Chapter Text
It happened, sometimes, in the dead of the night or when his life was at a great risk, like right now, that Rook would end up wondering about the mysteries of this world.
What was true or wrong, how could one define beauty, and more importantly, what exactly was love?
Love and the act of loving were, in Night Raven College at least, complicated. No benevolent actions could be said to come from the heart, as the constant frowns and curtness of its students were used to hide vulnerability, as love was more seen as a hindrance, or something to be wary of, than a true blessing.
But was it truly this hard to love without restraints? What were the students of NRC truly scared of?
As far as he was concerned, Rook believed that, maybe, love was as easy as breathing.
Probably, because of the peculiar way in which he was raised.
In that way where calloused, rough hands would always find their way to the top of his head as a child when he needed comfort, or when they would dry his tears without a word being said. Or perhaps it was because of the way his most vibrant memory was of his siblings’ blooming laughter, loud and lively, reverberating across the walls of their home even in the stuffy summer nights.
Maybe it was because of the way his parents loved each other without an ounce of reserve. To the point it looked painfully close to devotion. How those soft ‘welcome home’ whispered against the skin of the other, how delicately they held each other close and kissed each other whenever they would find each other again after a day apart, how all of it reached the territory of sacred, somehow.
Perhaps it was because he was shown and taught that there was beauty everywhere. Life, as brutal and grotesque as it could be, held beauty in each of its angles.
Yeah, Rook liked to think that way, but a tiny, whipped part of himself wondered if maybe, just maybe, love was so easy to take a shape in his mind because of Vil.
He would never deny the influence of his upbringing in his current worldview, but could anyone blame him for, and wouldn’t he be a fool to deny, the impact Vil Schoenheit had on his life, his mind, and to the core of his heart?
How easy was it to love the softness of Vil’s silky hair, of the way his rough fingers could easily card through it, how he would marvel each time it happened because of the pleased sighs that Vil would let slip from his lips.
Oh, how he loved the way those same lips would curl into the slightest smile, each time he tried to repress a laugh, that simple action threatening to make his slender and elegant figure shake delicately.
Days and nights alike, burned behind his eyelids, would be the distant, tempting outline of Vil’s waist. In those moments, he felt like kneeling, as if he was a knight from ancient times, felt more than ever the desire to kiss the back of Vil’s hands, even if those soft, manicured hands ended up drenched in blood.
It should be scary, to love someone this much. To love to the point of accepting the gruesome, the ugly, even the parts Vil abhorred about his own self. To love to the point of dying.
Because it felt like that sometimes, when it came to loving Vil. It was a torture as much as it was a blessing and Rook would never have it any other way.
He’d drink poison in a heartbeat if it made Vil happy. Would fall off a cliff by his side if it meant their heartbeats could beat in unison one last time.
In hindsight, just mere minutes ago, he did almost drink poison for Vil.
After all, for Vil, how could he give anything less than that?
This was why, as cryptic and mysterious love was as a concept in NRC, Rook desperately wanted to believe in its strength, wished for it to be as simple as he saw it, for it to be resumed as the one who was unconscious in his arms as he shook uncontrollably from the fear gripping the roots of his heart.
He hoped love could be as simple to explain as laying his eyes on Vil. That Love could be Vil.
Rook placed a chaste, delicate kiss on Vil’s lips and whispered against the crook of his neck, holding him like he would shatter in million pieces if he ever as much thought of letting go.
“Ah...my beautiful one, please wake up…”
To the early mornings, tired laughing fits when everything was still messy and perfect in its imperfection, up to the sleepless nights, with the hushed secrets weighing uncomfortably on both of their hearts. To Vil’s pretty hands grabbing him way too harshly, like his life depended on it, as multitude of script sheets scattered on the satin sheets.
Each breathing moment, every little second he would spend in his life.
No matter what horrors he would have to face. No matter how many times he would have to scream until his throat felt sore and bloody.
No matter how many times he would have to fight Vil’s demons with his bare hands if needed, to bring him back into this world, away from the pure black ink of the overblot.
All of it would be dedicated to Vil.
Son roi de poison. Son étoile. L’amour de sa vie.
The man he loved more than life itself.
From there on, time passed in an awful, almost calculated slowness. As Vil lied there in his arms, as everyone around him was battered and breathless, worry gnawing at them just as much as it took ugly roots in his brain, no sound could be heard, not even his own heart, as if it stopped beating the moment Vil fell unconscious.
Wake up.
Please, grace those barren lands once again with your lavender eyes. Let the moon bathe you with its silver beauty.
Breathe.
Do not let the phantoms of your past take a hold of you.
Love could be cruel, but wasn’t the bitter bite of it what made relief so much sweeter?
Vil’s delicate features twisted in pain, his long eyelashes fluttering weakly as he muttered under his breath
“Urgh...why am I...here…? Rook…? Everyone…?”
And just like that, his heart felt like beating again.
Life was cruel, but oh so tender and delightful in this instant.
Rook never cared about other’s views on his love.
So, true to himself, he ignored the indignant splutters from his underclassmen as he leaned in to kiss Vil again, and again, and again, to the point even Vil had to stop him with a weak, breathy and confused laugh. Everything fell back into place once he felt Vil’s hands cradling his face, heard his half hearted chastising, as if either of them cared about privacy when they just had a tango with death.
If he couldn’t truly kiss Vil for now, Rook would work with any sliver of bare skin his lips could find. To reassure himself, perhaps. To feel the thrum of his veins under his pale skin. The warmth of his body. To feel alive again. Because it was exactly that, to have Vil in his arms, safe and sound.
Love was like breathing, when it was Vil.