Archive of Our Own ^beta

Vil didn’t bother to look up from his task as the knock on his door reverberated throughout his room. He knew exactly who it was anyways, so all he needed to do was- “You may enter, Rook.”

Soundlessly, the door no doubt swung open, Rook entering with silent steps. Despite his clunky boots, Rook had the gait of a hunter.

“Astute in your observations as always, Mon Roi.” Exclaimed Rook happily, a mere arms length away from his housewarden.

Rook made no move to speak more or take any action, content to watch Vil finish with the potion in peace. There was no awkwardness to the silence, only an ethereal calm. Vil returned his attention to his work, secure in the knowledge that Rook would wait patiently until he finished. It was one of the man’s greatest virtues, his ability to lie in wait for hours upon hours. On some level, it was to be expected- he was Vil’s hunter, after all.

It was only when Vil’s deft hands finally finished, dropping the last ingredient and stirring the potion clockwise, before finally setting it aside, did Vil return his attention to Rook. As he had known, Rook hadn’t moved an inch, all coiled, lean muscle and obedience. Rook’s green eyes seemingly twinkled at Vil’s half smile, his own satisfaction reflection in the other’s eyes.

It was a welcome break from Epel’s ornery nature, constantly running off or disobeying him. Rook, at least, was his and he always was.

“Mon beau Roi du poison,” Rook began, his tone soft and deferential, “Has our little Epel been causing you trouble?”

At this, Vil nearly barked out a laugh. Rook knew the answer long before he had asked the question- the man was far too observant not to notice, either from the rumours that had no doubt starting circulating or from the stress marring Vil’s beauty.

“I just don’t get it, Rook.” Vil sighed in lieu of an answer, confident that Rook would understand what was implied. “How is getting Epel to listen so… so hard? He’s seen my strength, and sworn he would listen, but he simply won’t obey at all. Why, that potato even snuck out from his lessons today to go eat junk food of all things!”

“Well, it is all completely nouveau to him, is it not? He’ll need some time to adjust, let him put down some roots.” Rook reassured, stepping closer to where Vil lounged in his desk chair. His tone was as even as always, posture perfect as Vil had taught him. The model example of what Vil can do, the way he can unmake people and reform them into their best possible selves. Sometimes, Vil would almost dare to say he might be his masterpiece. The boy with sticks and leaves in his spilt-end ridden hair was no more, the elegant Chasseur D’amour taking his place, all carved from Vil’s elegant hands and commands. It hadn’t been easy, perhaps, but it was certainly smoother than attempting to clean up that potato.

“Rook, come here.” Vil commanded, beckoning him with the curl of his hand, Rook following suite with measured movements, closer and closer still until their faces were not but a foot apart. His makeup was done just as instructed, freckles (charming as they may be in their own way) covered, his hair in a pristine bob. His shining green eyes, deeply shadowed by his omnipresent hat, were those of a predator. Sharp and observant, picking apart Vil’s every twitch and breath. It was vindicating, to be viewed like this, all of Rook’s attention on him and him alone.

Deliberately, elegant but forceful, Vil tapped the floor with his heels. Obediently, Rook sank to one knee, settling down before Vil. A hunter, a predator, kneeling at his feet. The knife, his hunter, that he had forged with his own two hands. It sent a rush of pride and excitement throughout his body, a grin gracing his features. Before him, Rook mirrored the expression.

“You… why is Epel so… so resistant? It was far easier to deal with you… not that I’ll give up, of course not, nor shall I shy away from hard work, but I simply cannot understand it. You were equally as unfamiliar with such concepts, and yet you took to my lessons with an ease that far surpasses him.” Complained Vil, and yet his eyes showed no trace of annoyance. Doting, he moved to cup Rook’s face with a perfectly manicured hand, Rook gazing up at him reverently.

“Well, perhaps that was because it was all I had yearned for? Epel… Monsieur Crabapple does not yearn for beauty, only strength. He does your orders with a reluctance to them, like a horse only half tamed. Very charming, non?” Rook answers cheerfully, a wonderful smile upon his face. His warmth, his light- it is contagious and Vil cannot help but smile as-well. It is nothing like Neige, whose bright smile had made him want to scowl and never failed to make bile rise in his throat from jealousy. “Mon Roi, I had chosen to transfer to Pomefiore entirely of my own will. It was desire, nay, my dream to understand beauty. Your lessons were all I could ask for! While I have no doubt that you shall make monsieur Crabapple into his most precious self, he might not see it that way for some time.”

“I suppose.” Vil says, noncommittally as he inspects Rook’s face, looking for imperfections. He’s been keeping up with the skincare routine he had been assigned and it was doing him good. With his free hand, he plucked Rook’s hat off his head (ignoring Rook’s delighted “Oh la la, how bold!”) and placing it on the desk. Turning his critical gaze towards Rook’s hair, he ran his hand through the strands which glittered like spun gold. No split ends to be seen, and it was soft like silk. Excellent.

“Ah, this makes me très nostalgic. S'il vous plaît, dites-moi, do you remember when you had first begun your work on me? Right after I had first transferred?” Inquired Rook, a note of curiosity and nostalgia in his voice as he gazed with at Vil from where he was kneeling in frount of him.

“Yes, I do recall that time- the texture of your hair was like straw.” Vil said with a grimace. Honestly, compared to the Rook of now, it was like night and day. “Many of our housemates cried that it was unsalvageable. Oh, and your face! Your skin! It was cracked and dry like nothing I had ever seen! But you were so enthusiastic, so excited. You were nothing like these vegetables, who have no desire to put in the work or grow. No, you were so eager to learn, though you knew nothing at the start.”

“Mon Cher, I had never even seen most of what you had presented to me. C’est comme as though I had entered an entirely new world- I didn’t even know which soaps to use, there were so many! But you were so patient with me, so gentle.” Rook replied, something like love in his voice and it made Vil’s heart ache. It was amazing, being able to reshape Rook as he pleased, though perhaps (and only in his heart of hearts, never to tell) somewhat terrifying. Rook had placed his entire being, his whole self in Vil’s hands and asked him to remake him. Yes, he recalled the moment very well.

Rook had just transferred, not even changed out of his Savannaclaw uniform. He had eagerly exclaimed to Vil that he had done his best to look his nicest, which mostly amounted to getting the biggest of sticks out of his hair and washing the dirt off his face. The boy had been a complete mess, a clear outsider in Pomefiore’s halls- but not any longer. Vil had led him by hand, his rough callouses digging into his own palm, which could be felt even through his gloves, of which he was never seen without. Rook couldn’t help himself from staring in awe at his new dorm, gasping in wow every five seconds while the other students gawked at him.

When they had finally made it to Vil’s room, he had immediately sat in front of his mirror, and ordered Rook to join him. He had intended for Rook to sit at his side, but the boy had instead laid his head on Vil’s lap, gazing up at him with those eager, all seeing eyes. Idly, without even noticing, Vil had run his fingers through Rook’s hair, beginning to pry the various sticks and leaves off of the bird’s nest he called a hairdo. A moment of softness that he hadn’t forgotten, the delicate way he handled Rook like a baby bird, who was so eager, so endearing. It seared instead into Vil’s mind, but he cannot, to this very day, bring himself to mind it in the least.

“Rook. Who do you wish to be? What is your ideal self?” Vil had asked the boy on his lap, already seeing all the possibilities he could make from him. He had good bone structure, his eyes were gorgeous and his body was strong. Yes, he could work with this. The concepts, a thousand futures, all ran through his head one after another. Everything Rook could be, elegant, gorgeous, beautiful and wonderful. He was rife with potential.

Rook had looked up at him, face pensive. “I… I don’t know.” He had answered, but Vill could see the truth hiding within the other, shining like a diamond, or perhaps an emerald, in the rough. They stared into each other’s eyes, until Rook tried to look away. Gently, Vil cupped his chin and turned his head back until they were once again staring into each other’s eyes, Rook’s attention on his in its entirety.

“Do you doubt my ability? My skills?” Vil had asked, peering into Rook’s deep emerald eyes. The boy had been uncharacteristically nervous and shy, a light flush on his face. He was flustered in a way that Vil rarely saw in him.

“Non.” He had whispered, quiet as a mouse. “I want… s’ill vous plait… make me beautiful. And- and please… make me yours.” Even as his voice broke mid sentence, tears gracing his eyes and he half sobbed his words, his hands shaking as they gripped Vil’s uniform. He had looked so desperate, malleable like a block of the finest clay. He had both literally and figuratively placed himself in Vil’s hands, trusting him completely. He recalled how warm he had felt, like he was being warmed from the sun on the inside. This lovely little sprout, from which he would foster the most glorious of blooms. Vil had felt his artisan’s soul shiver with anticipation back then. The perfect project, handed to him on a silver platter. All he could ever ask for. Someone to make beautiful and someone to make his, all in one.

And so he had leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss to Rook’s forehead before speaking. “Then beautiful and mine you shall be.”

And that boy, he had smiled and glowed like the sun.

And this man, his wonderful hunter, smiles at him once more and glows like the sun. “Ah, we were so young!” He exclaims.

“Don’t speak like that- it isn’t as though we’re old men.” Vil chastises, flicking Rook on the nose with his free hand, playful and light. “Besides, I do feel we have made good on that promise- you are my lovely hunter, after all.”

“As the Huntsman was to the Queen, I shall never depart from your side! I am your loyal hunting dog, Mon Roi.” Rook promises, breathily, his voice heavy with desire as he leaned his head into Vil’s gentle touch, his face cupped in Vil’s steady hands. “Though back then, I was more of a puppy, tu ne penses pas?”

Rook’s green eyes become alight with excitement, the idea having been sparked in his brain. “Or perhaps I am more of a loyal hawk? Those were frequently utilized by royalty, after all.” He continues. Hunting is, after all, his greatest passion and Vil has no problem with indulging it.

“Hm… no, Rook is a rook.” Vil corrects, staring into Rook’s deep green eyes.

“A rook… oh, comme l'oiseau! Hahaha… it is said that the Fairest Queen had a raven familiar and I cannot say it’s not fitting.” Rook laughed, and it was like the jingling of silver bells. Vil is strict, and unlike his hunter, rarely sees the beauty in others- but Rook is the exception. Always, he is Vil’s exception to all the rules he has for himself; not to fall in love, not to grow to attached, not to rely so heavily on one person-

Always, Rook is the exception. His exception.

“My beautiful hunter…” He cannot help but say, and Rook goes cherry red. Delightful, he thinks. Normally, it is he who showers Vil in compliments, not the other way around. But Rook is his handiwork, a living and breathing example of what he can make out of a person. And more than that, Rook is his. “My wonderful masterpiece…”

“Ah, Mon Roi du Poison…” Rooks says, bashfully trying to turn his head, but Vil keeps his grip steady. With the hand that cups his face, he brings their faces nearly a hair’s breadth apart.

His gaze illuminates him like a spotlight, and Vil always, always, feels his best when he’s on stage. Rook is his greatest critic, and he couldn’t ask for a better audience.

They do not need words in this moment, the flutter of Rook’s immaculately groomed eyelashes an invitation as Vil places a chaste kiss on Rook’s cheek, his hands gently settled on the man’s neck so that when he does so, he can feel Rook’s heartbeat speed up, his pulse thrumming under him.

“I am yours, Mon Roi.” Rook says as Vil peppers kisses along his jawline, his warmth seeping through to Vil’s very core. “Now and forever.”

“And you are beautiful, my Hunter.”