Chapter Text
Careful, Playboy!
Chapter One - Playmate
The crisp, warm air of Fontaine breezed through the streets, sending stray petals tumbling through the air like dandelions. Varka—the cheerful, fiercely energetic "playboy" captain of the institute's fencing team—strolled down the pavement with total confidence. He was the undisputed star on the strip, but the moment he had to face the school's intimidating Student Council President, all that coordination completely short-circuited. They called the president "The Duke," and Varka was historically terrible at keeping his cool around him.
But right now, the Duke wasn't around, which meant it was time to show off.
“Yo, ladies!” Varka shouted across the street, putting on his best million-degree smirk as he sauntered over. He reached out to lean smoothly against a nearby lamppost, throwing all his charm into a single look. “Good day, Lady Furina.”
Furina didn’t move an inch. Instead, she stood utterly glued to the pavement, trembling with a look of pure, mortified panic as she tried to process the sheer audacity of what was happening.
“Uh… uhm… Hi—” Furina squeaked.
“VARKA!”
A voice boomed from fifty feet away, shattering the romance. Grandmaster Jean was marching down the sidewalk, looking absolutely murderous. “DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO RUN AWAY FROM YOUR ASSIGNED PROJECTS!”
“Uh-oh. Time to bolt!” Varka gasped.
Instantly, his brain screamed at his feet to run, but his body completely betrayed him. In his panic, he couldn't even let go of the lamppost, leaving him awkwardly frozen in a half-sprint pose right next to a terrified Furina.
Jean finally caught up, blowing past the frozen fencing captain with an exasperated sigh. “God, these kids will be the death of me! Oh my Archon, Furina, are you all right?” she asked, quickly checking on the traumatized drama club star.
“I’m alright, Grandmaster. Although… Nicole is a bit… dead…” Furina replied, gesturing faintly to her friend. Nicole had been harboring a massive crush on the campus “playboy” ever since she transferred to Fontaine from Snezhnaya’s university. Well, it wasn't exactly a traditional romance-novel crush; it was just what most people referred to it as. Nicole preferred to call him her "mate," which made absolutely zero sense to anyone else, but she chose not to care.
“Okay, let’s get you inside,” Jean said, offering a reassuring smile.
God, that kid really is one of a kind—an annoying one, that is, Jean thought to herself. She glanced over her shoulder to see if Varka was still frozen to the lamppost, but he was already gone. He had vanished into thin air.
…
“God, that woman is so annoying…” Varka muttered, ducking into a side street and catching his breath. “I just hope she doesn’t report me to that irritating dog.”
“No running in the streets, Mr. Boreas.”
The voice rumbled like a thunderstorm rolling in from Inazuma—only much deeper, and much closer.
Varka’s eyes dropped. There, right in front of his toes, was a pair of immaculate, polished dress shoes. It was a visual he had definitely saved in his database under 'High Alert.'
Slowly, Varka let a smirk slide back onto his face, covering up his initial jolt of panic. “Oh, look who showed up?” he purred, forcing his voice to sound smooth as he stood up to his full height. “You seem to have a bit of a fling going on with me, huh? You’re always chasing my tail, you dog.”
He grinned, a flash of competitive anger sparking in his eyes as he boldly reached out, his hand moving right toward Wriothesley’s ears.
“Excuse you?! What did you just call me?” Wriothesley's jaw tightened, his eye twitching as he forced direct eye contact with the smirking fencing captain.
“Huh? What, are you deaf or something? I said you’re a dog,” Varka replied proudly, crossing his arms.
Without a single second of hesitation, Wriothesley landed a smooth, heavy punch straight to Varka’s cheek.
“OW! Hey, what the hell was that for?!” Varka shouted, stumbling back before lunging forward. In a flash of retaliation, he grabbed Wriothesley’s neat necktie, yanking it down so hard that the Duke’s face was accidentally slammed directly into Varka’s chest.
PRRRRRTTTTT!
“Hey! No fighting on school grounds!” the security guard, Kirara, whistled loudly, marching over with her clipboard. “You two are coming with me.”
“What?! Where?!” Varka complained, desperately trying to unstick himself from the President. “The dog started it!”
“I fear that was not the case, Mr. Boreas.”
The soft, majestic, yet terrifyingly deep voice of the Headmaster sent an immediate chill down both of their spines. Neuvillette stood at the end of the alleyway, his long cane tapping against the stone.
“Kirara, escort them both to my office,” Neuvillette commanded smoothly.
“Yes, Headmaster!” Kirara replied instantly, grabbing both of them by their sleeves.
As the short cat-girl literally dragged two of the campus's tallest, most athletic students across the street by their uniforms, Varka risked a glance back at the Headmaster, and then over at the absolutely livid Student Council President beside him.
He was, without a doubt, mortified and dead.
***
The walk across the grand courtyard of the Fontaine Research Institute was nothing short of a public execution. Kirara, despite being a foot and a half shorter than both of them, marched forward with the terrifying, unyielding strength of a mythological beast. She had a tight grip on Varka’s unbuttoned collar in her left hand and a firm hold on Wriothesley’s pristine sleeve in her right, dragging them past rows of gawking students.
“Look, it’s the Duke! Did he finally lose his mind?”
“Wait, is that a bruise on the fencing captain’s face? Did the President actually punch someone?!”
The whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Varka, recovering from his initial shock, tried to offer a pathetic, one-sided wink to a pair of passing freshmen, but the sheer gravity of Headmaster Neuvillette walking a few paces ahead completely ruined his playboy swagger. Beside him, Wriothesley looked like a man marching toward a guillotine. The President’s chest was heaving slightly, his immaculate hair a bit frayed from the scuffle, and his gaze was locked dead ahead, refusing to acknowledge the giant, muscular fencing captain currently forced to shoulder-check him with every stride Kirara took.
Eventually, the heavy, mahogany doors of the Headmaster’s office groaned open.
The room was vast, smelling of expensive parchment, rain, and ancient Fontaine history. Tall windows overlooked the foggy lake, and a grand, towering grandfather clock ticked with agonizing slow-motion precision.
“Sit,” Neuvillette commanded. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a tidal wave.
Kirara released them with a cheerful grunt, giving a small salute before slipping back out the door. Left to their own devices, Varka and Wriothesley practically collapsed into the two velvet chairs facing the Headmaster’s desk. Varka slouched aggressively, his long legs stretching across the expensive rug, while Wriothesley sat rigid as a board, instantly reaching up to adjust his mangled necktie with a sharp, furious jerk.
Neuvillette didn’t speak immediately. He smoothly glided behind his desk, took a seat, and picked up a fountain pen. The silence stretched for a full, torturous minute. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and Varka’s loud, exaggerated sigh.
“Mr. Boreas,” Neuvillette finally began, his pale eyes cutting through Varka like ice. “In public, no less. Harassing the student body, fleeing a faculty member, and instigating a physical altercation.”
“Hey! I didn’t instigate anything!” Varka barked back, pointing a defensive finger at the boy next to him. “I was just standing there, minding my own business, when the watchdog over here decided to use my jawbone as target practice!”
“And Mr. Wriothesley,” Neuvillette continued, completely ignoring Varka’s outburst as his gaze shifted to the President. “The Student Council President. A student I entrusted with maintaining order, peace, and decorum. To see you engaging in a common street brawl… it is profoundly disappointing.”
Wriothesley’s jaw clenched so hard a vein practically throbbed on his temple. “He called me a dog, Headmaster. Furthermore, he physically assaulted my person by grabbing my uniform and pulling me into his… his…” Wriothesley trailed off, his face flushing a furious, embarrassed shade of crimson as he refused to say the word pecs out loud.
“Regardless of the semantics, the rules of this institute are absolute,” Neuvillette said, setting his pen down with a quiet clack. “The disciplinary committee is currently overwhelmed, and given the high-profile nature of your positions, a standard suspension would cause unnecessary rumors. Therefore, you will both serve an intensive, joint detention.”
“Joint?!” both boys shouted in unison, their voices echoing off the high ceilings.
“Yes,” Neuvillette replied calmly. “For the next two weeks, you will report to the old historical archive basement directly after your respective club activities. You will reorganize, log, and dust every single document from top-to-bottom. Together. If I hear so much as a single whisper of conflict, the consequences will be severe.”
Wriothesley looked like he had just been handed a death sentence. “Headmaster, please, my student council duties—”
“Are suspended until your punishment is complete. Mr. Wriothesley, you are dismissed to go to the infirmary for your hand. Mr. Boreas, go tend to your face.” Neuvillette picked up his pen, signaling the end of the conversation. “Do not make me regret my leniency.”
The two boys practically scrambled out of the office, slamming the heavy doors behind them. The moment they hit the empty hallway, the tension exploded.
“Two weeks!” Varka groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. “Two weeks in a dusty, dark basement with a stuck-up, workaholic dog. My life is officially over.”
Wriothesley stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around, his sharp grey eyes boring holes into the fencing captain. He stepped directly into Varka’s personal space, his chest practically brushing against Varka’s unbuttoned shirt.
“Listen to me carefully, Playboy,” Wriothesley hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper. “You are going to show up. You are going to do your half of the work. And you are going to keep your mouth shut. If you ruin my record any further, a punch to the face will be the least of your worries.”
Instead of flinching, Varka’s smirk slowly returned, tracing the faint bruise forming on his cheek. He leaned down just an inch, his eyes locked onto Wriothesley’s lips for a split second before meeting his gaze. “Oh, so the Duke has a temper? I like it. See you in the dark, President.”
Wriothesley scoffed, turning on his heel and storming down the hallway, his polished shoes clicking furiously against the stone. Varka watched him go, his heart doing a strange, entirely uncoordinated thump against his ribs.
He touched his bruised cheek, a sudden, unfamiliar heat blooming in his chest. Two weeks in a locked room together. Maybe detention wouldn’t be so boring after all.
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Chapter One - "Playmate"