You, completely oblivious to the fact that a standard love potion doesn’t require a daily application of five ounces of lavender eau-de-toilette, merely pat his head with a sympathetic sigh. “Does your head hurt? Maybe we should go to the infirmary…”

“No! No infirmary!” Ace stumbles out quickly in a panic, his voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat and drops it back into that low, dramatic purr. “The school nurse doesn’t have the cure. Just… let me stay like this for five… or fifty… more minutes.”

He is, without a doubt, a top-three fumbler in the history of Night Raven College. He has alienated his friends, ruined his favorite blazer, humilaitingly seen by a handful of his upperclassmen, and smells like three different air purifiers in the dead of summer—but as he feels you wrap an arm around his shoulders to keep him from sliding off your lap, Ace decides that not even Sun Tzu can outsmart him in a strategic battle.

Ace is a genius—holy shit, he’s for sure one hell of a tactical genius bastard.

He presses closer, a smug and completely hidden victorious grin stretching across his face against your shoulder.

Epel mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “yeah, bet the nearest mental institute might help ya instead,” but he doesn’t dwell on it.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Ace’s “condition” unsurprisingly somehow follows you everywhere.

EXHIBIT #01: THE HEARTSLABYUL UNBIRTHDAY PARTY.

You can feel stares drilling straight into your soul, but you try your best to feign ignorance, opting to enjoy a slice of tart in lieu. Beside you, your sticky parasite doesn’t seem to get the memo, as he effectively continues to paralyze you by using your shoulder as a personal pillow, his arm looped tightly through yours.

“Prefect… the tea is too bitter,” Ace whines, his voice dropping into that theatrical cadence that nearly makes Trey drop his spoon. “The only sweetness I can tolerate right now is your presence. Feed me a forkful of that strawberry tart? My hands are just… so weak from the potion’s tolls.”

“If your hands are weak, Trappola, I can detach them from your wrists, if you’d like.” Riddle seethes from the head of the table, his teacup trembling with a dangerous clicking sound. His face is a shade of red that rivals his cape—half from the sheer, unadulterated public indecency of the display, and half because the sugary foulness permeating through the air is ruining the aroma of his Earl Grey.

“A—Ace, please, Housewarden Riddle is looking right at us,” Deuce whispers frantically from across the table, looking paler than paper. “You said you were just going to ask the Prefect to walk you back to the dorm!”

“I can’t help it,” Ace sighs dramatically, tightening his grip on your arm and leaning his head further on your shoulder. “If I’m not near the Prefect, I might seriously stop breathing—it’s the potion doing it, I’m telling you! You wouldn’t want to explain a corpse at an Unbirthday Party, would you, Housewarden?”

His fellow dormmates look the other way with varying degrees of expressions that encapsulate their desperate prayers of coming out of the party alive.

“I am going to count to three,” Riddle says, his voice lowering into a terrifyingly calm note as he pulls his magic pen. “And if you are still doused in that unsavory cologne and violating personal space boundaries, I will see to it that it will be Off With Your Head for a straight month!”

EXHIBIT #02: THE LIBRARY.

“Look at this section, Prefect,” Ace mutters, his warm breath hitting your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that he definitely notices, given his shit-eating grin that he doesn’t bother to conceal. “See, the ancient kings fought wars for land and territory, but I’d give up the whole world just for a single glance from you, y’know?”

From across the table, a poor Scarabia student groans into his hands. Genuinely, get this corny shit out of my face.

Seated in the quietest, cramped corner of the library, as dust motes dance beneath the dim lights, the supposed “study session” for your upcoming history quiz is completely overturned the moment Ace decides to sit so close to you that he is practically in your skin. His chin rests heavily on your shoulder, his chest pressed against your back, while his hands “helpfully” guide your fingers across the page.

So much for trying to pass Professor Trein’s class.

Suddenly, a shadow falls over the table in the form of Sebek Zigvolt, who, with his arms crossed, stares at the two of you with a snarl of pure, righteous indignation.

“Trappola!” Sebek starts to bellow, before remembering where he is and dropping to a harsh and aggressive whisper that still rattles the desk. “What is the meaning of this indecent display?! Get off the Prefect at once! Your vile stench insults the very air Lord Malleus breathes!”

“Ugh, talk about bad timing. It’s called romance, Sebek. Not everyone is emotionally repressed.” Ace doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, dropping his chin back onto your shoulder and tightening his hold on your waist with an arrogant, proprietary tug that cements his position. “Prefect, my head hurts… tell that loud pipsqueak to go away.”

“Loud pipsqueak?! Why, you impudent, malingering fraud—”

Before Sebek can burst a blood vessel, you hurriedly lift your hand to Ace’s forehead, your fingers brushing against the fringe of his bangs as you press the back of your palm gently against his skin. 

Your brows knit together in concern, your thumb unconsciously smoothing a strand of his hair away from his forehead. “You do feel a little warm… maybe the potion is affecting you more than we thought.”

Ace nearly fucking ascends.

The moment your cool fingers brush against his forehead, his entire brain short-circuits. The smug grin completely vanishes, replaced by a bright red flush that creeps up all the way up to the tips of his ears. Your thumb idly smooths down his hair, and Ace suddenly realizes that playing dead might actually become a reality if his heart keeps hammering against his ribs this thunderously. 

Sebek merely gapes at you in utter, speechless cosmic horror, his chest locked mid-breath as he watches your hand actively comfort the enemy. His mouth opens once, then closes again with an audible click as he struggles to process the cataclysmic level of gullibility unfolding before him in real time.

“Prefect,” he says slowly, voice immensely strained with the effort of remaining civil, “surely you cannot be believing this buffoonery.”

Ace gasps as though Sebek has just insulted his entire lineage. “Why are you all against our love? Is it a crime to yearn? Is it a cardinal sin to be entirely consumed by the most profound and inescapable emotion known to mankind?”

Ace clutches weakly at your sleeves with the grace of a tragic heroine abandoned at sea, his eyelids fluttering with a level of vehement agony that is likened to a mourning opera singer. He blind-grabs your free hand from the desk, clutching your knuckles against his chest right over his furiously beating heart.

“Don’t look at him, Prefect,” Ace pleads, his voice trembling and delicate like spun sugar—so terribly artificially sweet just like the overwhelming wave of vanilla floating directly up Sebek’s nostrils. “If the world stands against us, then I’ll stand against the world.”

Sebek’s face violently transitions from an offended purple to a vein-popping, volcanic shade of crimson.

EXHIBIT #03: THE CAFETERIA 

“Ace, I genuinely wish from the bottom of my heart that you will fall into a ditch and never be seen again.” Epel deadpans, his fork hovering precariously close to his plate of baked potatoes. 

His knuckles are white from his grip, and his face is gnarled into an expression of raw visceral disgust that is worse than when he’s talking about lifestyle lessons with Vil.

Across from him, Jack quietly nods in agreement while trying—and failing—to eat his lunch through the suffocating floral fog emanating from Ace’s blazer.

“I can taste the perfume.” He says, disgruntledly, his ears flattening so far back that it’s practically pinned to his skull.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Ace replies without shame.

The humid midday heat of the cafeteria has essentially aerosolized Ace’s three layers of perfume, turning your circular table into a high-concentration chamber that can suffocate a small woodland ecosystem. Nearby students have already cleared out, dragging their trays three tables away just to escape the fumes, leaving the first-year gang isolated in the red zone.

Poor Jack, being a beastman with heightened senses to top it all off—it’s a miracle he hasn’t passed out yet.

“Prefect,” Ace pokes your arm, his tray sitting almost untouched in front of him because, apparently, lovesickness has also robbed him of the ability to feed himself, “can you cut my omelette and feed me? I think I’m going to faint…”

Epel massages his temple. “Please stop talking.”

You glance between Ace’s sprawling state on your shoulder and his untouched lunch. “Is it really that bad?”

“See? Prefect gets me,” he sighs. “Unlike you heartless people who mock a man suffering through the torment of forbidden love.”

“There’s nothing forbidden about it!” Deuce whisper-yells, looking seconds away from ripping his hair out of second-hand humiliation. “You literally made this whole thing up!”

Ace gasps loudly enough to earn several irritated looks from nearby upperclassmen.

“Deuce…” he breathes out quietly, eyes full of faux betrayal, “how could you expose my medical history in public?”

“That is not what medical history means!”

“Wow, look at him trynna act smart.” Ace snickers near your ear, completely unfazed by the fact that Deuce looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. He slides a fraction lower, his shoulders slumping deliberately as he lets his weight anchor completely against your side.

“You were the one who asked me to help you!” Deuce hisses, lurching toward his direction with a desperate tone of someone attempting damage control, his voice pitched low enough as he jabs an accusatory finger toward him. “You said—and I quote—bro, it’ll just be a little joke for like ten minutes. Ten minutes, Ace!”

“Well, plans evolve, Deucy Juice.” Ace merely shoo’s him, letting his head drop onto your shoulder again, his hair tickling your neck as he shifts closer, shamelessly stealing warmth and attention as if it’s his God-given right.

Jack looks greatly disturbed as the seconds tick by. “You’re making us lose our appetite.” 

“That sounds like jealousy.” Ace replies instantly before reaching his fingers over to play with the hem of your blazer. “It’s okay, I get it. I’d be jealous too if I saw us together.”

Epel slams his forehead directly against the table.

EXHIBIT #04: THE BOTANICAL GARDEN. 

The golden sun bleeds a heavy, bruised orange through the glass panes of the Botanical Garden, but the natural fragrance of rare flora has been completely eradicated. 

By evening, the entire first-year population has become unwilling participants in Ace’s one-man theatre production.

You sit on a stone bench near the temperate zone, trying to review your notes for the day, but it proves hard in practice when Ace is practically poured over your lap, his legs stretching across the bench, while his face is buried into your side. 

He lets out a drawn-out sigh loud enough to constitute a public disturbance.

“What now?” Grim groans, his paws clamped so tightly over his snout that his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “You’ve been leaking that fake flower juice all day! My ears are ringing from your whining!”

“Nothing,” Ace replies, his voice a lazy murmur that rumbles right against your ribs. He shifts slightly, dragging his cheek along the fabric of your uniform. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” You ask, not looking up from your notes.

He cranes his head up to gaze at your eyes, looking at you through the messy, unstructured fringe of his bangs, lips curling into a devious smirk. “...You.”

“Oh, how touching.” Grim snarls right back at him.

“Ugh, just throw that damn ginger back to his dorm, henchhuman!” Grim’s muffled voice wails from behind you, now burying his face into a nearby bush brimming with exotic plants to save his nostrils.

Before said ginger can concoct a two-page excuse for why the scent of Heartslabyul’s air—especially if away from you—would further detonate his predicament and cause the fall of NRC, Ortho's buoyant voice beats him to it.

“Incredible!” Ortho chirps cheerfully, his mechanical voice cutting through the (frankly repugnant) air. “My atmospheric sensors indicate that the floral fixative concentration in this exact three-meter radius has nearly reached the level that is technically classified as a skin irritant! Ace, are you attempting to pheromone-bond with the Prefect?”

What the fuck.

“...Pheremone… bond?” You repeat, weakly.

“...Ortho,” Ace says carefully, in the tone of someone who’s trying to lace an emergency exit out of a conversation. “Look, buddy, my guy.”

“I’m just curious!” Ortho continues, his eyes blinking with the bright, faultless energy of someone who has absolutely no idea of the scale of the bomb he just dropped. “Pheremone-bonding is a documented cross-species courtship behaviour—I read about it in volume three of Advanced Magical Biology—where one party attempts to establish a scent association with a preferred individual through sustained proximity and repeated olfactory exposure!”

Ace nearly faints for real this time. The absolute, paramount confidence that he’s been riding all day as he flaunts it right at every possible chance shatters into a million jagged pieces. A violent, red blush erupts across his face, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

“Ortho, shut up!” Ace panics, his voice cracking spectacularly as he scrambles out of your embrace. He bolts upright, stumbling over his own legs as he storms right up to the floating guy.

He stands on his tiptoes, his face completely ablaze as he frantically swats at the glowing holographic charts floating in the air. “Why do you even have graphs for this?! Delete them! In fact, burn them!”

“But these are important visual aids!” Ortho protests, dodging Ace’s flailing hands with effortless ease as he floats higher into the air. “See? This chart clearly displays the increase in physical clinginess whenever the Prefect directs positive attention toward you! Would you like me to print a comprehensive report for your Housewarden?”

“What?! No! No one is printing anything!—”

While the two of them are locked in a high-stakes, hyper-panicked screaming match—Ace frantically jumping up and down to try and drag the other out of the air—Grim slowly peeks his head from the shrubbery. His blue flame ears twitch as his eyes dart between Ortho’s glowing charts, Ace’s crimson face, and your completely serene countenance.

Grim blinks—he looks at Ace, then looks back at you. A sudden, sharp realization strikes his brain, and he waddles over to your side on the bench, completely ignoring the chaotic noises in the background.

“Wait a minute…” He mumbles, pointing a paw directly at your face. “Henchhuman… you knew from the beginning, didn’t you?!”

You look at Ace, currently yelling at the robot three feet away, entirely stripped of his cool-guy facade and looking thoroughly like a thief caught red-handed. You let out a small, amused huff and calmly reorganize your books.

“Mhm.” You hum noncommittally.

Grim’s jaw drops, his tail snapping wildly in the air. “You knew?! And you just let him drag you around all day?! You let him ruin my nose hairs with that cheap flower juice for nothing?! Why didn’t you just punt him out the window?!”

“Well,” you reply smoothly, leaning back against the stone bench as you watch Ace fervently try to jump-kick Ortho’s thrusters, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “He just looks so cute trying so hard to find an excuse to cuddle with me. I figured the least I could do was let him have his win.”

Grim drags his hand down his face so hard it might as well leave a physical mark on his face, groaning loudly into his paws at the realization that he is trapped in a greenhouse with a shameless yearner and an absolute enabler.

You shrugged. In all your years at this university, you’d never once cared about the football team or any sports team, honestly. Jocks were background noise. Loud, sweaty background noise.

But now?

Now he was foreground. Loudly.

Two days later you’re in the campus coffee shop, half-dead from a late-night study session, waiting for your iced latte when you catch sight of him through the window. He’s outside on the quad, laughing with a couple teammates, helmet tucked under one arm, practice jersey clinging in all the right places. He turns his head just as you do, eyes meet again. This time he doesn’t look away immediately. Neither do you. It stretches until the barista calls your name and snaps you out of it.

You grab your drink and practically flee.

A week after that, you’re in the library during dead week, buried in a corner carrel with your headphones on, trying to cram for econ. You stretch, glance up and there he is. Two tables away. Back to you, hunched over a textbook, one massive hand scrubbing over his face like he’s fighting sleep. He’s wearing glasses. Thin wire ones. Of course he wears reading glasses. Of fucking course.

He shifts, turns slightly, and catches you staring. Again. His mouth quirks like he’s amused. Or maybe he’s just tired. You duck your head so fast your neck protests.

It keeps happening.

The dining hall line, he’s two people ahead, loading his tray like he’s fueling a tank. Your eyes snag on the broad line of his shoulders, the way his hoodie stretches across them. He glances back, like he can feel it, and your stomach flips when his gaze slides right over you. Holds. Then he gives a small nod. You nod back like an idiot and suddenly can’t remember what you came here to eat.

In the gym, he’s there on the weight floor, earbuds in, bench-pressing what looks like your body weight plus another person. Sweat darkens his shirt in a line down his chest. You pretend to be very interested in the treadmill settings while your pulse hammers in your throat. When you sneak another look, he’s sitting up, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. A flash of toned stomach. He catches your eye in the mirror. Doesn’t smile. Just… looks. Long enough that heat crawls up your neck.

You leave early.

The worst is the random hallway encounters. You’re rushing to class, phone in hand. He’s coming the other way, backpack slung over one shoulder, talking to another friend. Your shoulders barely brush. But enough that static shoots down your arm.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“No worries,” he says. His eyes flick down to yours, soft but searching. “You good?”

You nod too quickly and keep walking, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

It’s stupid. It’s just eye contact. Lingering looks. Accidental brushes. But every single time it happens, something tightens in your chest.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s just… noticeable. Big, golden, tired-eyed, everywhere.

But deep down you know better.

Because the next time you see him at another party, this one smaller, someone’s off-campus house. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, talking to Bertholdt and Annie. You walk in for a refill and freeze when his head turns.

This time he doesn’t just look.

He pushes off the counter. Starts walking toward you.

And suddenly the room feels too small, the music too loud, and every single glance you’ve traded over the past few weeks crashes into this one moment like a linebacker blindsiding a quarterback.

Your breath catches.

He stops a couple feet away. Close enough you can smell clean sweat and whatever body wash jocks use that shouldn’t be this distracting.

“Hey,” he says quietly, ike he’s been waiting to say it.

You swallow. “Hey.”

A beat. Two.

He rubs the back of his neck, the same nervous gesture from that first party. “I’m Reiner.”

“I know,” you blurt. Then wince.

His mouth twitches into something almost shy. “Yeah… figured you might.” He glances down, then back up. Those tired hazel eyes lock on yours again, steady this time. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘the one who keeps staring’ in my head?”

Heat explodes across your face.

He laughs and it does something dangerous to your stomach.

“I’m kidding,” he adds quickly. “Mostly.”

You exhale a shaky laugh despite yourself. You tell him your name.

He repeats it like he’s tasting it. Likes the flavor. “Wanna get some air? Kitchen’s getting loud.”

You should say no. You barely know him. You’ve spent weeks avoiding actually talking.

But your feet are already moving.

“Yeah,” you say. “Let’s go.”

He leads the way out the back door, holding it open for you like it’s nothing. The night air hits cool against your flushed skin. He doesn’t stop until you’re both leaning against the porch railing, far enough from the thump of bass that you can actually hear each other breathe.

He’s quiet for a second. Then:

“I’ve been seeing you everywhere too, you know.”

You glance sideways. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looks out at the dark yard, voice dropping. “Thought maybe I was losing it. Kept hoping you’d say something first.”

You laugh despite of yourself. "I was hoping you'd say something first."

He just stares at you for a moment before both of you are bursting out laughing, even throwing your heads back for how dumb the situation is.

"Oh my god!" he says, still between laughter. He runs both of his hands through his face and hair, you can peek at his abs for that.

"This is probably one of the most awkward situations I've ever been," you comment, letting the laugh die.

Now you're back at staring at each other, but it's different. Your eyes are glowing, his cheeks are faintly red from laughing and you are... maybe too comfortably close to each other. He smiles quietly at you, you smile back, tilting your head to the left.

"Ask me something," he says, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" you arch your brows.

"Anything! I want you to know me," he adds, pressing his lips together.

You huff a laugh, squinting your eyes at him. What are you even gonna ask him? Everything sounds awkward and weird.

"Do you actually like football?" you tested, pouting your lips slightly because you didn't know how he was gonna react.

Reiner blinks at you once. Twice.

His whole expression freezes, like you just asked him if the sky is green or if he secretly collects porcelain dolls. The easy, warm smile he’d been wearing slips right off his face, replaced by something stunned and unguarded. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You watch the exact second realization hits him that this wasn’t the question he’d braced for.

He’d clearly been expecting the usual script: You got a girlfriend? Seeing someone? Anyone special keeping that big frame warm at night? The kind of thing people always lob at guys like him.

Not this.

His throat works. He looks away fast, out into the dark yard again, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t leave a mark. The porch light catches the flush creeping up his ears.

“Uh…” His voice comes out nervous in a way you’ve never heard from him. “I…”

He lets out a short, shaky laugh that has zero humor in it.

“Shit. You really went for the throat, huh?”

You stay quiet. Just watching. Giving him room.

He exhales hard through his nose, shoulders dropping like he’s deflating. The hand on his neck slides forward until he’s scrubbing over his face again, fingers dragging slow.

“Honestly?” he finally says, almost like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Nah. Not really.”

The admission hangs there between you, raw and surprising even to him, judging by the way his brows pinch.

“I mean… I’m good at it,” he continues. “Been playing since I was six. Everyone’s always telling me how lucky I am, how it’s my ticket, how I was made for this.” He shrugs one shoulder, but it looks heavy. “And maybe I was. Once.”

He glances at you sidelong, like he’s checking if you’re judging him yet.

You aren’t. You just nod once.

Reiner swallows again. “I don’t know. Somewhere along the line it stopped feeling like mine. It’s just… pressure. It’s not fun anymore, it’s a job. A really fucking violent, high-stakes job that I’m terrified of failing at.” He lets out another humorless huff. “And the worst part? I’m still really good at pretending I love it. Act like I live for Friday nights under the lights. But when I’m alone? After the adrenaline crashes? I just feel… tired. All the time.”

He finally looks at you fully again. Hazel eyes searching yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’ve never said that out loud before,” he admits, almost whispering. “Not to anyone. Not even Bertholdt. Definitely not my dad.”

The silence stretches.

You tilt your head, voice gentle. “Then why keep doing it?”

He laughs again—small, cracked. “Because I don’t know what else I’d be. Football’s been my whole identity since I was a kid. If I walk away… who the hell am I?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

Instead you just shift closer on the railing until your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t pull away.

After a long beat he turns his head toward you again. His eyes are still wide, still a little stunned, but the knot in his chest just loosened the tiniest bit.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs, half-smiling despite himself.

You raise a brow. “Me?”

“Yeah.” He nods once. “Most people ask if I’m single. You asked who I actually am.”

Your stomach does a warm flip. He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it for years. Then, quieter:

“Ask me something else.”

You smile.

“Okay,” you say. “What do you like? When it’s just you.”

His eyes soften. The tension in his shoulders eases another fraction.

He opens his mouth to answer.

Reiner

Eren

Levi

Armin

Connie

Jean