Chapter Text
Vil Schoenheit had always believed that love, like beauty, required discipline.
That was why he waited.
He waited through distance, through schedules that refused to align, through the quiet ache of knowing he was moving forward while you were still bound to NRC halls and first-year anxieties. He waited through internships overseas, through cameras and spotlights, through nights where video calls were all he could afford to give. And through it all, he never once loosened his grip.
He confessed during the cultural festival of his fourth year, returning to campus like a comet after months away. While others were celebrating booths and performances, Vil stood before you with the same composure he brought to any stage, eyes sharp, posture immaculate, voice steady enough to make the moment feel inevitable rather than sudden.
After that, everything became harder.
Internships swallowed him whole. He was scouted, evaluated, praised, critiqued, and pulled from country to country like a masterpiece on tour. Yet every night, no matter how late, his phone lit up.
He called. Constantly. Video calls at ungodly hours, messages sent between takes, surprise visits when schedules allowed. He critiqued your posture through a screen, reminded you to eat properly, listened to you ramble about classes and dorm nonsense with an expression that was softer than anyone else ever got to see.
Rook once caught him smiling at his phone backstage and tilted his head knowingly.
“Ah,” Rook said softly, “l’amour véritable is a most dangerous distraction… and yet, how radiant it makes you.”
By the time you became a second year, Vil had learned how to exist in two worlds at once. By the time you approached third year, Vil graduated, flawless and relentless as ever, leaving NRC behind with the promise that distance would not loosen what you had built.
Your lives kept moving on parallel tracks, never quite lining up, but somehow never drifting apart either.
After you finally graduated, it felt like the world exhaled.
You could finally be together without calendars dictating your lives. And yet, being with Vil Schoenheit came with its own complications. Fame clung to him like perfume, unavoidable and strong. You kept the relationship quiet at first—not out of shame, but caution. Vil understood better than anyone how cruel public opinion could be, how quickly admiration could curdle into entitlement.
Making the relationship public was extremely risky.
Vil sat across from his father, posture straight, hands folded, eyes unwavering. Eric Venue listened in silence, long fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“This will change how the world looks at you,” Erik said at last. “They will judge your partner. They will judge you. They will invent stories.”
Vil didn’t hesitate.
“I know.”
Eric studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
“You’ve never asked for permission before.”
“This isn’t permission,” Vil replied. “It’s respect.”
That earned him a quiet smile.
There were haters, of course. There always were. Comments insisting Vil should have dated Neige instead made his eye twitch so hard it nearly qualified as an exercise. But overwhelmingly, there was support. Fans who loved them together. Fans who respected Vil’s choice. Fans who were just happy to see him happy.
Rook Hunt was ecstatic.
Rook Hunt was insufferably ecstatic.
“Magnifique!” he declared, clapping his hands together. “To witness such devotion is an honor beyond words!”
Epel, on the other hand, found out like everyone else and nearly dropped his phone.
“Ain’t no way,” he muttered. “I knew it, but still—”
After time passed, after schedules stabilized and the relationship settled into something steady and lived-in, Vil began planning.
He dragged Rook through jewelers under the pretense of “aesthetic research.”
Rook squinted at a display, eyes shining.
“This one sings of eternity,” he murmured. “But this one… this one whispers devotion.”
Vil nodded thoughtfully, then dismissed both.
He video-called Epel while the boy was knee-deep in orchard dirt.
“Vil?” Epel said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’m kinda in the middle of—”
“Ring opinions,” Vil said flatly.
There was a long pause.
“…I don’t get paid enough for this,” Epel muttered, then leaned closer to the screen anyway.
Even Eric accompanied him once, standing beside his son as Vil examined a ring with quiet intensity.
“You’re certain,” Eric said.
Vil didn’t look up.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
During this period, Vil came home later than usual. You noticed, of course. Vil pretended he didn’t.
When the ring was finally chosen, Vil planned the date meticulously. A night meant to make up for the recent busyness. Elegant, but not ostentatious. Romantic, but honest. Something that felt like you.
———
Today, Vil came back with flowers.
Not a modest bouquet, not something hastily picked up on the way—this was an arrangement so carefully curated it might as well have been a thesis on romance. Roses in shades that wouldn’t photograph poorly under candlelight, accents chosen for longevity, fragrance balanced so it wouldn’t overwhelm the evening. He stood at the door, immaculate as always, coat crisp, expression composed.
An anniversary. An apology. A promise, all bundled together.
“This is not a request,” he said calmly. “It’s an invitation. We’re celebrating our anniversary. And I’m making up for lost time.”
The restaurant he chose was predictably elegant. Candlelight reflected off polished glass and silverware, the kind of place where even breathing felt expensive. Vil pulled out the chair with practiced grace, ever the gentleman, as if this were simply another role he had mastered long ago.
What he absolutely did not acknowledge was the presence of two very familiar figures attempting to blend into the background.
Rook Hunt sat several tables away, fully visible, doing absolutely nothing to disguise himself. He leaned forward with his chin in his palm, eyes glittering, smiling in a way that suggested he was not merely watching the date but spiritually inhabiting the walls, the floor, and possibly the wine cellar.
“Ah,” he murmured to himself, fingers steepled. “What a delicious tension. One could write poetry about this moment alone.”
Beside him sat Epel Felmier, shoulders hunched, tugging at his collar, staring into his water glass like it might open a portal and save him.
“I told ya this was a bad idea,” Epel muttered under his breath, ducking when he realized someone might be looking. “I look like a stalker. I feel like a stalker.”
Rook hummed, fingers steepled.
“Ah, but dear Epel, tonight we witness destiny. One must suffer a little for l’amour.”
Epel looked like he was suffering a lot.
“I don’t belong here,” Epel muttered under his breath. “I don’t know how I got dragged into this. I should be home. With dirt. Normal dirt.”
At their feet, hidden poorly behind a decorative plant, was a small pouch of confetti. Prepared. Waiting.
Vil, of course, noticed them immediately. He simply chose to ignore them.
What was harder to ignore—though he tried just as valiantly—was the man seated directly behind you.
Eric Venue was doing a terrible job of being inconspicuous.
He wore a black mustache so obviously fake it looked like it might slide off at any moment. His light-colored hair was tucked under a hat that did absolutely nothing to disguise him, and oversized sunglasses indoors. He sat ramrod straight, menu upside down, nodding aggressively at nothing.
The very picture of subtlety, if subtlety were a myth.
Vil didn’t turn around. He merely narrowed his eyes.
When you focused on the food, Vil finally sent a sharp glare over your shoulder.
Eric looked up, startled, then smiled awkwardly.
“I’m just… enjoying the atmosphere,” Erik whispered. “Coincidentally. Completely unrelated.”
Vil’s eye twitched. He turned back with rigid composure.
The dinner itself was flawless. Courses arrived in perfect timing. Wine was poured just right. Vil spoke easily, attentively, his gaze steady, his presence grounding. Every movement was deliberate, every moment shared felt intentional, like he was carefully placing each memory exactly where it belonged.
Rook leaned forward slightly, whispering with barely contained excitement.
“Observe, Epel. The calm before the revelation. A hunter knows when the prey is about to witness destiny.”
Epel stared at his plate.
“I’m gonna pass out.”
Dessert arrived. You were distracted, attention captured by the delicate plating, the kind that looked almost too beautiful to eat.
That was when Vil moved.
He stood, chair gliding back without a sound. The restaurant seemed to quiet, as if sensing something monumental was about to occur.
Vil stepped forward and lowered himself onto one knee with effortless grace.
Rook clasped his hands to his chest.
“Oh, this is it.”
Epel squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh gods.”
Eric leaned sideways in his chair , the fake mustache peeling slightly at one corner.
“Vil, son, your posture—”
Vil didn’t look away.
He reached into his pocket and revealed the ring. Elegant. Refined. A quiet statement of permanence.
“I’ve spent my life perfecting images,” Vil said, voice calm but unmistakably sincere. “Chasing ideals. Meeting expectations. But you—”
His gaze softened.
“You were never an expectation. You were a choice. One I made again and again, even when distance tried to tell me otherwise.”
Rook wiped at his eye dramatically.
“L’amour… it strikes true.”
“I don’t promise a life without difficulty,” Vil continued. “But I promise intention. Loyalty. And a future built with care.”
He held the ring out steadily.
“I want you beside me. Not hidden. Not waiting. But chosen. Always.”
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause.
“[Name], will you marry me?”
He stayed right there, on one knee, eyes locked forward, expression open in a way the world rarely saw.
Waiting.
For once, he wasn’t thinking about the world’s gaze. Only about the person in front of him, and the future he had chosen with absolute clarity.
And whatever answer came next, he already knew one thing for certain.
This was beautiful.
———
Vil returned late that evening with a bouquet large enough to make a statement before he even spoke.
The flowers were immaculate—seasonal, carefully color-coordinated, trimmed at precise angles. Pale blooms layered with deeper hues, chosen not for extravagance but for harmony. The kind of bouquet that clearly required thought, not impulse. He held them with practiced ease, yet there was a tension in his shoulders that betrayed how much this moment mattered to him.
“I’m stealing you tonight,” Vil said simply, extending the bouquet forward. His voice was light, but his eyes were earnest. “It’s our anniversary. And I owe you far more time than I’ve been able to give.”
The restaurant he chose was discreet in the way only truly expensive places could afford to be. No crowds, no paparazzi, no gawking fans lingering near entrances. The kind of place celebrities whispered about rather than advertised—private rooms, soundproof walls, staff trained to see everything and say nothing. Candlelight reflected off polished silverware, casting everything in warm gold. The air was quiet, respectful, as if the room itself understood the importance of privacy.
A waiter greeted you, professional and quick, already informed of preferences and allergies as if by magic. Vil nodded in approval.
“Excellent timing,” he said. “We won’t be interrupted.”
You were seated by a window overlooking the city lights, distant enough to feel removed from the world but close enough to remind you it still existed. Vil removed his gloves slowly, placing them beside his plate, and for a while, he said nothing. He simply watched.
He watched the way you examined the menu, the small pause before choosing. He watched the subtle shift in posture when the first dish arrived, the way attention sharpened, genuine and unguarded. He found himself smiling without thinking, the tension he carried daily loosening in quiet increments.
“This chef trained in three countries,” Vil remarked when the first course was served. “I thought you’d appreciate the balance.”
Between courses, the faintest prickle crept up his spine.
That feeling again.
Vil’s eyes flicked briefly to the corners of the room, then the ceiling, then the reflective surface of the window. His magic brushed outward in a controlled sweep. Nothing. No hidden presence. No familiar hunter’s aura humming in the background.
He exhaled silently.
Ridiculous, he told himself. Rook had promised to behave. Tonight was not for dramatics.
Vil’s attention returned fully to you. The candlelight caught your features gently, softening edges, making the moment feel unreal in the best possible way. For once, Vil wasn’t thinking about schedules, contracts, or the public eye. Only this—this quiet, earned happiness.
When dessert arrived, he didn’t let it linger.
Vil set his fork down with deliberate care and straightened, expression composed but eyes unmistakably earnest.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say for a long time,” he began. “And no, this isn’t another apology—though I owe you plenty.”
He reached into his jacket, movements unhurried, as if this were just another part of the evening’s choreography. The small box rested in his palm, elegant and understated.
“I’ve built my life around perfection,” Vil continued. “Around control, image, and discipline. But you…” His voice softened. “You were never something I needed to polish or manage. You were simply there. Constant. Steady. Real.”
He rose from his seat and knelt smoothly, the motion practiced only in its grace, not its intent.
Vil opened the box.
The ring caught the candlelight, brilliant without being ostentatious.
“I don’t want a future where you’re something I return to between obligations,” Vil said quietly. “I want you beside me—through every stage, every failure, every triumph.”
His grip on the box was steady.
“[Name], will you marry me?”
Somewhere, very far away and definitely not inside the walls, Rook Hunt clasped his hands dramatically and whispered, “Magnifique…”
Vil didn’t hear it.
All he saw was you, and the future he was ready to claim.