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“Cut!” Vil’s weary yet firm voice echoed, triggering the sound of a clapperboard. Gracefully—though this time with the grace of an angry goose—he ended up stomping his heels with a louder thud than ever before. Or was it that the film club’s room was growing increasingly deafening with each of the director’s whims? “You have no chemistry! No one in this damn club has chemistry that even comes remotely close to two childhood friends. I’ve seen potatoes with more hidden romance in their follicles than what you’re trying to pretend.”
Both actors looked at him, taken aback. Neither hid their trembling nor their guilty expressions. For a change, they weren’t even capable of acting to hide at least a modicum of embarrassment for the sake of art.
“We’re sorry, Vil-senpai.”
“Being sorry doesn’t stop you from making my face wrinkle with disappointment.” From his hands on his hips, he pointed his index finger at them while indicating that number. “If I see even one of them tomorrow, I’m warning you that the necessary measures will be taken in this club.”
“Vil Schoenheit-san.” A robotic voice sounded from behind him, causing him to turn around with narrowed eyes.
“If you’ve opened your mouth, Ortho, I hope it’s to offer solutions and not more problems.”
Although, fortunately, when it came to Ortho, the former was always more common than the latter. If he’d come up with a novel idea, Vil was all ears.
“I think we should use two childhood friends who aren’t actors for the sequel.”
At that suggestion, whispers erupted. However, by raising his hand, Vil silenced them all. With that same finger, he pointed at Ortho before thoughtfully placing it against his opposite cheek. A bold idea, which, given the shooting schedule, could be feasible if they found someone to fill the role as soon as possible. After all, it was a scene with no lines; they just had to make it clear in everything else that they were childhood friends.
“Amateurs, but with a real connection. That’s your point,” Vil stated aloud, placing his hands on his hips. “We put them in front of a camera, and they don’t even need to act.”
“Exactly! Since it’ll be a shot with no lines, they can just go with the flow naturally. Now we just need to find two childhood friends who have romantic feelings for each other without realizing it. Let’s see—do you want me to make a list of everyone who fits the bill? I already have someone in mind, though.”
No, childhood friends with hidden feelings that were more than obvious in other ways—like taking excessive care of each other or constantly talking about one another. Mutual affection. Also denying their feelings, but feelings that were undoubtedly there…
“No need. I know exactly who fits this description perfectly.”
After a dorm leaders’ meeting, the only ones present were Vil and the two he considered most suitable for the job. Seated across from him, the leader of Pomefiore looked at them with narrowed, determined eyes. Yes, Trey was sitting next to Riddle but leaning toward him. The latter had his arms crossed, while the former didn’t know where to put his hands, so he kept them in his lap.
“Riddle, Trey. My club needs you as soon as possible. Although there were numerous options at today’s meeting, I have to admit that you two are the best suited for this task.”
"The Film Research Club? Vil, I have a schedule to stick to. You can’t just come here with new plans that I can’t fit into my day today,” Riddle retorted immediately.
Rolling his eyes, he sighed. “As soon as possible doesn’t mean today, but it does mean this week.”
“I agree with Riddle—I’m a little busy with the science club.” He pushed his glasses up with his index finger and thumb and continued to adjust the frames. “Still, what exactly can Riddle and I contribute?”
“I’ll take care of telling Rook to clear your science club schedule. As for you, Riddle, I’m pretty sure you can find half an hour free this week. I’ll get straight to the point with both of you: we’re making a short film—I can’t reveal the details—but we need both of you to be in it. It’ll be brief; you won’t have any lines or directions—I’ll just let you interact naturally.”
Trey opened his mouth, though he immediately smiled awkwardly when Vil looked at him. Like the coward Vil sometimes thought he was, he stared at Riddle, letting him speak first. No, not quite that much of a coward. Indulgent to the core, though…
“Neither Trey nor I know how to act; we’ll need to learn the rules of your club and the art before we even consider appearing on it.”
“The rules are my directions; that’s all you need. There are no rules in art. As for you, Trey, if you’ve stopped letting Riddle decide for you, we’d love to hear your opinion.” Vil smiled haughtily, though he frowned in irritation.
“Haha, well, let’s see—it’s true that I speak for myself; I don’t know how to act, and me in front of cameras…”
“Yes, I agree with Trey—we’re not qualified to participate in your project. I thought of you as someone who doesn’t like half-measures, Vil-senpai,” Riddle reproached him.
“Of course not—who do you take me for? This is a deliberate decision. We need amateurs for this shoot. The less you know how to act, the better. Think of it as if there were a camera recording your natural interaction. I don’t want skill; I want chemistry.”
“Chemistry?” Trey asked, blushing slightly.
“Well, if the rules say it has to be amateur actors who meet those requirements, it’s hard to say no.” Riddle narrowed his eyes resignedly. “All right, I’ll see what we can do to make room for you. Don’t look at me like that, Trey. It has to be us.”
“Yeah, but…” Vil sighed at his embarrassment.
“It’s just a camera—it’s not going to eat you,” the leader of Pomefiore dismissed him. “But I suppose I can have Rook do your entire science project for you as compensation.”
“And besides, Trey, you’re a very qualified vice leader.” Riddle uncrossed his arms to take his arm and look at him gently. From a frown, Vil’s gaze turned fascinated as their faces drew gently closer. That admiration in Riddle’s eyes. Trey’s evasive gaze, now tenderly focused on Riddle despite the blush spreading across his cheeks. That spark of longing in his dilated pupils… Potential. Vil saw potential. Ortho was a genius. “This is nothing for us. We can prove that Heartslabyul is worthy of even participating in the arts, such as acting. I know you’ll do it perfectly—as your contribution to this dorm.”
Yes, Riddle was transformed by Trey, and vice versa. All layers of stubbornness and modesty were shed between them, giving way to the mutual affection they shared—the fruit of many long years of friendship, even if it had been fragmented. Well, it seemed that now they were closer than ever.
“If my leader demands it of me, I can’t refuse,” Trey concluded softly. “For Heartslabyul, then.”
For you, Vil knew Trey meant. The two of them often used Heartslabyul and their positions as a shield, from what he had witnessed.
“See? You’re already doing it. Oh, it’s much better than I expected. That’s how I want to see you in the movie. Anyway, as a final point, let’s talk about availability…”
Now, silence fell once again among the club members; none of them even bothered to hide their raised eyebrows or wide eyes. Some didn’t even try to hide their open mouths. Vil’s script had faded from all their minds, becoming a distant memory as they observed the chemistry they had on camera.
Trey and Riddle were oblivious to all of that; they were simply holding hands as they walked across the lawn of the Night Raven College courtyard. But it was precisely because they were unaware of it that it was so brilliant. Because they both had everything the club members lacked: experience.
Not even Vil had to correct their postures or anything. No, they gazed at each other just as tenderly as they had after the leaders’ meeting. Vil set aside the conversation they were having; it would be silent after all. Instead, she noticed how Trey slowed his pace to match Riddle’s shorter strides. Discreet caresses traced across both hands. Squeezes. Glances away so as not to get too lost in each other’s eyes—more so on Trey’s part than Riddle’s.
Perhaps it had only been a few seconds and a change of scene, but those… Those smiles were everything that his fledgling actors hadn’t been able to bring to the table. Nor the atmosphere, nor the meaning of affection behind eyes narrowed into half-moons.
Although he’d known them since last year, Vil felt the need to delve deeper into their story. To understand why they clung to each other at times as if they were about to be torn apart at any moment. Also, the meaning behind their lingering gazes, as if they harbored—yes—those romantic feelings Vil had been hoping to find. And, given that they were such a stubborn pair, in their own way, bringing those feelings to light explicitly would surely be extraordinarily complicated.
Vil let the cameras keep rolling and looked at little Shroud, nodding.
“Your judgment has been splendid. I’m more than satisfied,” Vil told Ortho.
“I’m glad to hear that, Vil Schoenheit-san.” Ortho sounded cheerful. “I’ve evaluated all the childhood friends, but these are the ones who best fit the criteria of hidden feelings despite their mutual affection. We were on the same page. But you’re still recording, aren’t you?”
“Yes, let it record.” Vil looked up again. “Let it record.”
After all, it would be a shame to waste so much footage.
And besides, Vil had learned that using amateurs every now and then wasn’t bad at all—not bad at all.