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“What would you do if some kind of chicks came out of these eggs?” The beastman asked, chin propped against his palm as he leaned forward. His tail swayed lazily behind him, emerald eyes fixed on the beautiful man in front of him with lazy amusement.
The man turned to him with a slight tilt of his head, slender fingers pausing where they’d been brushing over the fresh eggs nestled in the woven basket. His expression was pristine as ever, even in a simple linen shirt and with his hair tied back loosely. “What are you talking about?”
Vil furrowed his brows, the picture of unimpressed elegance, and grabbed Leona’s necktie with two fingers. He tugged just enough to be annoying, then leaned away in that bratty, deliberate way only he could pull off. “The only thing that’s coming from these eggs are scrambled eggs.” He huffed, and Leona caught the faint quiver in his eyelids, the telltale sign Vil was holding back either a yawn or a chuckle. “Now, go and make some.”
Leona just sighed, the sound heavy and put-upon like this was the greatest hardship he’d ever faced. He stood, joints popping, and took the basket of eggs with one large hand. “You’re pretty bratty today, aren’t you?” he teased as he moved to the stove. The pan hit the burner with a metallic. Oil followed, hissing faintly as it warmed.
“But you still let me~” Vil sang, voice lilting in that theatrical way that used to bring audiences to tears. He didn’t need to see to know exactly where Leona was standing. He always knew.
“Always.” Leona replied without much hesitation. He didn’t even look up from cracking the first egg. The truth slipped out too easy around Vil, and he’d stopped fighting it months ago.
Now, where did all of this start again? Right. Introductions.
He’s Leona Kingscholar. Second prince of the Sunset Savanna. General nuisance. Dislikable, if you asked the tabloids.
And the beautiful man sitting at the kitchen counter, blind and regal and currently drumming his nails against the marble because breakfast was taking too long, is Vil Schoenheit.
Actor. Model. Vil went blind in both eyes. Retired from acting months later with a press statement that was colder than the operating room. The world called it tragic.
Leona should have left it alone. He had his own kingdom-sized problems, and Vil Schoenheit was the definition of high-maintenance. But maybe he was bored. Maybe watching someone that untouchable learn how to navigate a world without sight was interesting. Maybe he liked the way Vil’s voice went sharp when he was annoyed and soft when he wasn’t.
Probably all three.
So Leona stuck around. Brought groceries. Learned which mugs Vil could find by touch. Started reading ingredients aloud at the store so Vil could decide if a product was worth it or not.
And somehow that turned into this, mornings in Vil’s absurdly clean apartment, Leona making eggs while Vil critiques his technique without ever seeing the pan.
“You’re scrambling them too fast,” Vil said, as if he had eyes on the stove. “You’ll ruin the texture.”
“Didn’t ask for a review, Your Highness,” Leona shot back, but he slowed his wrist anyway.
Vil’s lips curved. Small, smug. Victory. “You always ask. Just not with words.”
The eggs turned out fine. They always did. Vil ate with the kind of precise grace that made Leona feel like a wild animal by comparison.
Between bites, Vil tilted his head toward the window. “It’s quiet today. No photographers?”
“Chased ‘em off last night,” Leona muttered. “Told ‘em you were contagious.”
“Leona!” Vil gasped, then laughed, short, surprised, real. “You’re awful.”
“Yeah,” Leona agreed, leaning back in his chair. “But you still let me.”
“Always,” Vil echoed, mocking him now, but the corner of his mouth stayed soft.
That’s how it went. That’s how it had been going. No grand declarations. No kingdom-level drama. Just eggs, insults, and a kind of peace Leona hadn’t known he could stand.
He wouldn’t lie: being with Vil was relaxing. For a dislikable second prince with anger problems and a temper, that was more valuable than any crown.
That’s all you need to know. For now.
Leona was just planning a peaceful sleep. That was the whole point of this trip. Away from his family, away from the noise of the palace, away from everybody. He’d picked this rundown hotel on the edge of the city specifically because it was the kind of place no self-respecting royal would be caught dead in. Peeling wallpaper, a lobby that smelled like citrus cleaner and old carpet, a staff that didn’t ask questions if you paid in cash.
Perfect.
He’d staked out a spot in the back garden, behind the hedges where the sprinklers didn’t reach. The grass was dry, the sun was warm, and the only sound was the occasional hum of traffic too far away to matter. He was sure that no one, absolutely no one would find him here.
Which is why he’s so irritated when a tap of something light and firm against his shin disturbs him.
His tail twitches once. A warning.
Another tap. Right on the boot this time. Deliberate.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” Leona snarled, eyes cracking open into slits. The sun was behind whoever it was, turning them into a glowing silhouette with a halo of gold. He pushed himself up on one elbow, fully ready to tell off whatever lost tourist had wandered back here.
“My goodness, I’m sorry. Truly.”
The voice stopped him. Low, smooth, with a cadence that sounded like it belonged on stage. It was the kind of voice that made people turn their heads without meaning to.
Leona blinked, and the silhouette resolved into a person. Blond hair, cut in a way that was clearly expensive even when it was a little windswept. Pale skin that looked like it had never seen a day of real labor. A beautiful face, objectively, annoyingly so. High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips pressed into a polite, apologetic line.
But that’s not what caught Leona’s attention the most.
It was his eyes.
They were closed. Not squeezed shut, not in pain. Just closed. Like he was sleeping standing up. Like the rest of his face was awake but his eyes hadn’t gotten the memo. The soft flutter of his lashes when he tilted his head made Leona tilt his own in curiosity, like a cat spotting something new.
“You’re… blind.” The words came out before he could stop them. Not mocking. Just a statement, flat and blunt, because Leona didn’t do tact on a good day and he’d been woken up on a bad one.
Leona leaned closer to the man, studying him. He watched the way the man flinched at the proximity, small, controlled, but there. Watched the way his brows furrowed together, delicate and displeased. The way he huffed, once, sharp through his nose, and his mouth pulled into a pout that was far too petulant for someone who looked like he stepped off a magazine cover.
Like a little child told he couldn’t have dessert.
It was… intriguing.
“Is that a problem?” the man asked, voice cooling by a few degrees. He moved his head down, chin tucking slightly, and his lashes fluttered again. Defensive. Proud.
Leona stared longer than he should have. He could’ve said no and gone back to sleep. Could’ve grunted and rolled over. That would’ve been the Leona Kingscholar thing to do.
Instead, he found himself saying, “No.” The word came out slower than he intended. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at him. The man was really intriguing, and Leona was bored enough or curious enough to admit it. “Not at all.”
A smirk pulled at his mouth as the man lifted his head up again, as if he could feel the shift in Leona’s tone. Those closed eyes turned unerringly toward his voice. It was unnerving. And impressive.
“Then wouldn’t you mind taking me to the elevator of this establishment?” The man asked, perfectly polite, perfectly regal. He tapped his cane against the ground once, a soft tap. The sound was precise. Everything about him was precise. “I seem to have miscalculated the layout of the garden.”
Leona looked from the cane, to the man’s face, to the hotel behind them. He had a nap to get back to. A very important, highly anticipated nap.
“Sure, I wouldn’t mind,” Leona replied, pushing himself to his feet. Grass stuck to his pants. He didn’t know why he agreed. Maybe it was the voice. Maybe it was the way the man didn’t ask for pity, only directions. Maybe Leona could use this as another reason to avoid his family. Something like 'sorry, can’t come to dinner, escorting a blind stranger, very busy.' bullshit.
It is what it is.
“Lead the way, then,” The man replied with a small smile.
“What’s your name?” Leona asked as they started toward the building. He wasn’t usually one for small talk. But the guy smelled like expensive cologne and trouble, and Leona had a weakness for both.
“Vil,” the man answered, without a last name. Like he was used to that being enough. “Vil Schoenheit.”
Leona’s steps stuttered for half a beat. Schoenheit. He knew that name. Everyone knew that name. Actor. Model. The face of Fair city and the rumored fairest of them all. Or former fairest of them all. The accident had been in every paper months ago.
Huh. So this was the 'tragic retirement' the tabloids wouldn’t shut up about.
Vil didn’t seem to notice the pause. Or he did, and chose not to comment. “And you are?”
“Leona,” he said, also leaving off the last name. Fair trade. “Leona Kingscholar.”
Vil’s head turned toward him again, and for a second Leona swore those closed eyes saw more than they should. Then Vil’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more like recognition.
“Oh,” Vil said softly. “The dislikable second prince.”
Leona barked a laugh before he could stop it. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“I thought you’d be taller,” Vil remarked, dry as sand.
“I thought you’d be nicer,” Leona shot back.
Vil’s smirk was audible. “Touché.”
The elevator ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Vil stood with perfect posture, cane resting against his leg. Leona leaned against the wall, watching him from the corner of his eye.
When the doors dinged open on Vil’s floor, the blond stepped out with no hesitation, like he’d mapped the whole building in his head. He paused, then turned back toward Leona’s voice.
“Thank you… Leona.” The way he said the name sounded like he was testing it. Deciding if he liked it.
“Whatever,” Leona muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Try not to walk into any more people.”
“I make no promises,” Vil replied, already turning away. “Especially if they’re sleeping in the bushes like stray cats.”
The doors slid shut before Leona could come up with a retort.
He stood there for a full ten seconds, staring at his own reflection in the metal. Then he clicked his tongue, annoyed at himself more than anything.
His nap was ruined. And somehow, he didn’t even care.
Before he knew it, the man named Vil Schoenheit had already changed him little by little, day by day.
How, you might ask?
Well, for starters, he doesn’t really care about his appearance and all. A wrinkled shirt? Fine. Hair sticking up? Whatever. If it covered him and didn’t smell, Leona Kingscholar considered it a success. But Vil, oh Vil was sensitive when it came to fashion. God, was he sensitive.
Even though the other couldn’t see, he gave a detailed description of what he would be wearing and what style was used.
“No, no, not that shade of green, it clashes with your undertones. The forest green, Leona. And for the love of all that’s holy, tuck in the shirt. I look like a feral housecat.”
At first, Leona couldn’t understand it. Why did it matter? Who was looking? But with enough nagging from Vil, hours of it, days of it, weeks of it and he somehow survived without ragging. Or rather, Vil survived Leona’s glaring and still came back the next day with another outfit plan.
“Hm, you’re improving, pup.” Divus Crewel, a fashion designer Vil had dragged into this mess, approved as he looked at Vil up and down. Crewel’s heels clicked against the floor as he circled him, critical eye sweeping over the tailored dark jacket, the actually-ironed shirt, the belt that matched the shoes.
Leona breathed a sigh of relief. No nagging today after weeks of criticism. His tail gave one traitorous swish behind him before he stilled it.
“Really?” Vil asked from the chaise, arms outstretched in front of him like he was testing the air. His fingertips brushed empty space until they found Leona’s shoulder. Leona leaned closer to Vil without even thinking, bending so Vil didn’t have to reach.
Vil’s hand landed in his hair, patting twice, then smoothing a piece down that had dared to misbehave. “Good job,” he smiled, voice dripping with teasing condescension.
Leona should’ve been annoyed. He was annoyed, in principle. But all his effort finally had a reward, even if it was just a simple praise and a pat. He found himself grunting, pleased, and not moving away. “Tch. Whatever.”
Vil’s smile widened, like he knew exactly what that grunt meant.
Second in his change of behavior when he’s with Vil is his smoking habit. He doesn’t really smoke all the time. He’d only do it from time to time to blow off some steam, after a call from his brother, after a nightmare, after the quiet got too loud.
When he first lit a cigarette with Vil in his proximity, the other threw a tantrum. A full, theatrical, Oscar-worthy tantrum followed by a one hour lecture about how bad smoking is, complete with citations.
“Absolutely not! Secondhand smoke is dangerous! You will put me in danger! Do you want to be responsible for damaging the lungs of a national treasure, Leona Kingscholar?” The blond sighed dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he was about to faint.
Leona just rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain, snuffed out the cigarette against the balcony railing, and shoved the windows open to let the remaining smoke out. He stood there for a minute, watching it curl into the night air.
Well, guess he can’t smoke now. Not when Vil was around, at least. Because it would cause Vil to nag him more, and Vil’s nagging was a special kind of hassle that got under his skin and stayed there. Easier to just quit. Or hide it better. He hadn’t decided which yet.
Third, his body clock. Leona usually woke up around noon and would just let the rest of the day pass by in a haze of sunlight and spite. Naps were a lifestyle. Productivity was a myth invented by people who didn’t know how to relax.
But well, Vil didn’t really think the same. Vil thought 8 AM was a reasonable hour for a living being to be conscious, and he had no problem making that Leona’s problem too.
“Why can’t you be the one to cook?” Leona whined, voice still rough from sleep as he glared at the blind man sitting perfectly upright at the kitchen table at, he checked the clock, 7:43 AM. Criminal.
Vil just looked at him with a deadpan expression, head tilted toward the sound. “You expect a blind man to cook?” Vil raised his eyebrows, and even without sight, the judgment was palpable. He huffed. “Use your brain, lion. I can’t exactly monitor the stove.”
“Forgot he’s blind…” Leona muttered, rubbing his face with one hand as guilt and embarrassment warred in his gut. He got up from the bed, the couch, really, because he’d fallen asleep there after Vil kicked him off the bed for snoring and held Vil’s hand to guide him to the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll make the damn eggs.”
And he did. Poorly, at first. Burned the first batch. Vil didn’t comment, but his nose wrinkled, and that was worse. Now Leona could make scrambled eggs without setting off the smoke alarm. Progress.
Fourth is his temper.
Leona had a short fuse. Always had. Someone looked at him wrong, he bared his teeth. Someone said something stupid, he left. Someone pushed, he pushed back harder. It was easier to snarl than to explain. Easier to be 'the dislikable second prince' than to pretend he wanted to be liked.
Vil didn’t flinch at his snarling. Didn’t care for it, either.
The first time Leona snapped at a barista for getting Vil’s order wrong “He said no ice, you deaf or what?” Vil’s hand found his arm in a grip that was shockingly strong for someone who spent most of his day sitting.
“Leona.” Just his name. Flat. Disappointed. “Enough.”
“She messed up your—”
“I can speak for myself,” Vil cut in, tone icy. “And I’d prefer not to be associated with a man who terrorizes service workers before 9 AM. Apologize.”
Leona went rigid. Apologize? He didn’t do that. But Vil’s fingers hadn’t left his arm. They weren’t digging in, just there. Waiting.
He looked down at Vil’s face. Calm. Expectant. Those closed eyes somehow saw straight through him.
“Tch.” Leona clicked his tongue and turned to the wide-eyed barista. “Sorry. Long morning.”
The girl blinked, stammered, and remade the drink with shaking hands. Vil said thank you when she handed it over, polite and sweet, and Leona felt like he’d been scolded and rewarded in the same breath.
It kept happening. Little things. Vil would catch his wrist before he could slam a door. Would sigh, “Violence is so unrefined,” when Leona growled at the TV. Would say, “Use your words, not your claws,” like Leona was a misbehaving kitten.
And the worst part? It worked.
Because Vil wasn’t scared of him. Wasn’t impressed by him, either. Vil just expected better. And Leona, against all his instincts, found himself wanting to meet that expectation. Just to see the corner of Vil’s mouth twitch up. Just to avoid the lecture.
Fifth is his loneliness.
He wouldn’t admit it out loud. Not even to himself most days. But before Vil, the quiet was empty. Now it was just quiet. The difference was Vil humming under his breath while he did his skincare routine. Vil’s cane tapping against the floor as he mapped the apartment. Vil’s voice saying, “You’re brooding again, I can hear it,” from the other room.
Leona didn’t know when 'avoiding his family' turned into 'going to Vil’s.' When 'this is a hassle' turned into 'he’ll complain if I don’t show up.'
All he knew was that Vil Schoenheit had moved into his life without asking, rearranged all the furniture, and now Leona couldn’t remember the layout before he got there.
And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Vil called from the living room, not even turning his head. “Whatever it is, stop it. You’re going to get wrinkles.”
Leona huffed, a real laugh hiding in it, and pushed off the counter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”
Because of course he was.
Always.
They were at a bakery when Vil said something that really caught him off guard. A real off-guard moment that Leona isn’t prepared for. Not even a little.
The place smelled like butter and sugar and warm bread, all the things Leona usually ignored unless he was starving. It was small, cramped, with mismatched chairs and a bell above the door that jingled every time someone walked in. Vil had insisted on it
“This one smells correct, Leona, the last three did not” He insist and Leona had learned by now not to argue with Vil about sensory details. You’d lose. Always.
“Yes, strawberry tart. Thank you.” Leona replied to the store owner as she handed them the little white box tied with red string.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Thank you. To a stranger. Politely. Without sarcasm.
Since when did he say thank you to strangers? Since when did he not snarl if someone made him wait while they packaged things with unnecessary ribbon? Who cares. Vil really needs to eat this or else he will throw another tantrum and bite Leona. Which really is an occurrence now and then, Vil’s teeth were sharp, and he had no qualms about using them when Leona was 'being difficult.'
Leona carried the box like it was evidence of a crime. He found them a table by the window, pulled out Vil’s chair first, another thing he did now without thinking, and set the box down. He flipped the lid open. The tart was stupidly pretty. Glossy strawberries arranged in a spiral, the crust golden, a little dusting of powdered sugar on top.
As he sat down at the table, he gave Vil his strawberry tart, already cutting it into manageable pieces because Vil hated when the filling squished out unevenly. Vil made a small, pleased sound in the back of his throat and picked up his fork. He ate happily, taking small, precise bites like he was judging it for a competition.
“Hm,” Vil said after the third bite, licking a bit of glaze from his lower lip. “I’d probably look at you a thousand more times.”
Leona froze for a moment. The sentence didn’t compute. His brain took the words, turned them over, and dropped them.
He almost spat the tea he was drinking, black, no sugar, because Vil said he needed to “stop abusing his palate” from what Vil had said. He swallowed hard instead, and it went down wrong. He coughed, once, sharp.
“Excuse you?” Leona asked as he stared at Vil, wide-eyed. His tail hit the table leg. “What did you just say?”
Vil just shrugged, infuriatingly casual, and replied, “Just saying.” Like he hadn’t tilted Leona’s entire axis with one sentence. He reached across the table, unerring, and put a hand on Leona’s face. His fingers were cool from holding the fork. He traced Leona’s cheekbone, down to his jaw, over the scar on his eyes. Trying to imagine what face the lion is making. Mapping him.
“I know now that you’re not rugged like before,” Vil said, thumb brushing the corner of Leona’s mouth where tea had probably dribbled when he choked. “Just wondering what that looks like.”
He smiled then. One of those real smiles, not the magazine ones. Small, private, and it made Leona melt like ice in summer. His stomach did something embarrassing.
“And probably on how tall you are since you always complain on bumping your head,” Vil teased, fingers tapping Leona’s forehead once, light.
Leona found his voice somewhere under the rubble of his composure and laughed. It came out rusty. “You always bump your head,” Leona teased back, grabbing Vil’s wrist before he could pull away. Not hard. Just… holding. “More than me. You walked into a doorframe last week.”
“That’s different,” Vil replied, nose in the air. “That doorframe moved.” Leona chuckled at that.
“Well, let’s just say it’s getting cramped,” Leona shrugged, trying for nonchalant and missing by a mile. His ears were hot. “With you around. You take up space.”
Vil just hummed, the sound pleased. He let Leona keep his wrist and went back to his tart like he hadn’t just rewritten Leona’s understanding of gravity.
The rest of the bakery visit passed in a haze. Leona paid, another thing he did now and mumbled another thank you to the owner. He guided Vil out, Vil’s hand on his elbow, and didn’t complain once about the pace.
Hours later, the sentence was still echoing in his head. "I’d probably look at you a thousand more times."
“What about now?” Vil asked, voice muffled against Leona’s shoulder.
They were lying together in the soft plush bed of the apartment. Vil’s apartment, technically, but Leona’s clothes were in the closet and his phone charger was by the nightstand and his toothbrush was in the cup next to Vil’s, so. Details.
The room was dark except for the strip of city light coming through the gap in the curtains. Vil was curled against his side, head on Leona’s chest, one leg thrown over his like he had the right. He did, probably. Leona hadn’t moved him.
“Is it cramped when we sleep together?” Vil asked. His fingers were drawing invisible patterns on Leona’s shirt. He wasn’t teasing now. His voice was quieter, real.
Leona was staring at the ceiling. He could feel every point where they touched, Vil’s hair under his chin, Vil’s knee against his thigh, Vil’s breath through his shirt. Old Leona would’ve said yes. Would’ve complained about the heat, the lack of space, the fact that he couldn’t starfish. Would’ve left.
“It is,” Leona replied. His arm was around Vil’s back, and he tightened it a fraction. “In a good way.”
Vil went still for a second. Then he exhaled, and Leona felt him smile against his collarbone. “Good,” Vil whispered. “Because I’m not moving.”
“I figured,” Leona said. His heart was doing that stupid thing again. “You’re stubborn.”
“Takes one to know one,” Vil mumbled, already drifting.
Leona lay there long after Vil’s breathing evened out. The bakery. The tart. A thousand more times.
He’d never been looked at like that before. Not even when Vil could see.
And the terrifying part?
He wanted to be.
A thousand more times, at least.
He tilted his head down, pressing his nose into Vil’s hair. It smelled like expensive shampoo and like home.
“Yeah,” Leona said to the dark, to the sleeping man who’d rearranged his entire life with a cane and a smile. “Me neither.”
Leona had exactly three rules for keeping his life peaceful:
1. Avoid his family.
2. Avoid his family.
3. If rule one and two fail, avoid his family while pretending he’s too busy to talk.
So of course the universe, Vil, and his rotten luck all conspired against him on a Wednesday.
They were at the open-air market because Vil “could taste the difference in fresh citrus” and needed lemons for a new skincare formulation he was testing. Leona was carrying the canvas bag, he was always carrying the bag now and Vil’s hand was hooked loosely around his elbow. Not because Vil needed to be led through a crowd. Vil could navigate by sound and the change in air pressure and sheer spite. He held on because he liked to. Leona had figured that out two weeks ago and hadn’t said anything about it.
“Is that thyme?” Vil asked, turning his head toward a stall. “No, wait. Rosemary. The earthy one.”
“Rosemary,” Leona confirmed, steering them toward it. “You want some?”
“Obviously. And don’t let them give you the wilted bundle in the back. I can hear it when they’re being cheap.”
Leona opened his mouth to say 'you can’t hear wilted herbs, you dramatic menace' but then he heard it.
“Leona?”
His entire spine went straight. His tail froze mid-swish. That voice. He knew that voice. It showed up in his nightmares and on the caller ID he never answered.
Slowly, like a man approaching a trap, he turned.
Falena Kingscholar. First prince and soon-to-be king. His older brother. Perfect posture, perfect attire, perfect politician smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was standing by the flower stall, a security detail two steps behind him trying to look casual and failing. He had a bouquet of white lilies in one hand, probably for a photo and recognition in his eyes.
“Well,” Falena said, and his smile widened as he finally saw his little brother again. “They said you were dead in a ditch somewhere.
Leona’s claws itched. His lip wanted to curl. Every instinct screamed to snarl and leave.
Instead, he felt Vil’s hand tighten on his elbow. Not pulling. Grounding. A reminder.
Violence is so unrefined.
“Shopping,” Leona said. Flat. Short. The old him would’ve added something nasty. New him err didn’t. Because Vil was right there, and Vil hated scenes unless he was directing them.
Falena's gaze flicked down to Vil’s hand on Leona’s arm. Then up to Vil’s face. To the cane in Vil’s other hand. To the way Vil was standing close, comfortable, like he belonged there.
Understanding lit in Falena's eyes, and it wasn’t kind. “Oh,” he said, soft. “I see. This is why you haven’t been home.”
Leona went cold. He could already hear the version of this story that would reach the palace by dinner: 'The dislikable second prince, shacked up with a blind cripple, playing house while his duties rot.'
He stepped forward slightly, putting himself between Vil and his brother without thinking. A barrier.
Vil, because he was Vil and had the survival instincts of a cornered cat, tilted his head toward Falena's voice. “You must be the brother,” he said, pleasant as tea. “Leona’s mentioned you.”
He hadn’t. Not once. But Vil was a liar and an actor and he sold it.
Falena blinked, thrown. “He… has?”
“Mm. All good things,” Vil lied again, smooth as silk. He extended his free hand, precise, waiting. “Vil Schoenheit. It’s a pleasure.”
Falena took it after a beat, clearly off-balance. “Falena Kingscholar. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Schoenheit. I’m a fan of your work.”
“Was,” Vil corrected, gentle but firm. “I’m retired. I consult now.” He didn’t drop Leona’s elbow. If anything, his grip got more certain. “Leona’s been helping me adjust.”
“Adjust,” Falena repeated. He looked at Leona again, really looked. At the ironed shirt. At the grocery bag. At the fact that Leona hadn’t told him to go to hell yet. “I… see.”
Leona braced for it. For the sneer. For the 'you’ve really fallen far, haven’t you'. For the order to come home and stop embarrassing the family.
Instead, Falena's eyes did something weird. They softened. Just a fraction. Like he was looking at a puzzle and the pieces finally fit.
“Mother’s been worried,” he said instead, and the words were quieter. “You don’t answer calls.”
“I’m busy,” Leona said automatically. The old excuse. It tasted like ash now.
“I can see that,” Falena said. He wasn’t looking at the groceries. He was looking at Vil’s hand on Leona’s arm, and Leona’s arm not shaking it off. “Are you happy?”
The question hit like a punch. Leona’s mouth opened. Closed.
Happy. He didn’t do happy. He did, not-miserable. He did, less-tired. He did, this is tolerable.
He thought of 8:12 AM tea. Of 'I’d probably look at you a thousand more times'. Of 'in a good way'. Of a bed that was cramped and a bakery that was loud and a man who didn’t flinch when he snarled.
“Yeah,” Leona said before he could stop himself. Rough. Honest. “I am.”
“I see,” he said a third time. He shifted the lilies to his other hand. “Well. If you’re… settled. Mother would still like to see you. When you’re ready.”
Leona didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was doing something stupid.
Vil, because he was terrifying, answered for him. “He’ll call,” Vil said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “Once we’ve finished shopping. We’re making dinner tonight. Leona’s turn to cook.”
Falena's eyebrows went up. “You cook?” he asked Leona, disbelieving.
“Scrambled eggs,” Leona muttered, ears hot. “Shut up.”
A real smile touched Falena's mouth. Small. Brief. But real. “I’ll tell Mother to expect a call.” He nodded to Vil, respectful. “Mr. Schoenheit. It was, enlightening.”
“Vil,” Vil corrected. “And likewise, Your Highness.”
Falena left with his security, glancing back once before the crowd swallowed him.
Leona didn’t move until he was gone. Then he exhaled, and it felt like he’d been holding that breath for years.
“You okay?” Vil asked, voice low. Only for him. His thumb was rubbing small circles on Leona’s inner elbow.
“No,” Leona said honestly. “Yeah. I don’t know.” He looked down at Vil. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?” Vil asked, innocent. “Be charming? It’s a habit.”
“Lie for me. Cover for me.” Leona’s hand found Vil’s, squeezing once. “Say I’m cooking.”
“You are cooking,” Vil said, like it was obvious. “You made tea this morning. That’s a liquid. It counts. We’re building up to solids.”
Leona barked a laugh before he could stop it. It startled a pigeon. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re happy,” Vil said, not a question. He tilted his face up, toward Leona’s voice. “He asked. You said yes.”
Leona froze again. Because he had. Out loud. To his brother. To the world.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “I did.”
Vil smiled, that real one. The one that made Leona’s chest do the stupid thing. “Good,” he said. “Now buy me those rosemary. And don’t let them overcharge you. I can hear it when they do.”
“You cannot hear prices, Vil.”
“I can hear your voice when you’re about to get scammed, dear. It goes all high and offended.”
Leona growled, but he was already turning toward the stall. Vil’s hand was still on his arm.
And for the first time in his life, Leona Kingscholar didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Not even a ditch.
Especially not a ditch.
“Great timing Vil, you’re finally here.” Crewel cooed as he looked at Vil and Leona enter the photo shoot. His voice carried over the organized chaos of the studio, light stands, c-stands, rolls of backdrop paper, and three assistants all pretending they weren’t staring. The air-conditioning was cranked high to fight the heat from the softboxes, and it smelled like coffee, hairspray, and that sharp chemical tang of fresh print samples.
Just this last Monday, an email was sent to Vil for a photo shoot. Maison Éclat-Legacy Campaign. “The Face That Defined a Generation: Reimagined.” Vil had Leona read the subject line, then the body, then the compensation figure, then demanded to Leona the he delete the email.
Vil was reluctant at first since he doesn’t want to be in a showbiz industry again. “I’m not a comeback story, Leona,” he’d said that night, sitting on the edge of the bed with his cane resting against his knee. “I’m not going to let them dress up my disability and call it ‘inspirational’ for clicks.” His hands were folded tight in his lap. His closed eyes gave nothing away, but his mouth was thin.
But Leona managed to persuade him. Leona does not know how he did it but he did. He hadn’t used logic. He hadn’t begged. He’d just sat on the floor by Vil’s feet, back against the bed frame, and said, “Then don’t do it for them. Do it so they shut up. Do it so the next time some idiot says ‘what a tragedy,’ you can shove a magazine cover in their face and say ‘tragedy looks good in violet.’”
Vil had been quiet for a long time. Then he’d said, “Fine. But you’re coming. And if I hate it, you’re reading the book I've been wanting you to read."
Leona had agreed before he processed the threat.
Vil smiled at Crewel as he let Leona guide him through the fashionista. His hand was light on Leona’s forearm, but Leona could feel the tension in his fingers. Not fear. Not quite. The kind of coiled energy Vil got before a live stage. The kind that meant he was about to make everyone else look unprepared.
“Yes, fortunately there’s no traffic,” Vil said, voice sliding into that familiar, cool register. Polished. Distant. The one that used to end interviews early because journalists forgot their questions.
Crewel hummed at that as he let the make up artist do their work. “Sit, pup. We’re doing ‘ethereal blindness’ as a concept, not my words, the chief's, but I’ve told them we’re doing ‘Vil Schoenheit, end of discussion.’” He snapped his fingers. “Base, no shimmer. He doesn’t need help glowing. And someone get me the violet silk. Not the blue. The blue makes him look dead.”
The makeup chairs were set under the key light. Leona stood behind Vil, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who came within three feet. A new hire tried to touch Vil’s shoulder to angle him and Leona’s tail hit a light stand with a clang.
“Don’t touch him without asking,” Leona said. It wasn’t a snarl. It was worse. It was quiet.
The hire went pale. “S-sorry, sir—”
“It’s fine,” Vil said, cutting in before Leona could escalate. “But he’s right. Ask. I don’t bite. He does.”
Leona huffed. Vil’s mouth twitched.
The makeup artist was smart. She narrated everything. “I’m going to blend your foundation now, Mr. Schoenheit. Cold. Now powder. Now I’m lifting your chin, is that alright?” Vil nodded each time, patient, letting her work. He’d done this a thousand times. His body remembered even if his eyes didn’t.
But when Vil was supposed to wear the outfit, his closed eyes quivered slightly and that’s all it took for Leona to act up.
It was barely anything. A twitch of his lashes. The corner of his mouth going tight. Most people wouldn’t have seen it. Leona saw it. He’d been watching Vil’s face for months, learning the difference between his 'I’m annoyed' quiver and his 'I’m overwhelmed' quiver. This was the second one.
“No need, I will be the one to dress Vil.” He said as he grabbed the outfit from a staff member’s hands. The fabric was violet silk, heavy, with embroidery at the cuffs. Expensive. Delicate.
Crewel raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything else. He just flicked his pointer stick toward the curtained changing area. “By all means, pup. Try not to rip it. That’s haute couture, not your gym clothes.”
Leona ignored him and guided Vil behind the curtain. He pulled it shut. The noise of the set dulled instantly.
“Hey,” Leona said, low. “You don’t have to.”
Vil exhaled, and it was the first time since they entered that his shoulders dropped. “I know.” He reached out, found Leona’s shirt, and fisted it. Not hard. Anchoring. “Too many hands. Too many voices. I can’t track them.”
“I’ve got you,” Leona said. It came out easier than it should have. “Arms up.”
Vil obeyed, and Leona worked in silence. He was careful. More careful than he’d ever been with anything. He slipped the silk over Vil’s head, guided his arms through the sleeves, smoothed the fabric down his sides. His knuckles brushed Vil’s ribs, his waist, and Vil didn’t flinch. He trusted him.
“You’re good at this,” Vil murmured, voice barely audible over the hum of the AC.
“Shut up,” Leona muttered, but his ears were hot. He knelt to fix the hem, to adjust the boots. When he stood, Vil’s hand found his face again, tracing from temple to jaw like he had at the bakery. Mapping him.
“Still you,” Vil said, satisfied. “Good.”
When they stepped out, the set went quiet again.
Crewel went still. The photographer lowered his camera.
Because Vil Schoenheit in violet silk, with his hair half-pinned and his eyes closed and his chin lifted, didn’t look retired. He didn’t look blind. He didn’t look tragic.
He looked like a goddess. Like a myth. Like something you didn’t deserve to photograph.
“Center mark,” Crewel said finally, voice gone soft with actual reverence. “Now.”
Leona walked Vil to the mark, counting steps under his breath. “Five… four… stop. Here.” He stepped back, but not far. Never far.
And then Vil moved.
No direction. No prompting. He just existed in front of the camera, and the camera loved him for it.
He turned his head a fraction, and the light caught his cheekbone. He shifted his weight, and the silk slid over his shoulder like water. He lifted a hand, not posed, just thoughtful, and his fingers stopped right under his chin. His closed eyes weren’t empty. They were doing something Leona didn’t have words for. Listening. Feeling. Commanding.
The shutter started. Then it didn’t stop.
Click. Click. Click.
“Don’t direct him,” the photographer hissed at an assistant who opened her mouth. “Don’t you dare. Let him work.”
Leona couldn’t look away. He’d seen Vil in a robe, snarling about skincare. He’d seen Vil asleep, drooling on his shoulder. He’d seen Vil furious, Vil laughing, Vil throwing a pillow at his head for snoring.
He’d never seen this Vil. The one that used to shut down runways. The one that made people forget how to breathe.
And Vil wasn’t even trying. His eyes were closed. He couldn’t see the lens. Couldn’t see the lights. Couldn’t see the twenty people staring like he’d hung the moon.
But his body remembered. His spine remembered. His hands remembered. Every angle was perfect. Every pause was intentional. He wasn’t posing and the camera was lucky to be there.
Leona’s throat went dry.
“Pup,” Crewel said beside him, quiet. “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”
“tsk” Leona shrug automatically, but he didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Vil shifted again, turning so his back was almost to the camera, then looking over his shoulder. His lips parted, not sexual, just breathing. The violet silk pulled across his back, and the embroidery caught the light.
“Hold,” the photographer whispered. “Oh my god, hold.”
Click. Click. Click.
Leona’s tail curled around his own ankle. He didn’t even notice. All he could think was that’s him. That’s my Vil. The one who makes me tea. The one who bites me when I’m annoying. The one who said ‘I’d probably look at you a thousand more times.’
And he was right. Leona would look a thousand more times. A million.
Because Vil Schoenheit blind was still Vil Schoenheit. And Vil Schoenheit was still the most beautiful thing in any room he walked into.
“Leona,” Crewel said, still not looking at him. “Get in the frame.”
“What?” Leona startled. “Why?”
“Because the chief said ‘yearning’ and you’re doing it for free,” Crewel said dryly. “Go yearn on camera, pup. Earn your keep.”
Leona stepped forward before he could think. He stopped just behind Vil, not touching yet. “Vil,” he said, low.
Vil tilted his head, not breaking pose. “Mm?”
“Can I?”
Vil smiled. That real one. The one that made Leona stupid. “Always.”
Leona’s hand went to Vil’s waist, just like at the fitting. Just like at the market. Just like every day now. Vil leaned back into him, a fraction, and it wasn’t for the camera.
The shutter went wild.
Leona didn’t hear it. He was too busy staring at Vil’s face. At the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. At the way he trusted Leona to be there without looking.
'I get to touch this', Leona thought, dazed. 'I get to keep this. Me. Out of everyone.'
“And cut,” the photographer said finally, sounding wrecked. “We’re done. That’s the campaign. That’s the whole campaign.”
The set burst into noise again. People moving. Clapping. Crewel was already on the phone saying “I told you, you don’t retire a force of nature.”
Vil swayed a little, the pose dropping, and Leona had him instantly. Both arms around him, steady.
“Too much?” Leona asked against his hair.
Vil shook his head. “No.” He was smiling. Tired, but real. “Did I do okay?”
Leona wanted to laugh. Wanted to snarl. Wanted to hide him from everyone who was still staring.
“You were…” Words failed him. “Vil. You were you.”
Vil huffed, pleased. “So a ten, then.”
“Eleven,” Leona corrected. “Let’s go home,”
“Yeah,” Vil agreed. “Home.”
And if Leona’s hands shook a little when he guided Vil out of the studio, well. No one mentioned it.
Crewel watched them go, then looked at the photographer’s preview screen. At Vil, eyes closed, perfect. At Leona, eyes open, wrecked, looking at Vil like he’d hung the stars.
“Yearning,” Crewel murmured, and smiled. “Naive. He’s been doing it for months.”
Leona stopped Vil from walking. “Wait, the stairs are too long for your own liking.”
They were back at Vil’s apartment building. Old, pre-war, with a lobby that smelled like lemon polish and a staircase that had exactly 27 steps to the second floor. Leona had counted. Twice. Because Vil refused to go in the “soulless elevator” and Leona refused to live anywhere Vil could fall down.
Leona shrugged as he thought of a way to get Vil up the stairs. He could guide him, sure. They’d done it before. One hand on the railing, one hand on Leona’s elbow, count the steps out loud like they were defusing a bomb. But Vil’s cane had gotten caught in a crack on the way in, and his mood had been “simmering” ever since the photoshoot, which meant he was three comments away from declaring all architecture his personal enemy.
Vil just tilted his head a little, listening to Leona not move. Then, with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, he moved his arms up. Like a kid asking to be picked up. Like it was the most reasonable request in the world.
“Carry me then.”
Leona glanced at him for a moment before chuckling. Nonchalant. Cool. Totally unaffected.
His heart was trying to beat its way out of his ribs.
“Whatever you wish,” he said, voice flat as a board. He didn’t sound like his pulse was doing a drum solo. He didn’t.
He stepped in, one arm behind Vil’s knees, the other around his back. Vil came easily, like he’d been waiting for it. Like they’d choreographed this. His arms looped around Leona’s neck, cane dangling from his wrist on its little strap, and he sighed like Leona was a chair he’d been wanting to sit in all day.
“Your tail is going to trip us,” Vil noted, conversational, as Leona started up the first step.
“Shut up,” Leona said. His tail was wrapped around his own leg so tightly it was probably cutting off circulation. “You weigh more than you look.”
“I do not,” Vil gasped, offended. “I’m ethereal. Crewel said so.”
“Crewel also said I yearn on command,” Leona grunted, taking step four and five. “He’s a liar.”
“No, you do,” Vil replied, and Leona could hear the smirk. “You were yearning so hard at the shoot I almost asked if you needed medical attention.”
“I was not-” Step seven. Eight. “Stop talking. You’re messing up my count.”
“You weren’t counting,” Vil accused, bumping his forehead against Leona’s jaw on purpose. “You were brooding. Again.”
“I can multitask,” Leona muttered. Step twelve. His arms were fine. He worked out. He could carry Vil up a mountain. The problem was the way Vil fit against his chest, all warm and trusting and smelling like Crewel’s stupid expensive hair product. The problem was Vil’s breath on his neck. The problem was Vil, generally.
“Leona,” Vil mumbled, serious now.
“What.” Step seventeen. Almost there.
“You’re walking really slow.”
“I’m being careful,” Leona lied. He was stalling. Because this, Vil in his arms, Vil not fighting him, Vil choosing this, was better than any peaceful nap he’d ever planned.
“Mm-hm,” Vil hummed. Then, softer “Your heart’s loud.”
Leona almost missed step twenty. “It is not.”
“It is,” Vil said, and his fingers brushed the side of Leona’s neck, right over his pulse. “It’s going badump badump badump. Like you ran here.”
“Allergies,” Leona said. Step twenty-four. Twenty-five. “To you.”
“Charming.” Vil pinched his ear. “Hurry up. I’m not a sack of potatoes.”
“You’re worse,” Leona said, but he took the last two steps and stopped on the landing. He didn’t put Vil down yet. He stood there, holding him, because Vil wasn’t telling him to stop and his brain wasn’t making him.
Vil didn’t say anything for a second. Then “You can put me down now, lion. Before your arms fall off and I sue you for damages.”
“Tch.” Leona bent and gently got him down, making sure Vil’s feet were solid on the floor before he let go. His hands lingered at Vil’s waist half a second too long. Nonchalant. “There. You’re up. No stairs harmed.”
Vil straightened his shirt, then reached out until he found Leona’s face again. He’d been doing that all day, touching to confirm Leona was real, was there, was still looking. His thumb swiped under Leona’s eye, like he was wiping something away.
“You’re red,” Vil announced, delighted.
“I’m not,” Leona said. He was. His whole face was on fire. “It’s the stairs. Exertion.”
“Uh-huh.” Vil’s smile went sharp. “From carrying ethereal me up twenty-seven steps. Must have been very exerting.”
“You’re insufferable.” Leona grabbed Vil’s hand to pull him toward the apartment door, because if Vil kept touching his face he was going to combust. “Keys are in my pocket. Left side. Get them.”
Vil patted his chest, then lower, until Leona grabbed his wrist. “Vil.”
“What?” Vil said, innocent as poison.
“You said left pocket. There are many left pockets.”
“You’re doing it on purpose,” Leona accused. His heart had not calmed down. It was worse now.
“Yes,” Vil agreed cheerfully. “Found them.” He jingled the keys. “See? Teamwork.”
Leona got the door open and ushered Vil inside before the neighbors saw him self-destructing. The apartment smelled like the tea they didn’t finish this morning and the candle Vil liked, lavender and 'something expensive.'
Vil toed off his shoes, cane leaning against the wall, and beelined for the couch with the accuracy of a man who’d mapped the place by memory. He flopped down, dramatic, one arm over his eyes. “Ugh. I’m tired. Being beautiful is exhausting. And being carried by broody lion. Very taxing.”
Leona locked the door, leaned against it, and watched him. Vil was in his lap, Vil was in his arms, Vil was on his couch, complaining about being carried like Leona hadn’t wanted to do it again immediately.
“Take a nap then,” Leona said. He sounded normal. He was a good actor, definitely. “I’ll make-”
“Tea?” Vil finished, peeking out from under his arm. “You’re obsessed with tea now. It’s concerning. Next you’ll start doing yoga.”
“I will throw you back down the stairs,” Leona warned, pushing off the door.
“No you won’t,” Vil said, confident. “You’d have to carry me down first, and we’ve established that makes you flustered.”
Leona stopped by the couch. Looked down at him. Vil was smirking, eyes still closed, hair a mess from the shoot and the stairs and Leona’s shoulder. He looked soft. He looked happy. He looked like he belonged here.
“Shut up and tell me if you want chamomile or if you’re going to critique my steep time again,” Leona said.
“Chamomile,” Vil said. “Three minutes. Not four. And Leona?”
“What.”
Vil’s hand found his again, tangling their fingers together. “Thanks for the lift. The stairs were too long. But you you're here.”
Leona’s heart did the badump badump badump again. Louder.
“Whatever,” he said. He squeezed Vil’s hand back before he let go. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Liar,” Vil called after him as he went to the kitchen.
Leona didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was too busy setting a three-minute timer and trying to get his pulse under control.
He was definitely going to carry Vil up the stairs again tomorrow.
And the day after that.
Nonchalantly, of course.
It happened on a Thursday. Of course it did. Thursdays were cursed.
Leona had gone out for “ten minutes” to get groceries. Vil knew this because Leona announced it like he was filing a mission report: “Going out. Milk. Ten minutes. Don’t burn the place down.” Then he’d left, door clicking shut, and Vil had set a timer on his phone.
Forty minutes later, the timer was screaming. The sky outside was screaming louder.
Vil stood by the window or where he thought the window was, based on the sudden drop in temperature and the sound of rain hitting glass like someone dumped a bucket on the building. It had been sunny when Leona left. This was not sunny. This was a monsoon cosplaying as weather.
“He said ten minutes,” Vil muttered to the empty apartment. He pressed a hand to the window. Cold. Wet. “It’s been forty. And now it’s raining. He hates rain. He’s going to brood in a doorway and get sick and then I’ll have to deal with a sick lion.”
His cane tapped against the floor, agitated. He could hear the rain on the balcony too. Hard. Loud. The kind of rain that soaked you in three seconds and made the world smell like electricity.
Leona was not answering his phone. Vil had called twice. Straight to voicemail.
Which meant one of three things:
1. Leona’s phone died. Likely. He never charged it.
2. Leona was ignoring him. Also likely. He did that when Vil was “being dramatic.”
3. Leona was drowned in a ditch and Vil was going to have to file a missing persons report and explain to Falena that he lost the second prince in a store.
Option three was unacceptable.
Vil grabbed his cane, shoved his feet into the first shoes by the door, Leona’s, huge, he didn’t care and went out.
The hallway was easy. The elevator was easy. He’d memorized the button. The lobby was easy. The doorman said “Mr. Schoenheit?” and Vil replied
“If a very tall, very grumpy man comes back, tell him I’m coming to find him,” and kept going.
Outside was not easy.
The rain hit him like a wall. Cold, immediate, soaking through his shirt in seconds. His hair went flat. His cane tapped concrete, then puddle, then more puddle. He couldn’t tell where the sidewalk ended and the street began. The sound was everywhere cars, water, thunder somewhere far off.
“Leona!” he called, tilting his head up. Rain in his face. In his mouth. “Leona, if you’re standing under an awning being dramatic I swear-”
Thunder cracked. Vil flinched.
And that’s when he heard it.
“VIL?”
Leona’s voice, wrecked, coming from his left. Then running. Footsteps splashing. Then hands on his arms, yanking him back, under something an awning, probably, because the rain went from everywhere to loud nearby.
“Are you INSANE?” Leona was shouting. Not snarling. Shouting. Panicked. “What are you doing out here? Are you trying to die?”
Vil was drenched. Hair in his eyes, shirt sticking to him, Leona’s shoes squelching. He was also holding Leona’s arm in a death grip, because he’d found him.
“You were gone forty minutes,” Vil huffed, accusing. “You said ten. You’re a liar. And you don’t have an umbrella. You’re going to get sick.”
“I-” Leona stopped. His hands were on Vil’s face, checking, frantic. Thumb under his eye, fingers in his hair. “You’re soaked. You’re freezing. Why are you out here? I was two blocks away. The store’s line was- Vil, you can’t-”
“You weren’t answering,” Vil answered, and his voice did the thing it did when he was scared but refusing to admit it. Flat. Thin. “It’s raining. You hate rain. You get all… broody and wet and then you get a cold and then you complain for a week.”
Leona made a sound. Like someone punched him. “You came out in a storm because I didn’t text back?”
“You said ten minutes!” Vil shouted again, because it was important. “I timed it! You’re bad at time! And now I’m showering in the rain and it’s your fault!”
“You-” Leona choked. Then he laughed. It was hysterical. Disbelieving. “You idiot. You absolute idiot. You showered in the rain.”
“You weren’t here!” Vil snapped, and shoved at his chest. “I was worried!”
Leona caught his wrists. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He was quiet. His hands were shaking. Vil could feel it.
“Vil,” Leona said, and his voice was wrecked. “You walked into a storm. Blind. Because I was late.”
“Yes,” Vil agreed, because it was obvious. “Obviously. What else was I supposed to do? Sit there?”
“Yes!” Leona said. “Sit there! Call again! Don’t-” He stopped. Swallowed. When he spoke again, he sounded normal. Nonchalant. Like his heart wasn’t trying to escape his chest. “Don’t do that again. Ever. I’m fine. I was buying groceries. And bread. Because you ate the last of it.”
“Oh,” Vil said. He felt stupid now. Wet and stupid. “You got bread.”
“I got bread,” Leona confirmed. “And you got pneumonia.”
“I did not,” Vil said, but he was shivering. He hadn’t noticed until now. “I’m just refreshing.”
Leona sighed, long and suffering. Then his jacket was around Vil’s shoulders. Warm. Dry. Smelled like him. “Come on,” he muttered. “Before you actually do get sick and I have to explain to Crewel why his model drowned on my watch.”
“I didn’t drown,” Vil mumbled, but he let Leona guide him. He was tired now. Adrenaline gone. Just cold. “I just showered.”
“You showered,” Leona agreed. His arm went around Vil’s waist, pulling him close, sharing heat. “Very hygienic. In public. With thunder.”
“Shut up,” Vil said, but he tucked his face into Leona’s neck. Because he was there. Because he was warm. Because he was safe. “You took too long.”
“I know,” Leona said. Quiet. “Sorry.”
Vil stopped walking. “What?”
“Nothing,” Leona said quickly. Too quickly. “Keep moving. You’re dripping on me.”
“Liar,” Vil said, but he started walking again. “Your heart’s doing the thing.”
“It is not,” Leona said. It was. So loud Vil could probably hear it over the rain. “Keep walking, or I’ll carry you again.”
“Promise?” Vil said, and it was supposed to be teasing.
Leona didn’t answer. He just tightened his arm around Vil and got them inside, and if his hands shook when he toweled Vil’s hair dry in the bathroom, well. Vil’s eyes were closed. He didn’t see it.
He felt it, though.
“Leona,” Vil started later, in dry clothes, under a blanket, with tea Leona made in exactly three minutes. “Don’t be late again.”
“I won’t,” Leona promised. He was sitting on the floor by the couch, because Vil had grabbed his hand and not let go. “And don’t shower in the rain again.”
“No promises,” Vil said. “If you’re late, I’ll do it again. And worse. I’ll take a bath in a fountain.”
Leona groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” Vil replied, smug.
“Yeah,” Leona sighed, before he could stop himself. “I am.”
His heart was still going
He hoped Vil couldn’t hear it.
Vil could. He was smiling into his tea.
Falena Kingscholar did not invite Leona to dinner.
Falena Kingscholar summoned Leona to dinner. Via text. At 9 AM. On a Sunday.
Mother requests your presence. 7 PM. Do not bring excuses. You can bring Vil. She wants to meet him. -F
Leona stared at the message for ten minutes. Then he read it to Vil.
“Absolutely not,” Vil said immediately, from where he was sprawled on the couch with a face mask on. “I don’t do royalty. Or mothers. Especially royal mothers.”
“It says you can come,” Leona said. He sounded bored. His tail was lashing the coffee table leg. “Or I go alone.”
“Then go alone,” Vil said. “Tell her I’m dead. Tragic. Very sad.”
Leona looked at him. At the green clay on his face. At the fact that he’d been doing his skincare routine in Leona’s living room for three months.
“You’re coming,” Leona said.
“Try me,” Vil said.
Leona did. He didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He just made Vil’s favorite tea at 3 PM, and steak for dinner at 6 PM, and said, “You’d look good in the navy shirt. The one with the buttons I don’t like,” and Vil sighed like the weight of the world was on him and said, “Fine. But if your mother hates me, I’m divorcing you.”
“We’re not married,” Leona smirked.
“Semantics,” Vil replied, and went to get dressed.
The Kingscholar family dining room was exactly as Leona remembered, huge, cold, and full of portraits of people who looked like they’d never had fun. The table could seat twenty. Tonight it was set for five.
Falena was already there, standing when they entered. Next to him was a woman with sharp, kind eyes, his wife, unamused, and already watching Leona like he was a science experiment. The Queen Mother was at the head of the table, regal and unreadable, in a deep gold dress that matched her eyes. Good thing that his father is not here.
“Mother,” Leona said. He didn’t bow. He nodded. “Brother.” Another nod. “Sister-in-law.”
“Leona,” the Queen said. Her gaze went to Vil. Then to Vil’s hand on Leona’s elbow. Then to Leona’s hand covering Vil’s. “And you must be Mr. Schoenheit.”
“Vil, please,” Vil said, and he did the thing. The voice. The posture. The I was famous before I was blind and I still am energy. He inclined his head exactly three degrees. “Thank you for having me, Your Majesty.”
“Sit,” she said. Not unkind. Not warm. Just a command.
Dinner was served. Steak. Potatoes. Vegetables that looked like they’d been lectured into shape. Wine Leona didn’t touch.
Falena lasted six minutes before he cracked.
“So,” he trailed, too casual, too loud, to his wife. “You remember how Leona said he was ‘busy’ last month?”
His wife cut a piece of her steak, chewing slowly. “Mhm.”
“He was busy,” Falena chuckled and he was gushing. There was no other word for it. His eyes were bright. His hands were moving. “He was at a photoshoot. With Vil. For Maison Éclat. The campaign dropped yesterday.”
The Queen’s eyebrows went up. A millimeter.
“And,” Falena continued, leaning toward his wife like he was sharing state secrets, “you should have seen him. I ran into them at the market. Leona was carrying the grocery bag. He bought Vil a strawberry tart. He said thank you to the cashier. Thank you. Leona. With his mouth.”
“I was here,” Leona said flatly. He was cutting his steak. His ears were red.
“Then at the shoot,” Falena barreled on, unstoppable now. “Someone told me. Leona dressed him. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch him. Stood there the whole time glaring at the crew like a guard dog. And in the final photos” He pulled out his phone. “Look. Look at this.”
His wife leaned over. She looked at the screen. Then she looked at Leona. Then she looked at Vil.
Vil was sipping water, pretending he couldn’t hear them. Eyes flutter slightly.
“He looks at him like that,” Falena said, pointing at the cover photo on his phone. Leona behind Vil, hand on his waist, looking down at him like he’d hung the stars. Vil’s eyes closed, leaning back into it. “In public. On camera. That’s my brother. The one who used to hiss at photographers.”
“Falena,” Leona said. Warning.
“What?” Falena said, innocent. “I’m just saying. You’re happy. Mother, he’s happy. He told me.”
The Queen set her fork down. Deliberate. The room went quiet.
Leona stopped cutting his steak. He looked up.
Then he looked at Vil.
Vil had been trying to cut his own steak. He’d been doing fine, Vil was capable, Vil was stubborn, Vil would rather starve than ask for help in front of the royal family. But the meat was tough, and his angle was wrong, and his knife slipped against the plate with a noise.
Leona moved without thinking.
He reached over, took Vil’s plate, and put it in front of himself. He took Vil’s knife and fork. He cut the steak, not hacked, cut. Into small, biteable pieces. Neat. Even. The way Vil liked. Then he slid the plate back, and used his own clean fork to nudge a piece toward Vil’s hand so he’d find it easily.
“Eat before it gets cold,” Leona muttered. He went back to his own plate. Like he hadn’t just done that. Like it was nothing.
His heart was doing the thing. So loud he was sure the Queen could hear it.
No one spoke for five seconds.
Falena’s wife looked at Falena. Falena looked like he was about to vibrate out of his chair. He mouthed 'did you see that' at her. She mouthed back 'shut up'.
The Queen watched Leona. Then she watched Vil pick up a piece of steak with his fork, bring it to his mouth, and chew. Calm. Used to it. Like this happened every night.
Because it did.
“Mr. Schoenheit,” the Queen said finally.
“Vil,” Vil corrected, gentle but firm. He set his fork down. “Your Majesty.”
“Do you enjoy strawberry tarts?” she asked.
Vil blinked. “I yes. Very much.”
“Good,” she said. “We have them for dessert.” She looked at Leona. “You will ensure he gets one. Without the glaze, if he prefers. I’m told it’s too sweet.”
Leona choked on water. “How do you-”
“I have staff,” the Queen said, like that explained everything. “And a son who texts me photos of magazine covers at 2 AM with seven exclamation points.”
Falena coughed into his wine. “It was a significant cultural moment, Mother.”
“Mhm,” the Queen said. She looked at Vil again. “My son is difficult.”
“I’m aware,” Vil said dryly.
“He sleeps too much. He doesn’t answer calls. He snarls at servants.”
“Hey,” Leona said.
“He also,” the Queen continued, ignoring him, “cuts steak for people he cares about. He says thank you to cashiers. He comes to dinner when asked.” She paused. “He is happy.”
Vil turned his head toward Leona. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His hand found Leona’s under the table. Squeezed once.
Leona squeezed back. Nonchalant.
Falena’s wife finally spoke. “He’s good for you,” she said to Leona. Not a question. “You’re softer.”
“I’m not soft,” Leona said automatically.
“You’re wearing a sweater, Leona,” Falena said. “You own one sweater. And you’re wearing it. To dinner. For him.”
Leona looked down. He was wearing a sweater. The navy one. With the buttons he didn’t like. Because Vil picked it.
“I don't.” Leona cough.
Vil was laughing. Quiet. Into his napkin. His shoulders shook.
The Queen’s mouth twitched. It was not a smile. It was the thing that happened right before a smile. “Dessert,” she said. “Before my youngest son combusts.”
Dessert came. Strawberry tarts. Vil got one without glaze. Leona got one with, and cut it in half before Vil could ask, putting the extra piece on Vil’s plate.
Falena took a picture under the table. His wife kicked him.
Leona pretended he didn’t see. He was too busy watching Vil eat, and trying to get his heart to stop doing the badump badump badump thing.
It didn’t work.
He didn’t care.
On the way out, Falena caught Leona by the door. His wife was already escorting Vil to the car, chatting about skincare, because she was smart and knew when to give brothers a minute.
“He’s good for you,” Falena said, echoing his wife. Quieter. Real. “You, you’re different. In a good way.”
“Don’t,” Leona said.
“I’m not done,” Falena said. “I was worried, you know. After you left. After you stopped answering. I thought-” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’re not alone.”
Leona looked at him. At his brother, who used to cover for him when he snuck out, who used to take the blame when he broke things. Who he hadn’t talked to in months because he was busy being happy.
“Yeah,” Leona said. Rough. “Me too.”
Falena clapped his shoulder. Once. Hard. “Bring him next Sunday. Mother wants to ask about your ‘steeping time’ for tea. She’s very invested.”
“Tell her three minutes,” Leona said. “Not four.”
Falena laughed. “I will.”
In the car, Vil was waiting, seatbelt already on because he did that now without being told.
“Your brother gushes,” Vil said as Leona got in. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Yours doesn’t,” Leona said, starting the engine.
“I don’t have a brother,” Vil said. “But if I did, I’d hope he was less obvious.”
“He’s not,” Leona said. “You should’ve seen his texts.”
Vil laughed again. He reached over, found Leona’s hand on the gearshift, and held it.
“Take me home, lion,” he said. “And don’t be late. Or I’ll shower in the rain again.”
Leona’s heart did the thing.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he teased.
He drove five under the speed limit the whole way.
The photo wasn’t supposed to be released.
It was a candid. From the Maison Éclat shoot. The photographer’s assistant posted it on their private art account with the caption “intimacy study” and then went to sleep. Three hours later it had 2.4 million views.
The photo was Leona and Vil during the break.
Leona was sitting on a crate, elbows on his knees, looking like he wanted to murder someone. Vil was standing between his legs, back to Leona’s chest, Vil’s hands holding a mug of tea Leona had handed him. Leona’s chin was on Vil’s shoulder. His arms were around Vil’s waist. His eyes were closed, like he was stealing five seconds of peace. Vil’s head was tilted back against him, smiling that small, real smile. His hand was covering Leona’s where it rested on his stomach.
Neither of them were looking at the camera. Neither of them knew it was being taken.
The caption on the assistant’s post: intimacy study. they didn’t see me. i almost cried.
Social media did not almost cry. Social media lost its mind.
@ ÉclatOfficial posted it 20 minutes after it went viral with:
The Face That Defined a Generation. And the Lion Who Guards Him. Campaign out now. #VilSchoenheit #LeonaKingscholar #YearningIsBack
Comments:
@DivusCrewel_Official
I directed this with my pointer stick and my genius brain. You’re welcome. #PupTrained
↳ @Leona_Kingscholar_Fanpage _HE CALLED HIM PUP AGAIN I CAN’T BREATHE_
↳ @Can’tSpellVillianWithoutVil _Divus we need a tell-all interview immediately_
@RoyalTeaSpill
_EXCUSE ME. Is this the dislikable second prince?? The one who told a reporter to “eat glass” in 2023?? Holding Vil Schoenheit like he’s a priceless vase??_
↳ @TwstGossip _he’s been domesticated send help_
↳ @Falena_Kingscholar_Official. _My brother is thriving and I will be taking credit thank you_
↳ @LeonaDefenseSquad _Your Highness blink twice if Leona is holding you hostage_
↳ @ Falena_Kingscholar_Official. _He’s holding a MUGG. The only hostage is my heart._
@BlindPositivity
_As a blind person: YES. THIS. Show disabled people being loved, being soft, being HELD. Vil Schoenheit you have no idea what you did for us today. (I had my partner post this)_
↳ @VilSchoenheit _Liked this comment._
↳ @Everyone _HE LIKED IT. HE’S ALIVE. HE SEES US._
↳ @User827364 _he doesn’t SEE see but you know what I mean_
↳ @Mods _we’re not doing this today_
@StrawberryTartConspiracy
_Day 6 of asking Maison Éclat to release the flavor of tea in the mug. I need to taste what domesticity feels like._
↳ @Leona’sTail _It’s chamomile. Three minutes. Not four. Source: I was the crate._
↳ @ÉclatOfficial _We can neither confirm nor deny the steep time._
@FalenaKingscholar_Wife_FanAcct
_The Queen Mother invited them to dinner. The wife said “he’s softer.” FALENA said “he cuts his steak.” THE STEAK LORE IS REAL._
↳ @RoyalKitchenCore _Can confirm. Prince Leona asked for “biteable pieces” from the chef. Chef cried. Said it was beautiful. Trust, I’m there when I happened 100% sure._
↳ @LeonaKingscholar _Stop leaking my dinner habits_
↳ @Everyone _HE’S HERE. HE POSTED. LEONA POSTED._
↳ @LeonaKingscholar _It was one time. Don’t make it weird._
↳ @VilSchoenheit _Liked this comment._
↳ @Everyone _THEY’RE INTERACTING. I’M WITNESSING HISTORY._
@TabloidTakeDown
_RUMOR: Are Leona Kingscholar and Vil Schoenheit dating or is this a PR stunt for the crown?_
↳ @ DivusCrewel_Official
_If this is PR, I want a raise. This is art._
↳ @Falena_Kingscholar_Official. _If this is PR, why is my brother making tea at 8 AM? Checkmate._
↳ @Mrs.Kingscholar.Official _Liked this comment._
↳ @Everyone _THE QUEEN. THE QUEEN IS IN THE COMMENTS. ABORT. ABORT._
@WholesomeContentOnly
_Can we talk about how Leona’s tail is wrapped around Vil’s leg in the photo? He’s ANCHORING him. He’s making sure he doesn’t trip. On flat ground. In a studio._
↳ @AnimalBehaviorExpert _That’s a protective instinct. That’s a lion claiming his pride._
The apartment was quiet.
The photo had been out for eight hours. Leona’s phone was on do-not-disturb. Vil’s phone was off. The curtains were drawn. The only sound was the AC and the occasional ping from Leona’s laptop, which he was ignoring.
They were on the couch. Vil was lying down, head on Leona’s thigh, because he could. Leona was sitting, back against the cushions, one hand in Vil’s hair because Vil said it helped his headache and Leona didn’t argue anymore.
Leona’s hand stilled in Vil’s hair. His heart did the badump badump. Loud. Stupid.
Vil’s smile widened. “It’s loud again.”
“It’s not.” Leona denied. But he started running his fingers through Vil’s hair again.
Vil hummed, content. “They’re calling us ‘The Lion and the Queen’ online. Heard from the news while you shower.”
“I saw,” Leona said.
“They’re also saying I domesticated you.” Vil added which Leona snorted. Vil reached up, found Leona’s wrist, and pulled his hand down to hold. “Are you mad? About the photo?”
“No,” he said. Honest. “You?”
Vil shook his head against Leona’s leg. “No.” He was quiet for a second. Then “I like that they know. That I’m yours. That you’re mine.”
Leona’s breath caught. He looked down at Vil. At the peace on his face. At the way he wasn’t posing, wasn’t performing. He was just, let’s say home.
“Yeah,” Leona said. Rough. Real. “Me too.”
His phone pinged again. He ignored it.
Vil’s mouth twitched. “Probably Crewel. He wants us to do a couples interview.”
“Absolutely not,” Leona opposed.
“Good,” Vil smiled. “I told him we’re busy. For the next decade.”
“Busy doing what?” Leona asked.
“This,” he replied. “Tea. Naps. You carrying me up stairs. Me threatening to shower in the rain.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Leona looked at him. At his Queen, on his couch, in his clothes, holding his hand. At the photo online of him holding Vil like the world could end and he wouldn’t notice.
He wasn’t acting nonchalant no more. He was gone. He was wrecked. He was content.
“Just not today or any other day.” Leona sighed.
“Fine,” Vil chuckled. “Today we’re content.”
“Today,” Leona agreed.
And tomorrow. And the day after that.
His phone pinged again.
He turned it off.
Trending #1: #TheLionAndTheQueen
Trending #2: #DomisticatedCatCore
Trending #3: #HefixedHim!!
@ÉclatOfficial pinned comment: _They have declined the interview. They said they’re busy. We respect their privacy._
↳ @Everyone _THEY’RE BUSY BEING IN LOVE. WE GET IT. WE’LL WATCH FROM HERE._