#and vil

He sends you a halfhearted glare, sending you into a fit of giggles. Vil fixes his collar, hiding the brief flash of pink on his cheeks with the movement.

You wave your hands in front of you defensively. “I’m kidding. If it really does damage your skin, I’ll repay you.” Your smile is far too bright to be natural when you return to your seat behind the table, leaning on your elbows with a hand propping your head up.

“How have your classes been? No one causing you too much trouble?”

While he avoids making eye contact as he peruses your wares, he can still see you from the corner of his eye. “I am passing them all, of course.”

Vil aligns a total of three honey jars before you whilst browsing through the single honey sticks and packaged taffy he knows to be homemade. He hadn’t yet tried the taffy, though you constantly insisted that he try one. (It simply isn’t a good idea for him to indulge in sweets when he has a strict plan for himself. He enjoys what he has and strives to reach an even better state; if he has survived without it this long, then he doesn’t need it).

“Training the body isn’t an excuse for not training the mind.” He grabs a honey stick, reads the name of the jar, and decides to test the flavor. Placing it on the jars he grabbed, he opens his satchel and prepares to pull out the same amount he has been spending for months. “As for the students, I have little faith in a full recovery for their microbiome.”

Vil ignores the small warmth that your resulting chuckle brings him, the way it blooms in his chest and stretches to warm his fingers. He counts through the thaumarks in his wallet, listening as you carefully bundle up the jars with the biodegradable packing paper you gushed about for two weeks after receiving your first shipment.

Upon burying the paper, the seeds within it will blossom into berry plants.

(He has quite the collection of raspberries and strawberries growing at his windowsill).

“You’ll find a way to help them out somehow. You’re the magnificent Vil Schoenheit, if you can’t do it then no one can.” Collecting the items and carefully arranging them in a sturdy newspaper bag, you hand over the product and cup your hand to receive the necessary payment.

Vil takes the bag and gently places the marks in your hand, his fingertips brushing against your palm. He feels just a hint of mischief in him as he watches you calculate the change in hand, brows furrowing (how cute) and mouth moving as you note the extra marks there.

He snatches his hand away before you can hand him the money back. “Ah, ah, ah.”

“I can’t keep accepting this from you.” You pout. “You work hard, you should use your money on something you like.”

He is.

Each time he leaves you with just a little too much, he is spending it on something he likes. But he can’t say that. No, he can’t admit he enjoys visiting your stall so much that he would brave the crowded market every week just to hear from you again. He has long since accrued enough honey to last him years; (the Pomefiore students definitely have their fill of the honey products he's stuffed in their arms). You believe he has these days off, as if his busy schedule would allow for this; as if he doesn’t have to balance his calendar like toppling beakers to give himself a half hour to see your eyes light up when you spot him in the crowd.

Maybe he spoils himself with a sweet more often than he thought.

Adjusting the bag in his hand, Vil sends a smile your way before leaving, his head full of cotton when he notes the sheepishness in your expression.

“I’ll see you next week.”