#fielerex

EVENING LIGHT CANNOT EQUATE TO THE soft glow within the room that the queen’s hunter stands in; his bathrobe is unique, particularly rough seeming material instead of something softer, something thinner.  though it had not been requested of, rook still carries a medium sized box that he had brought in moments ago, when vil had first opened the door to the parlor.  wooden with engravings that seem of expensive style, yet it still gives the feeling of it being his and not something of pomefiore’s property.

there had not been an event today but the day called for appearances alongside the queen, which meant that tougher regulations of style had to be pressed into the students of pomefiore   —   rook, definitely, included.  taking off the makeup is a task required before rest, and it is one he usually does by himself, but tonight, vil has asked for his presence to be shared.   (   as expected, for beautè comes in the appearance of multiples.  such a wonder it is, such a surprise that had colored rook’s face pleasantly delighted.   )

and now, rook turns to vil and smiles,   “   merci, vil, sincerely.   ”   hunter tilts his head ever so slightly and taps the side of the box in his hands.   “   i remembered to bring the commissioned moisturizer for after the act of makeup removal.   ”   thankfully, he had done nothing but follow in the wake of prey, safe from approach and no rough contact from the ground; nothing to bruise or scratch his face. it’d be a rejection of grace if vil found his appearance a displeasure.

with a laugh, rook continues,   “   shall we begin, roi de poison~?   ”

          if there was ever a moment where idia wanted the fates to strike him down, it would be now.  damn his selfish impulses!  the cruel, senseless little urges that claw at his throat and chest until he satisfies them.  there was no reason to bring up a statistic bar and prepare for combat, not when the boss of the battle, staring at him from down the hall, is none other than vil of pomefiore.   (   underneath the initial terror of being seen, noticed, and embarrassed, he’s unable to think of the emotion curling beneath his heart as anything but true, unmistaken fear.  he knows the taste of that best.   )

            idia clenches onto the small tube of lip gloss and if his strength had been anything higher than the few points of exp he used for that stat, then he’s confident that the lip gloss would have cracked beneath his grip.  but it doesn’t.  he becomes painfully aware of the gloss coated on his lips; heavy, now, unlike the earlier lightness that he had complimented the product to have.

            he should have ran.  he should have called for foul play of the environment and retreated back to his room the moment he had heard the heels of pomefiore’s house warden.  except idia hadn’t heard anything.  an excuse of his headphones blocking out all things unwanted, all things transparent with discontent, wouldn’t work since he hadn’t been wearing his headphones at all.  the valued set of tranquility had been hung around his neck and he only realized that vil was down the hallway when he reached up to rub away the smudge of gloss under the curve of his bottom lip.

            idia regrets it all, now.  regrets even putting on the makeup in the first place   —   it’s disgusting, probably.  to stare at him and evidently know that whatever’s on his face is a rare artifact wasted on a low leveled character.  stats with no experience.   (   through the wisps of his panic, idia does not realize that his small string bag of makeup products had fallen from his hands and onto the ground.   )

            “   h-h-hey, uh, s-sir vil,   ”   idia gulps, his voice too silent to hear from where vil stands down the hall.  manicured hands sweat and clam up as his body tenses, back immediately trying to curl his body in on itself to make him appear smaller.   “   uh, w-why are y... u-uhm, d-d-don’t you need beauty... sleep?   ”

@fielerex

living with someone new - someone so decidedly not from heartslabyul, that is - after nearly three years of constancy is odd. the queen’s rules do not rule supreme in ramshackle - and even less so over vil schoenheit, riddle’s new roommate. 

but, there are points of familiarity. for one - 

" you promised me a dance, jack. " almost coquettishly retorting to him dearest vil was, dragging savanaclaw youth's left to small of cinched waist. " just one, and i'll leave you be for the rest of the night, how does it sound ? "

UNFIT TO STAND NEXT TO SOMEONE SO GRACEFUL,   the feeling isn’t new to him.  surprisingly,  the difference in their costumes hold quite true to how they appeared when hanging out in their youth.  both country boys of their own respects,  but no one would dare use such a word to describe the reigning queen of pomefiore.  back then,  he would wear a flannel  &  vil would wear something lined with lace  &  frills; finely pressed,  without a single stain in sight.  truly, he felt right at home. 

tensing  at the touch,  his shoulders raise faintly.  he blames it on the appearance of his upperclassman,  almost expecting  sharp,  kept nails to feel like talons on his flesh.   just when he made such a promise  —  he doesn’t remember,  but it’s unlike him to question.  making due on his promises was  important  to him  &  he didn’t take vil for a liar.  there was no level of desperation for  his  attention that would cause them to conjure such a blatant lie.   more likely was the case that he didn’t foresee that it would be  carried through  with;  dancing with him felt like more of a chore than something enjoyable.   being sought out for an activity that he was so poorly trained in felt like it would end up frustrating someone who adored  perfection  to such a high degree.  his performance would leave  much  to be desired,  that much he was certain.  

FASHION WAS NOT HIS FORTE,   as much as he did  care  about his outward appearance on the daily  —  this was one night where he would allow that to  slip.   not because he was  willing  to look unsightly,   rather … that was the  purpose  of their clothing for the night.  with a haunted maze,  focused on startling people;   his outfit was intended to allow him to  blend  into his surroundings to the best of his abilities.   the darkness made for perfect cover,  along with the simplicity of their costumes.   soft,  green hair hidden under a hood,  the  blackened  makeup around his eyes was intended to conceal him as best as possible.  though up close,  it would only make  reptilian eyes  stand out.  

the pomefiore leader’s outfit was  equally  as unsettling;  done in a way that could be described easily as  high fashion  —  heavily contrasting a costume meant to lurk  in the forest for the night.  sebek’s demeanor is oddly docile,   accepting  of the help that is being offered.   sewing is not a talent of his,  unfitting of a  future  knight;  no retainer would be mending their lord’s clothes  (  past personal mishaps that was  ).   no stranger to being  fit  for clothing in the past,   there is no struggle to maintain good posture as he works.

“ it was  perfectly fine  when i left,  i assure you that.   perhaps during my shift  — ”    trying to pinpoint a moment where he could have caused the fabric to be  torn  was difficult.  their costumes were not made of the  best material  the shop had to offer;   after missing out on chances to acquire such,   the majority of it was thrown together at the last moment.  his own efforts were made elsewhere,  any place that he was directed by the vice to ensure his  questionable ideas  went smoothly.   “ it was merely an oversight on my own part.   do not  blame master lilia for my mistakes. ”   he warns,  oddly protective of his elder’s reputation.   they made  well  where it was due,  but outfits were certainly not the strong suit of their dormitory.  

CREDIT WHERE IT’S DUE: Trey only takes a few seconds before a grin. He’s not startled much, but recognition is slow to come—all the credit to Pomefiore and their housewarden, then, because unless he spares the moments to stare, it’s only Vil’s voice that gives him away.

(It’s partially on Trey, too—a sudden lull in stamp rally foot traffic had him tidying up their booth, a proper tea party tablescape set to some disarray by the amount of people coming in and out, and the team before the one he heads likely eager to take a break and less than enthused about the setting. One moment there’s peace, and he’s humming to himself while making sure tea cups and silverware and their stamps are in order; the next, he’s looking up when called for and nearly dropping a saucer in the process.)

He recovers, though, sets his fretting aside clears his throat and tips his hat forward to Vil—cat ears and all.

“Hey, the fact you got me means you’re doing everything right. You’ve outdone yourself this year!” And he means it: everything is immaculate (expected of Pomefiore; doubly so for Vil, he wagers) and Trey can’t even fathom the amount of time it must have taken to be ready, be it by hand or by spell. Trey’s had his patience tested and tempered to a near-unshakeable point, and yet the mere thought of what it might take may well be beyond him. In comparison, the chancellor’s robes—covering much more comfortable overalls underneath—feels downright plain.

(He can at least be proud of the bushy little tail behind him, though, one of the few things he had the time to make on his own.)

“Of course, though. We’ve got plenty—gimme a minute, and I’ll run back to where we’re keeping our extra bags.”

Trey can’t help but pull a chair out as he passes; only polite for a guest to the tea party at the end of their tangled garden maze. “I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you long, but at least have a seat for a minute. You’re welcome to help yourself to what’s left of the high tea cakes, although I get if the costume makes things difficult.”

STAGE FRIGHT COULDN’T BE USED IN A SITUATION WHERE IT WAS ONLY THE TWO OF THEM,   but the  harsh  lights would give the illusion that what was going on was of  high  importance  —  that it required some form of skill he was  lacking  to pull off.   giving into vil’s requests more often than he would like to admit to,  he felt it was  important  to give care to everyone’s unique interests.  the pomefiore leader’s  happened  to be a territory that he was  entirely  unfamiliar with  — fashion.   when taken to an even higher degree,  modeling.   allowing himself to be used as a  prop  of some sorts,   a non - person for schoenheit to take a round of photos with;  he wasn’t expecting it to be so difficult.  “ nothin’,   it’s just  —  ”  by now,  there was too much  time & effort  poured into it for him to back out.  getting his unruly hair to behave was a task in itself,  on top of that,  he couldn’t wear what he usually did to stand next to the other for a few photos.  “ i’m not cut out for this kinda stuff.  maybe someone else would be better? ”   he suggests,  trying not to  hurt  feelings in the process.  

if his face was giving way to just  how  nervous that he was about the situation at hand,   he didn’t intend for that to be the case.  after being instructed to look natural,  jack was  confident  about how  effortless  that his upperclassman made this seem.  it was unfortunate that his confidence was  shattered  with a couple of camera flashes.  taking photos had never been so  serious  to him before;  but the set - up that was in place was nothing short of impressive.  

Those flawlessly decorated eyes turned to him and he hunched his shoulders shrinking on himself wondering if he managed to tuck himself in on himself enough he would vanish away from the others stare. Granted he has summoned the other attention by opening his mouth. But he had expected the other to glance at him then ignore him.

But instead his eyes widened in shock and confusion when the other offered him a handkerchief. He stared at it baffled as briefly he took in the embroidery and stitching. Completely lost in the moment as his brain tried to connect the dots. He registered that he was being scolded but he just stood there finger tracing the thread and embroidery for a moment.

His brain was trying to catch up with Vil's words before he sniffed slightly. "I...um..." He looked away grumbling under the pressure of that gaze. His brain was trying to think of something to fill the silence and he was too worn out to start a fight by sassing.