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It was your first night at Ramshackle Dorm with the NRC Tribe, a song and dance group of students hand-picked by Vil Schoenheit himself. Since this group comprised of students from multiple dorms, Ramshackle served as the only "neutral territory" to bring them together under Vil’s leadership. Rook invited you along for moral support. The dorm was in no state for long-term residence, so you helped him clean it up well enough for a month-long stay. Creaky floorboards were tolerable; you would learn which ones were safe to step on by virtue of making the same mistake over and over again. You boarded up the cracked windows, swept away the cobwebs, and the ghosts...well, they promised to behave.

In his temporary bedroom, upon a century-old, carpeted hardwood flooring, you and Rook laid out a blanket and several pillows scavenged around the dorm that you stuffed in brand-new squeaky-clean pillowcases. Against the grey-brown interior, Rook's all-white pajamas stood out, light and billowy with every step. In a way, his old-fashioned, loose-fitted style fit well with the dorm's antiquity. Your own sleepwear protected you against the occasional breeze that drafted in from the dilapidated roof, which the Headmage promised wouldn’t collapse during your stay.

Behind Rook, on his bedside table, you glimpsed a large personal binder overflowing with content. Had it always been there? You got up to check it out, and Rook arose with you.

"Need something, mon chou?" he asked.

"Just curious," you said lightly. "Is this a photo album?"

"Don't open that...!"

You flipped open the binder to a random page, still looking at Rook, whose eyes were wide with panic. Then, a knock sounded at the door before it swung open.

"Still up, are you? Good, we've much to discuss," said Vil at the door.

Your head turned to Vil, who naturally demanded everyone’s attention wherever he made himself known, clad in black silk satin pajamas that accentuated his lithe physique, composed of a kimono-like robe and pants, adorned with a pattern of fan-shaped peacock feathers. For once, his shoulder-length hair was pulled back with a headband. You couldn't help but shrink back at the sheer radiance of him, but Rook appeared completely unaffected.

"Roi du Poison," said Rook. "What marvelous timing!"

When you looked back at the bedside table, the binder vanished, replaced by Rook's camo cap.

"But I wanted to see pictures!" you pouted.

"Ah, my apologies," said Rook. "I'm afraid I spared no thought to photograph myself when there's beautiful moments to capture on the opposite lens!"

You turn to Vil. "Do you have any pictures of Rook in his first year at NRC. Surely, you do."

"Trust me," Vil said, holding up a hand like a stop sign. "You don't want to see that."

"Why not?"

Vil shot a cautionary glance at Rook, who was smiling and swaying in his pristine white pajamas and dainty hairclips, a paragon of tenderness and delicate sensibilities. Vil’s tone suggested he wasn't always this way.

"It's a long story," Vil warned.

"I've got time," you replied. "Please, please, please!"

The three of you sat on the blanketed-carpeted floor, cushioned by pillows of various shapes and sizes.

"Upon first arrival at Night Raven College," Vil narrates. "Rook presented himself as the hunter of beauty, a hopeless romantic, and a stubborn optimist in an otherwise unfair world. But to most of the student body, he was a persistent pest…"

* * *

...Vil Schoenheit didn't know what he signed up for when he decided to entertain this young man—an avid fan, of all people—with casual conversation one Friday morning. He wasn’t particularly interested in the reading assigned for his next class, and he would’ve fallen asleep in the campus courtyard had the eccentric hunter not swooped down from the tree that granted him shade.

“Do my eyes deceive me?" said Rook (imitated by Vil, lowering his voice with a hint of exaggeration). "The Vil Schoenheit has graced the grounds of Night Raven College.”

On first impression, Vil couldn’t ignore the hunter’s unkempt, wild-man aura, so far removed from his own refined reality. But as they spoke (and Vil failed to shoo him away), he couldn’t help his intrigue at the hunter’s keen eye for theatre production, particularly Vil’s own performances. Rook’s praise and critique came hand-in-hand, which Vil took in stride. If, by stride, he meant a sudden zeal for putting an overzealous fan in his place.

Rook accepted his challenge in kind, rebutting arguments and conjuring new ones, wholly entertained by the beautiful ram’s ferocity—just like he saw on television! What a marvelous range of emotions he possessed. Rook wondered if Vil was a method actor, as his catty attitude in-person mirrored that of his signature villainous roles.

Vil would be lying if he said he didn’t revel in the attention. For better or worse, his presence naturally attracted an audience and their unsolicited opinions.

When Rook requested to be taken under Vil's wing, the actor raised a perfectly straight eyebrow, suspicious of the eager fan's motives. Was he laying a trap of some kind? A quick scan of the hunter revealed several concerns: Skin problems, hair problems, dietary restrictions, makeup peculiarities. Rook had all of these in spades. But Vil Schoenheit did not shrink in the face of adversity, he embraced it. He’s been in and out of the entertainment industry long enough to have seen it all. He was adaptable, tenacious, and above all, a seasoned veteran in the world of self-development.

If the hunter's words were sincere, then he should take Vil's advice as gospel. Otherwise, Vil would rather not waste time he doesn't have to spare.

They say it takes 21 days to form a habit, but it only took an hour for Vil to realize how deep Rook's persistence ran. 3 days, Vil granted him, to eliminate the root of his bad habits. Living in the same dorm would help a great deal in the department of accountability. So, Vil filed for Rook’s dorm transfer out of Savanaclaw, whose dorm leader took no issue with the request—in fact, he was so quick, Vil almost mistook his professionalism for eagerness to get rid of the hunter, but that would be presumptuous, so he didn’t dwell on the matter at the time. Two years later? It all made sense.

Truthfully, he was grateful for the swift process, so he could focus on more important matters, like Rook’s concerning wardrobe: every pair of jeans torn at the knees, including his dorm uniform; a single pair of hiking boots caked with mud; twigs stuck to his hats and unidentified stains on his sleeves.

“Please tell me that isn’t blood," said Vil.

“Would it help if I said it wasn’t mine?” replied Rook.

For the first time in his life, Vil considered investing in a flamethrower, or an incinerator, whichever arrived faster.

“How do you live like this?” Vil asked Rook, as they parsed through his closet.

“Why, is it not a virtue to live in harmonie with nature?” Rook said.

“There’s harmonious and then there’s unhygienic. We’ll work on that.”

“À vos ordres, capitaine!”

“...Since when do you speak the language of Fleur City?”

“I’ve acquired an interest only recently.”

“I can tell. Your pronunciation is abhorrent. It does not befit a Pomefiore student to butcher another culture’s language. Now, pay attention: For your morning routine…”

It took Vil a day to put together samples of skincare, haircare, and makeup products from his collection—gifts he accrued from sponsorship deals and commercials over the years. It took another day to shop for a new set of casual clothes. While they were out in Foothill Town, Vil interrogated Rook on his diet and exercise routine—no issues there, but he did side-eye the hunter for his concerning fixation with protein shakes—just how much bulk did one teenager need?! It took a third separate day just to argue over the bird’s nest blond mass that rested atop Rook's head. Neither trimmed nor cut by a proper hairdresser or even proper shears, just the cold, unforgiving, callous chop of a knife’s edge. Unbelievable—no, unacceptable.

But Vil was determined to see this through. In fact, he laughed in the face of this challenge. He was so confident he could work his magic and bring out the untapped beauty of the hunter that he would emerge unrecognizable, and hopefully, more palatable to the general public. It would not do for the new vice dorm leader to cast ill repute on the illustrious Pomefiore dorm. However, Vil was entirely unprepared for the impossible task of convincing this stubborn, persistent, willful hunter to actually follow a haircare routine.

“What’s this?" Rook said initially. "For me? Oh, what an honor to receive products hand-picked by Beautiful Vil himself. I will cherish them greatly.”

(The odd-dozen items sit immaculate and untouched among Rook’s merchandise, like museum pieces.)

“Was I meant to use those?" Rook asked with infuriating innocence. "Silly me! In that case, I must decline, as they do not meet my requirements. A hunter can be just as particular as an actor. Surely, you can understand.”

(No. Vil does not understand. In what world was a 4-in-1 considered more appropriate than a top-brand box set of shampoo, conditioner, mask, and serum? Last time Vil checked, Rook can afford high-end products without breaking the bank.)

“My hair still upsets you." Rook observed. "Well, certainly it’s not as silky-smooth and shiny as yours, but it does take more time due to its coarse texture and length. Time that I do not possess between my fieldwork and my studies. But for you, Beautiful Vil, I will try.”

(He did not last a week...)

Vil channeled the Fairest Queen’s spirit of tenacity to persevere through this challenge in one piece, after which he'd treat himself to a spa day for every week he survived another round of Rook’s preposterous persistence. Still, he did not give up.

Needless to say, reinventing Rook Hunt was not an overnight success.

* * *

"Who knew you'd be so...headstrong?" you commented.

"As I said, a hunter mustn't show weakness," Rook replied.

"Isn't it exhausting?"

"It’s all I’ve ever known," he said, quieter than usual.

"So, what changed?"

Rook grabbed his phone and flipped through the photo gallery.

Eyes narrowed fondly, he recalled, “The day we visited the National Museum of Art. So many illustrious figures and historic moments captured in vibrant oils, pastels, and watercolor! Among these famous paintings, one struck me in the heart with an arrow of profound revelation."

He flipped the phone to you, then turned the photo in his palm like a hand-sized mirror, as though looking at his own reflection.

"This is the Hero of the East,” he explained, “who joined the army posing as a man. Some called her foolish, others lauded her bravery.”

“She looks conflicted, and…ashamed?” you said tentatively.

“To dishonor one’s family was seen as a betrayal.” He sighed. “Some families today still operate under that code.”

“…Like yours?”

He pursed his lips with a tight smile. "To reinvent oneself takes tremendous courage. This painting depicts the duality of her spirit, split between duty and authenticity. Isn't it magnificent?"

“I feel bad for her though,” you said. “How lonely and stressful all that pressure must feel.”

"She didn't protect the nation alone," Vil added, speaking directly to Rook. "She had allies, most notably the army general who accepted her…eventually. Despite the opposition, she proved to be clever and adaptive in the face of uncertainty. She took initiative, and her efforts were handsomely rewarded.”

"Now that's a girl worth fighting for," you said.

In much the same way, you realized, it was Rook’s initiative that paved a new path forward, reaching out to Vil despite whispers of the past telling him to keep his distance, plus the discomfort of being perceived in the limelight. He didn’t do it unaware of his surroundings; in fact, Rook Hunt was always undoubtedly too aware.

You’ve seen him at work. No matter how far or how quiet, he was always quick to pick up on the tiniest details. Naturally, he cannot manually switch off his keen senses, just as a hound can’t help being on alert when the high-pitched whistle blows or a bird attuned to the earth’s tremors before a natural disaster. He perceived things that others did not and he withheld that information from those not ready to face it yet, a weight upon his shoulders too massive to carry alone but one he did, nonetheless. And so, he trained mind, body, and spirit to withstand it all.

“The first step she took,” Rook said, “was a decisive chop of her hair. And so, I resolved to do the same. Vil came along for moral support.”

“And to make sure you would actually go through with it,” Vil said. “Wouldn’t want you walking out looking unsightly.”

"...and the rest, as they say, is history," Rook said, bringing you back to the present.

Rook admitted, he had endured hardship long enough to think he’d adapted to it, evolved to accept it. But now that his fate rested in the palm of his weathered hands, he held it gently, cautiously, the way of the gentle gorilla mother around her baby.

“It was no easy feat," Vil said lowly. "To make a huntsman out of you.” Rook's head snapped up to Vil, who looked back at him with a smug, triumphant, immensely proud smile. "But I’d say it was well worth the trouble."

Two years, they spent together in this tug-of-war. Clashing ideals, born from stubbornness, tethered by tenacity, and coiled into a tight-knit loyalty between Pomefiore's Queen and Huntsman duo. Clearly, there was more to their story than meets the eye, beyond their celebrity-fanboy charade. What they've shared tonight were mere droplets in the deep well of their shared experiences, rippling outwards with every new encounter.

"That sounds really special, what you've forged together." You reached for Rook's hand and squeezed. "Here's to hoping we forge many more to come."

As you shared a smile with Rook, Vil stood, adjusting his headband and unwrinkling his pajama pants.

"Right," Vil said curtly, tone losing its earlier warmth. "It's getting late. We’ll talk in the morning about our training schedule. Don't stay up, you two. We rise with the dawn tomorrow."

Good nights were exchanged, and the door clicked shut behind his kitten-heel struts.

"You're welcome to join our morning run," offered Rook.

"...How early?" you asked.

"6 AM!"

"Pass."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~