Chapter Text
The VDC was just around the corner, and the dance troop was the furthest thing from poised and perfected that you could possibly get. How on earth the Housewarden of Heartslabyul put up with two-left-feet-having first years was beyond Vil, but he trusted his hunter’s judgement. It weighed on his shoulders to make sure a fool was not made of this school and of the reputation of the esteemed Vil Schoenheit. All this, in front of The Golden-Boy, thorn-in-his-side Neige Leblanche, no less. Honestly, of all the competitions to sporadically enter, it always had to be whatever he could effortlessly best Vil in. He couldn't blame him for being perfect. As frustrating as his lack of effort was, hating him made no difference. All it took was a flutter of those naturally long eyelashes and he'd be scoring higher than Vil in popularity, yet again, in mere seconds.
Not this time, though. This time he was going to put his best foot forward and work himself to the bone to make this display the spellbinding act it needed to be.
So no, quite frankly, he wasn't interested in distractions. He wasn't interested in diversions from his schoolwork or elaborate, mischievous schemes. He wasn't interested in doing favours for people who were far too lazy and unkempt to deserve them.
Unkempt, of course, but undeniably it would take little more than a short makeover to fix that.
And my Sevens, Vil thought, I could transform even the worst case of appearance negligence into a blooming rose of beautiful arrangement if he'd just give me a chance, but that was beside the point.
Vil Schoenheit was not at all interested in responding to any sort of flagrant request from a pathetic, frustrating, mangy, yet annoyingly goodlooking, man-child like Leonna Kingscholar!
He ran his manicured nails over the sealed letter and the messily written words on the front.
'Help me out again'
tsk, thought the Pomefiore Housewarden at the last, patronising word, 'again?' What does take him for, an errand boy?
He was Vil Schoeheit! A star! An actor! A model with world-famous visage! He wasn't some easily smooth-talked first year without a solid head on his shoulders!
Was this The Sevens punishment for letting his guard down around the beastman? He'd helped him during a sporting event in Sunset Savana as no more than a simple trade-off and promised he'd never do something like that again, not for that mannerless Prince. Kingscholar was far from deserving of Vils generosity - even today he'd yanked his hair in the hallway and passed it off as an accident with that infuriatingly smug grin on his face. Vil was sure he’d wipe it clean off someday. A smug nuisance who was the bane of the model’s existence since they'd first met, especially after their little stunt in Sunset Savana..
Actually, the whole spa incident was perhaps better left unmentioned. Vil caught his pale cheeks in the mirror darkening to a shade of light pink from the memory. He'd been aware of Leonas physical strength for a long time, of course, but something about sitting with his entire, toned chest exposed in the water with nothing but he stars above them and a few candles to illuminate the pair of vain NRC students had made him feel almost drunk. That sober-drunken haze, as he called it, had led to an unfortunate set of impulses the two seldom addressed during or after the fact. Thank goodness neither had acted on it, it was little more than foolish ego-highs from two competitive leaders, of course. The thought of those impulses ever returning, even for a moment, made his skin crawl now.
But Vil was getting distracted. The truth of the matter was this: there was absolutely no way, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would assist the bad-mannered lion with anything written in this letter.
He powdered his face, fixed his mascara, and turned to the door of his dorm room, tossing the unopened letter in the disposal. He huffed at the insinuation and smiled a little at the confident air he'd gained from completely ignoring the request. He then strutted out into the halls of Pomefiore. He needed to check that Epel wasn't doing something uncouth, of course.
A few students gave concerned looks as he passed and hurried along much faster than usual.
Strange, what are they bracing for?
It would only take a left turn at the next corner to figure that out.