Chapter Text
When Vil comes to pick Rook up from the airport, there is a moment– a second. A blink. An inhale. It comes, and it goes, easily. Naturally. Just as anything should come and go.
Rook spots him first, his tall head sticking out from the crowd. He's wearing his big pair of sunglasses and a scarf, wrapped around his face and the telltale violet ends of his hair, his proposed idea of a disguise, but Rook would know him anywhere. His heart untangles itself from his arteries and veins, leaping into his throat at the sight of him, like a dog greeting their person at the door. Equal parts loyal and loving, yes, Rook would know his étoile anywhere.
He holds his breath, waiting for Vil to turn his beautiful eyes his way. He wills for their gazes to connect and hold fast over the noise of security. In the span of an exhale, it happens. He sees him.
This isn’t the moment, however, but the first domino leading to it, accelerating faster and faster.
It takes all he has not to throw himself at him, and he puts a tentative foot forward. Then another. And another. And another, with courage building with every step, until he's practically sprinting, flying through the crowd. There's a moment where he thinks, however briefly, I should slow down , but in this same moment, he notices Vil doing the same thing. He shoulders his purse and takes off in his direction, as if his legs are the only things that work.
They cling and cloy to one another, dovetailed like puzzle pieces, shaking with adrenaline. They quake with the sheer effort it takes just to hold each other, and it takes even more of that effort to pull apart. Hands trembling, Rook cups Vil’s cheeks as if appraising some priceless heirloom, with utmost gentleness and awe, and leans forward again.
Vil’s lips meet him halfway.
This is the moment. Sweet and fiery and Rook thinks he could kiss him forever– this moment is forever. They collide, just as stars collide and in their blazing death they bring about entire galaxies, right there in the middle of a busy airport.
Of course, no matter how much Rook would want to, they can’t kiss forever , and it’s Vil that pulls away first, slowly and painfully, as if all his muscles protest it.
Vil glances around the crowded airport, situates his scarf above his nose, and takes Rook's hand. There's a microsecond where his hold twitches– falters and flutters as it fits itself into Rook's palms. It's a moment of doubt, of fear of the unknown and of the sting of years of complicated, dammed up love, but it passes soon enough. The moment and all its bitterness passes, transforming into something jaw-achingly sweet right before Rook's eyes, and Vil's grip stays.
He stays, and in silence, they watch all the luggage go around the carousel. It isn't until they're in the car just blocks away from his complex that Rook realizes they haven't exchanged a single word. For a second he panics. Wonders if they had run out of things to say. Wonders that if he did speak, would he even be able to hear himself over the incessant thrum in his chest?
They lug his belongings up to his apartment, and they both linger at the door, afraid to break the silence.
"Vil," he says, and this single syllable slips out of his mouth as if he were born to say it.
Vil's gaze lifts from the floor expectantly.
"Will you stay?" He asks, hand extended. That's all he says, those three words, but they can both hear what he's left out. Will you stay with me? Will you stay tonight? Will you stay forever?
He doesn't take his hand. He doesn't answer. He only presses his palms into Rook's shoulders and wheels him back, back, back into the apartment. The door shuts softly behind them.
There are several of these moments in the following year. Several seconds, several blinks, several inhales. Several uneventful events passing by. Some of them are never as life-changing as kissing in the baggage claim; for some of them, if they blinked, they’d miss it, like ruining one of Rook’s favorite white shirts with a red sock or arguing whether or not they should kill the spider on the wall– and then of course arguing who’s going to do it.
Some time in the spring, there’s a moment where Vil moves in with Rook– or perhaps it’s a bigger moment, comprised of many smaller ones, just as in the end a year is just a series of seconds, floating past, carrying little memories along in a smooth stream. Included in these is the morning Vil up and decides the bathroom needs a new color or when Rook wakes before the sun to cook breakfast in the dark on Vil’s birthday.
There’s the time Vil has to go off for a movie shoot for a few weeks (yes, he still does those), and Rook follows him in spite of being told several times not to. He simply shows up on set one day, unannounced and with his arms burdened with a bouquet so ridiculously large Vil can’t not forgive him.
There’s the time in the summer when Rook comes home from a meeting only to see Vil taking all of his taxidermy off the walls, packing them into cardboard boxes. He isn’t as amicable to this idea as he was to the bathroom, and so ensues a furious war between the both of them.
If you ask Vil, he’d say that Rook started it, and if you ask Rook, he’d say erecting a shrine dedicated to Neige in the place where his collection once stood is simple defense. Jack doesn’t ask either of them. When Vil calls him into their apartment, it’s because he knows Jack would bring Epel. Something had happened between the two of them in the previous winter, but Jack had no clue what. The one time he dared to pry, Epel launched into another incomprehensible tirade, so he figured they just needed the time to sort things out. In other words, Jack is just Vil’s excuse to finally see Epel again. If anything goes a little dodgy, he could even play mediator.
After all, being Vil’s childhood friend and Epel’s boyfriend, Jack hasn’t failed to realize the severity of the situation and knows to intervene if he really needs to. If all Vil needs is for him to string Epel along, then he is more than happy to oblige. Still, arranging a memorial full of Vil’s likeness in the middle of Rook’s apartment is the last thing he’d have guessed he’d be doing today. Vil himself stands off to the side, directing, because he has an artistic vision that would take far too long to realize if he had to do it all by himself. He’s trying to see the “bigger picture.”
Jack sets one of Vil’s many awards down with a clack before turning to him. “You seem happy.”
Vil’s sharp eyes snap from the wall to Jack’s face. They narrow a fraction, but it does nothing to hide the small smile tracing his lips. “Why, who wouldn’t delight in seeing a wall singing their own praises?” It sounds like a line from an old Hollywood movie, complete with a mildly Transatlantic accent, but Jack knows it's just an act to cover up the honeymoon phase glow that’s radiating out of his every pore.
“No, I mean–”
“Epel! Be careful with that!” Vil snaps (even though the boy had been perfectly careful with the collector’s edition Vil Barbie he had been holding). He stalks over, away from Jack’s keen eye. He swipes the box from his hands and turns it this way and that, inspecting it.
“I wasn’t even doin’ nothin’ to it,” Epel grumbles. It’s already bad enough he has to be here when he’s still pissed at Vil. It feels like a total betrayal on his boyfriend’s part– he was promised frozen yogurt and was instead dragged here. He huffs. “So do you still hate Rook or…?”
“Yes,” he says, glancing at Epel. He places the miniature version of himself down on a shelf without so much as a second thought, and then places a kiss on both Epel’s cheeks. “But we’re talking at least.”
He yelps like he’d been stuck with a pin. “IN FRONT’A MY BOYFRIEND?”
Vil pets his face soothingly. Smooths down his hair. “Oh, hush. Jack doesn't mind. Do you, Jack?”
"Nope."
"You SHOULD mind!" Epel furiously scrubs the lipstick off his cheeks. “What was that for?”
“A token of gratitude,” Vil replies softly. “You were right.”
Epel stares at him like his hair is on fire– in fear. “Right about what?”
Meanwhile Jack pretends not to hear their most heartwarming reconciliation, and figures it’s about time to serendipitously redirect them before they start fighting again. Neither of them are very honest with their feelings, and situations like this always end up with them yelling. One step forward, two steps back.
“Vil,” he says. “Where should I put this?” He holds up a Funko pop of one of the TV show characters Vil plays. A common enemy to seal the deal.
The two of them look at the horrid thing with its soulless eyes like it’s a full diaper. Vil takes it and deposits it in the trash. He doesn’t even know why he has it.
“Tell me again why we're taking down all this Neige memorabilia and replacing it with… your memorabilia?” Epel asks. He's eyeing one of Vil’s portraits with about as much disgust as a son would look at a Vogue headshot of his own mother with.
“Revenge on Rook,” Vil responds serenely. He gestures. “Put that a little more to the left.”
Jack obeys. “You know he’d actually love this, right?”
“I know.”
Rook does.
That night when he comes home from work, he takes all but two seconds of looking at it before bursting at the seams. He laughs that full-bellied laugh that Vil loves so much as he stumbles through the entryway and nearly trips out of his shoes. Vil stands before the wall and all the shelves full of pictures of himself, looking victorious. He’s won, and now his prize is Rook’s beautiful little giggles and his strong arms around his waist.
“Mon amour,” he laughs into the side of his neck, lips brushing against his skin in mindless kisses. “Mon amour, let's get a house.”
“A house!” Vil apes. His tone isn’t exactly disapproving, but he is questioning where this line of logic is coming from.
“Oui, a house,” Rook says, breathless with delight. “One with many rooms. I’ll fill each one with my love for you. I’ll cover each wall with your likeness, and it will be beautiful. We’ll make it beautiful.”
“More of your poems, Rook?”
“Not poems,” he says. “Promises.”
Rook is a man of his word. Some time in the beginning of summer, they sign for a house, a small one just big enough for the two of them, but large enough for them to wonder how to fill a lot of the space. One would think that the occasion would be some eventful business, but it's almost mundane in the way that it was simply inevitable. Energy traveling through the path of least resistance. It's just another moment made of smaller moments, like carrying Vil through the threshold and finally emptying out the last cardboard box of stuff. (Rook's taxidermy collection survives the move. Some of it does, anyways, and what little of that is left is isolated in Rook's office.)
Like arguing over the color of the curtains and compromising to use both depending on the seasons. Trying to fit two mini fridges into an Uber– one for Vil's skincare and one for Puppy's mice– and for this they end up calling for two separate rides home. Rook sends wistful, longing texts every second they're apart. They take turns cooking and washing dishes, though Vil always helps either way. They dance in the bathroom with clay masks drying to their faces, late at night. It isn't much of a dance; they just hold each other and remember to step and sway every once in a while, hand in hand while Vil's phone sits on the counter playing Death Cab for Cutie.
Lots of little things.
There are big things too of course.
Big things, like the fight they have in September. Over what, nobody really knows, but the paparazzi catches Vil storming out of the house in red-faced fury, luggage (and Rook) trailing behind him. It doesn’t last long though, because those bloodthirsty hounds with their cameras sniff Vil out of his hidey-hole in record time and he comes running back. The rumors surrounding their relationship kick back up again at this point, but Vil just laughs reading the tabloids and all the fantastical things they say about them.
Big things, like Thanksgiving rolling around again, and when Vil invites Rook’s family over for dinner at the house, no one asks questions. They file in one by one, all with their golden heads and freckles and sharp green eyes, give their oohs and ahs about the new place, and gather around the table as if nothing had ever happened. The only thing that daring Aurélie Hunt ventures to ask as she leans conspiratorially forward and over her plate is:
“So are you Vil Hunt or is he Rook Schoenheit?”
Vil nearly chokes on his wine, trying desperately not to spittake all over the fresh white tablecloth. While he struggles on the side, Rook directs a frown at his mother. “Maman!” He exclaims.
She just shrugs, palms in the air. “I had just assumed you were married!”
“We are not,” he assures her, and that leads to Peony groaning a very disappointed, “You’re nooot? Why nooot?”
Vil catches himself wondering the same thing. Marriage seems just like what they’re doing now– what they have been doing for quite some time– but with extra paperwork. But with finality, their relationship set in stone, in sickness and health for as long as they both shall live.
It's an offhanded remark, and once Rook manages to get Aurélie to stop prodding, she doesn't mention it for the rest of the night. Vil shoves the thought deep within himself, but little does he know that the dangerous pit he just buried is a seed.
And then it’s Rook’s birthday again. They don’t do much besides lounge on the couch all day. They watch reality shows and remind each other that they have a dinner reservation at eight and that they should probably start getting ready. They don’t. They merely sit there, too comfortable to move and sometimes idly napping, just hands and hair and lips melded together in front of the TV.
They order Chinese takeout instead, and when the TV starts to fail to hold their attention, they turn to each other and head to bed, and that's it.
There’s the moment when Rook learns he’s been nominated for an Academy Award for the movie he’d shot the winter previous. Best cinematography. It’s not one of the more exciting awards– most people only care to watch the program for the actors, he knows– but it’s an honor nonetheless, and after spinning Vil around their living room, Rook spends hours searching for the perfect suit and tie, even though the ceremonies aren’t until mid March. It’s just barely the end of January.
Following soon after, Vil gets a call from his new agent, a fresh-faced temp named Osmund, who at least hasn’t given him any attitude. Yet. His violet eyes light up, ear pressed to the phone, and Rook leans in to hear, already draped over Vil’s shoulders like a shawl.
“Vil, how would you like to co-host the Academy Awards this spring?”
Vil’s free hand shoots out and grabs Rook by the arm in excitement. “Yes! I–” A squint. “What do you mean co-host?”
A pained pause. He knows better than to mention him if he doesn’t have to, but… “You’ll be with Neige.”
“Fucking shit,” Vil mumbles under his breath, but Rook rubs soothing circles into his back.
"Do it for me," he says. "We'll show up in matching suits again."
Vil turns his sharp eyes towards him and snaps, "I will be wearing a dress, ” because he had been planning on going all along.
The red carpet is long and busy as always. Stepping out of the limo is a blur or flashing light and voices clamoring for attention, seagulls flocking to unattended leftovers to pick them clean before moving on to the next pretty face. Rook likens the two of them to tonight’s dinner special; this is after all their first public appearance together in at least two years. The press gobbles them right up.
In the mess of it all, he doesn’t even realize when Vil is torn from his side, swept off to do his own thing, leaving him to fend for himself against the starving mob.
He feels the swarm’s collective, hungry gaze on him like heat on his skin. He wishes they’d ask what he was wearing or how it feels to be nominated for his award. Of course, no one’s interested in that. They want to know about two years ago. They want to dig up dead news and dress it up again, to make it look pretty for their tabloid columns. Embellish it with their lies and make a quick buck about a fairy tale they’d made up.
But it would never be as beautiful as the truth. They’d never understand that. They’d never see the lengths they’d gone through to get here, and it fills Rook with a great sadness. He wants them to understand.
“Rook!” The crowd cries. “Rook, what’s up with you and Vil?”
He glances over to Vil, standing stiff next to Neige. He looks unhappy, and Rook knows he wouldn’t do this if it weren’t for him. His heart soars at the fact. Their eyes meet over the noise, and everything stills, if only for a second. The world sinks into slow motion, stalled by that same magic from when he first saw him in high school. Vil’s fingers flex in the tiniest of waves, painted nails pointing at nothing, and if anyone else were watching they’d see nothing of it, but Rook knows it was just for him. Vil is, and always has been, his own little secret.
The crowd pulls him back in. Back to double speed and their incessant squawking. “Rook! Rook! Rook! Are you and Vil dating for real this time?”
"I'd like for you to respect our privacy," he replies into one microphone before ushering himself inside. The crowd erupts into more noise behind him– more stupid questions and giddy speculation. Everyone knows that's the industry equivalent to yes .
The awards ceremony all starts to meld into some incomprehensible mess of applause and poorly scripted humor. Rook barely pays attention to it, growing restless in the velvet-lined seat beside Cater. Watching Vil from the audience is too far for his comfort. He’s always wanted to be the closest to him. It’s only when his own award category is being announced some time in the latter half of the programming that he snaps out of the haze.
On the large screen behind Vil and Neige are candid photos of each of the nominees as they’re called. Rook’s is of himself behind his rig, face red with cold and buried in his winter wear. It’s not a good picture, and any other time, Vil would have voiced his disapproval of the horrible angle and Rook’s unkempt hair, but now his mouth purses, holding in a smile. Rook’s heart flutters, not because of the excitement or anxiety over winning or losing, but because Vil’s grin widens by just a millimeter. From there on the stage, Vil somehow finds him amongst the sea of people, and he grows just imperceptibly a little brighter. A little prouder.
Rook barely even remembers Neige reading the envelope. When he calls his name and the whole theater erupts into cheers, he feels as if his body is being controlled by some unseen force. His feet float up the steps, drawn towards Vil. He even almost forgets the reason he was even up there. It barely registers in his head that he had won. He was focused solely on Vil’s open arms.
They settle into bed, Rook on his side, staring as usual. His eyes trace over Vil’s dark profile as he waits for him to fall asleep, poems blossoming in his skull like popcorn. Tonight isn’t an important night, not some holiday or birthday. They didn’t fight today and they didn’t reach any earth-shattering epiphanies about their relationship or each other or themselves. It’s just some night in April, a week after Vil’s turned 25.
“Stop staring,” Vil mumbles, eyes closed.
“I am not staring,” he replies, sighingly. “I am adoring you.”
“Adoring me,” he scoffs. His eyes flutter open then, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. He turns in bed, towards Rook, and all of his popcorn poems explode in behind his eyes at the same time. He feels them all surge forward and fill every atom of his body with bliss. It’s as if he had just discovered a new flower– a new muse, delicate and sweet and beautiful.
It’s just another one of those moments. Simple and mundane and gone in a flash, but the moment is his. No–
It’s theirs.
Vil turns to him in bed. It's a first, and Rook prays to God it won't be the last.
Rook’s hand moves of its own accord, bridging the gap between them. He grabs Vil’s hand, fingers lacing together with no resistance. “Are you adoring me now?”
“No, I’m staring.”
“You are thinking,” Rook corrects him. He takes his fingers. Places soft kisses on each knuckle. “You have that look.”
“What look?”
“Your thinking look!” He attempts to mimic him, brow creased, lips thin.
“I don’t look like that,” Vil argues.
Rook laughs softly, again pressing his mouth placatingly against his fingers. “D’accord. You are much more beautiful. What are you thinking about? What ails you?”
“Nothing ‘ails’ me.” So he says, but he has been losing sleep as of late. The tiny seed planted in him during Thanksgiving had grown into a pea, lodged between his mattress, and each night, he lies with it, uncomfortable. Vil Hunt or Rook Schoenheit?
Rook scoots closer, slotting himself against Vil's front. “If it is a beast that ails you I will hunt it down– to the ends of the earth if I must!”
“Be serious.”
“I am!” He exclaims. “Oh, I am ever so serious. I would do anything for you, mon cher. Mon ange!"
Vil stares at him, unamused and displeased by the overly sweet display, but only for a second. It's hard to turn down such earnest words, especially when they're from such kissable lips, just below that loving green gaze. His mouth opens and then closes. Opens again. “Have I ever told you I love you?"
Suddenly Rook feels as if he's fallen through the bed, plummeting through the sky. He's flying. Floating on cloud nine. He doesn't think he could handle this– he thinks he might die if his heart won't learn to pace itself. Have I ever told you I love you? is what Vil says, but Rook hears it. He knows in his racing heart what it means.
"Non," he replies, grinning silly. "I did not think you ever had to." Rook knows he loves him, because some nights Vil does his skincare and notices when he's sprouted a new freckle. Rook knows he loves him, because he lies next to him every night and kisses him even though he hasn't brushed his teeth yet and lets him take sips from his breakfast smoothie… These are all things that words could never do justice.
Still, Vil's frown furrows deeper. "That can't be true."
"Do you doubt my memory, étoile?"
"Yes." The sheets on the bed rumple and shift as Vil moves himself back into his regular posture, back straight, arms at his side. The hand closer to Rook is still locked in his grip. Still, he doesn't say it. Instead, he murmurs, on a different train of thought, "Do you remember our… deal from two years ago?"
"How could I not?"
There's a thoughtful pause. "I never got my third kiss."
"Surely you did," Rook insists. A third, and certainly a fourth as well. Hundreds– thousands more after. "I kiss you plenty."
"I suppose."
That's all Vil says, but there’s a dissatisfied lilt to his voice. He’s too tired to think of an argument though, so the words simply linger like heavy clouds, hanging threats of rain above their heads. His chest rises and falls as his breath steadies out, and he begins to drift off to sleep.
"I love you," Rook whispers to his dark silhouette. A secret for the night to keep.
Vil just sighs. He knows.
Getting Vil to go grocery shopping is almost like pulling teeth. He has his reasons– with paparazzi being a bitch and half first and foremost. They just love to see the two of them doing literally nothing together, which is both a boon to his general popularity and a curse on his mental health. Can't a beautiful person just pick out bundles of kale in peace?
Not that the classic red Buick sitting in a Whole Foods parking lot draws in any less attention. In fact all the big gossip magazines have at least one candid shot of Vil sitting in the passenger seat with his sunglasses on and arms crossed. They’ll never catch him looking less than absolutely beautiful though. Never.
Even now, he reclines in his vintage leather seat primping and preening while he waits for Rook. As of late he’s of half the mind to just stay at home, but Rook had promised him boba if– and only if– he came with. He’s silly like that. It’s not that Vil is that simple to be persuaded into accompanying him, but today he does have other plans. Big plans.
The automatic sliding doors part, and Rook exits, both arms laden with paper bags. Vil’s heart jumps at the sight of him. He’s nervous, and he’s not sure why. This is just another part he has to play. More lines he has to recite.
"Where's my drink?" Vil asks, voice embarrassingly thin– almost cracking.
Rook chuckles softly, situating all the bags in the backseat. He closes the door. "My queen is so impatient."
"I am," he grumbles, but for reasons he hopes Rook does not expect.
Vil watches as Rook saunters off again, and for good measure he rehearses his dialogue in his head once more. Everything has to be perfect. He promises himself this will be the last time he would ever have to act in front of Rook. They can put all their pretenses aside and–
He takes a deep breath and rubs his palms on his thighs, half self-soothing, half wiping away his sweat. It's silly, really. He doesn't have to do it like this– he'd seen every romantic Magicam post and watched many movies, too many movies, all for brainstorming– but he doesn't know any other way without the comfort of the facade. It makes it easier for him not to collapse into tears over this whole affair, or worse, back out.
Vil watches Rook deftly maneuver a door with his hands full, and he just knows. He thinks of that picture of the snowy mountain, remembers the feeling of falling in love again– lives through it again, because somehow only Rook can make opening a door look that good, and Vil is sure this is how to do it.
Rook returns to the car, a bubble tea in each hand, whistling jauntily. He hands Vil his drink and slides into the driver's seat. Vil stabs his straw into the lid and they stew in quiet for a moment as Rook checks his work emails. The silence stretches out for a beat too long, even when Rook stows his phone away. It actually almost pisses Vil off, because he thought he'd notice a bit quicker.
"Mon amour, why the sour face?" He finally asks.
"Nothing," he responds, tone clipped.
"Did someone get mad I left you unattended in the car with the windows up?" He jokes in an attempt to make him smile.
It almost works. Almost. Vil's lips thin in artificial displeasure. "You're not funny."
"Étoile," Rook sighs. He situates his boba between his lap, untouched. "What is the matter? You have been out of sorts for days now."
Days now, yes, planning and dreaming up how this would pan out. He takes a practiced pause here, eyes narrowed. “Well, if you must know. I never got my third kiss,” Vil replies. He sets his drink in a cup holder with a definitive flourish.
“This again, amour?” Rook laughs. “You did. I kissed you. It was while we celebrated my birthday, remember?”
He stares at him and answers honestly, “No. I do not remember, so it doesn’t count."
"An easy fix!" Rook declares. "I shall kiss you here and now."
"No!" Vil's eyes are sharp. "The contract ended on your birthday two years ago. It still wouldn't count. I've been cheated out of our terms."
Exasperation crosses Rook's face. It makes for a rare and adorable expression, almost like a puppy that's unsure how to perform a trick. Confused. Willing to please. "Mon cher, you are being a tad difficult. Are you unhappy? Do I make you unhappy?"
The sad look nearly makes him break character, but he manages to stay present. Reel it in. Ah, he's paused too long. He'll miss his next line!
"I want another contract," Vil says. Perfect delivery with one hand daintily resting on his chest. He can see his reflection in the rearview mirror, his smile smug but not too smug and not a hair out of place.
Rook blinks at him. Once. Twice. He then practically collapses with relief, all of his air leaving him in a whoosh. "Oh, mon dieu, do not scare me like that," he giggles, sharp teeth glinting merrily in the afternoon light. “I thought you were upset with me!”
Real annoyance washes over Vil's sharp features now. This scene isn't playing out the way he wanted it to, but he half expected it. Rook has never done what he's supposed to, and of course he'd see through this cheap charade. Defeated, Vil clicks his tongue and brings his hand down on his lap. "Stop giggling, I'm serious."
"Oh. I was certain this was a bit," Rook says, holding a hand over his laughing mouth.
"Stop giggling,” Vil says again, “when I'm trying to propose to you!"
Rook does. He stops giggling if only from pure shock, but his grin grows wider still. "You're trying to propose to me?"
"Yes!" Vil groans as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Stay with me!"
"I'm with you," he says, immediately. "I'm with you, amour."
Vil pauses to gauge Rook's reaction before continuing; if there were any indication that he could keep speaking, it would have to be that freakishly large grin threatening to tear his pretty French face in half. He repeats himself. "I want another contract. It has to be legal this time."
"Mais oui." Rook reaches over the center console to hold his hand.
"So we need a witness," Vil continues.
"Epel," Rook suggests quickly, feeding into the momentum of their conversation. His heart races after it, speeding faster and faster. “Do you not want a proper ceremony?”
"Of course it’ll be Epel.” He waves him off, as if they’re merely discussing what to have for dinner tonight. “I do want a proper ceremony, and I want to wear a dress.”
“Oh, mon cher, you will be beautiful in a dress,” Rook coos, holding his palm to his cheek. He’s shaking ever so slightly with nerves– no, with excitement. "What else do you want? Ask it; I will give it to you."
Vil hesitates, his well-rehearsed script long gone from his brain.
“I want you to love me,” he replies at length.
“Mon coeur, I already do,” he murmurs, voice soft and tender and honest. His breath dances across his palm and even with all its warmth it still makes Vil shiver.
"Then I want you to kiss me, wherever and whenever you want to, until we die,” Vil offers instead.
"Until we die?"
"Until we die," Vil decides. The image of Rook’s parents comes to mind, them and their smile lines creasing their cheeks and around their eyes, worn into their skin from years and years of laughter. There are days when Vil wakes up and dreads ever seeing a wrinkle in his face, but now he realizes it’s simple proof of being loved, and he wants it. He wants it so badly he's proposing to Rook in the front seat of his car using the ultimate teen fake dating movie cliche of all time. Then, because he has his priorities straight, he tells Rook, “I don’t want a huge reception, but I do want photoshoots.”
Rook runs his thumb over his knuckles. “Of course.”
Back and forth, back and forth they go. They’ll invite Rook’s family of course, and Peony could be the flower girl (Vil has always been fond of her). Their wedding will be in the spring– no, the fall. Vil has always loved an autumnal color palette. Rook doesn't offer much in terms of planning; he simply nods and whispers a "Whatever you want" to everything Vil says, sometimes punctuating his words with kisses to Vil's hand. Whatever Vil wants.
Vil wants to marry him.
The thought travels through Rook's spine like electricity, making his hair stand on end. The idea of marrying the love of his life, his best friend, muse, and raison d'être– it shocks him to his core.
He wants to marry me.
Me!
“Let’s go right now!” he says.
“Now?” Vil echoes. “Where?”
“To city hall,” Rook responds. He turns and in his haste he almost drops his keys trying to start the car. “Let’s do it now!”
There’s a beat as Vil watches him, eyes wide. After this entire conversation, planning and envisioning their perfect day, he can’t be serious. Then again, when has Rook ever been anything but serious when it came to loving him? Slowly Vil draws his seatbelt over his body, and he laughs that sighing laugh of his. It’s the one where he tries to catch all the joy spilling from his body, with his perfect brow creased and his hand held up to his smiling lips– the kind of sigh that Rook loves so much.
Rook rolls the windows down and steps on it, as there’s no time to lose. The wind whips through the car, swallowing up their laughter.
As they speed down the road, Vil sighs again, one last time, because it is such a silly idea.