Storm Season

The scent of coffee and hairspray hung in the air like fog in the Pomfiore common room. Yuu had been waiting for him to make some kind of appearance for hours, but Vil was nowhere in sight. She sat alone at a café-style table, picking at a suspiciously dry croissant and watching a makeup artist doze off into her latte.

“Hey.”

She looked up to see Epel, awkward and clutching two canned apple sodas like peace offerings. His expression was somewhere between concerned and please don’t cry on me.

She gestured at the seat across from her. “Brave of you to approach. I’ve been declared a walking hazard…I think. No one will tell me anything.”

He chuckled nervously, setting the can in front of her. “You ain’t been around for two days. People were wondering if Vil—uh. Well. You okay?”

She cracked the soda open. “They relieved me while they upgraded security. Technically a vacation.”

Epel’s gaze dropped to his drink. “Yeah... he’s... thinkin’. Processing stuff. You know how he is when something’s messed up his ‘image.’ He don’t do feelings in public.”

“But he always scolds me when I mess something up,” she said. “That’s how I know he doesn’t actually hate me.”

“Yeah,” Epel muttered, then added too quickly, “I mean, no—he doesn’t hate you!”

She eyed him. “Epel.”

“So…” Yuu started, trying not to sound suspicious. “You’ve known Vil for years. Is this… normal?”

Epel scratched the back of his neck. “Er… he’s… intense. Y’know that. Real particular. Sometimes he just needs….to moisturize?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Epel flinched like he’d been slapped with a wet newspaper.

“What? Nothin’. I’m not—why would I be tellin’ or not tellin’ anything? That’s a weird way to ask things. You're bein’ weird.”

“…You're wearing your ‘I just helped hide a body’ face.”

“That ain’t fair. This is my regular face.” He looked off toward the hallway. His fingers drummed on his pants like a man counting seconds.

“Vil’s ignoring me. Full ghost. Is that his regular face too?”

“He’s—uh. Busy. Schedules and...hydration. He’s drinkin’ a lot of water lately. It’s probably the hydration.”

“Hydration.”

Epel nodded, too hard. “Yup. Dangerous levels of water, really. Could drown himself. Best to stay clear till he evaporates or somethin’.”

“You’re lying.”

“I ain’t! Not—entirely. I mean, yeah, maybe something’s up, but it’s not my—Okay, look, I just think he’s a lil’... I dunno. hurt, maybe? Or embarrassed? Or—” He stopped himself, looking away from her a little too long. The point is, I wouldn’t worry yet—!”

However, the time for worrying materialized behind them in the form of the Campus socialite, when Cater appeared like a walking ray of gossip-drenched sunshine.

“Yuuuuu~!” he called, phone already out. “Girl, I am so jealous. How did you pass my magicam count in less than a day?!”

“I don’t…have a magicam account?” she started to say, when Cater, ignoring all of Epel’s silent, frantic warnings, wiggled his fingers and flipped the screen toward her.

“Your battery’s low? Want my charger?” she asked, trying to get clarification.

Cater laughed, and adjusted the screen. “No, no. THIS!”

Epel looked very much like he wanted to die, as there, in full cinematic glory, was the photo: Neige, mid-fall. Yuu, drenched in soda, arms around him like a damsel in distress. Their lips, tragically and beautifully smashed together like a Sparks novel cover. Water and soda streamed behind and front of them in the background, making this one candid moment look like the advertisement for a real, rom-com movie—not unlike the one that the Starfall Gala was SUPPOSED to be promoting.

Oh no.

“You didn’t see the papers, yet did you?” Epel stated, unnecessarily.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“Papers?” Her stomach dropped.

There was more?

He winced.

“Epel. What papers.”

He pulled out his phone, hands fumbling like he was disarming a bomb, and turned the screen toward her.

It hit like a slap.

Another crystal-clear shot of her and Neige. His arm around her. Her—VIL’S— hoodie sparkling wet in the studio lights. And beneath, bold letters screamed across the headline:

“Neige’s New Flame? Fans in Frenzy—Neige Kisses VIL SCHOENHEIT’S new assistant.”

“Sweetheart Star Neige Has a Secret Girlfriend?!”

“Schoenheit’s New Assistant Caught in Cozy Complication!”

She shoved the phone back at him and buried her head in her arms.

“Ooo, the little starlet didn’t know! This is a new development!” Cater said cheerfully, photographing her distress.

“I look like I just came out of a soda commercial directed by Marine,” she mumbled into her elbows.”

“And you kissed the face of the nation,” Cater added helpfully.

Her head shot up. “I did not kiss anyone! He tripped! It was like a slow-motion horror film starring my dignity and twelve ounces of sparkling water!”

“You’re on like, seventeen gossip accounts. They’re calling you ‘The Hidden Flame,’” Cater added. “‘Neige’s Shy Mystery Girl Melts the Nation!’ Oh, oh! And the best one: ‘KissGate: Did Vil Know?’”

Epel audibly swallowed.

Yuu looked at him. “Did Vil know?”

“Define know,” Epel muttered. “I thought—maybe—maybe it’d blow over? You know, like a storm. Or a tornado made of mouth-on-mouth.”

She was already scrolling through Cater’s gallery. “There are eight angles.”

“Some of those are probably AI?” Epel offered helpfully.

“I haven’t spoken to Neige since the kiss! Or Vil!”

“Yeah…you might not want to do the second one just yet,” Epel mumbled. “He’s…he’s in Vogue rehab mode. Real cold. Like, frostbite cold.”

Cater nodded. “Total PR lockdown. The agent posted something like, ‘We will not be entertaining gossip’ but like, with fewer words and more judgment.”

“Neige…and Vil KNOWS, and all of these papers, and—Waaaaaitaminute. You said that Neige made a statement?”

Cater was already pulling up his phone.

On a set very similar to the promotional setup for Starfall Neige sat cozily with a clone of their first hostess—all tight clothes, hairspray, and bleaching.

“So, Neige!” she was chattering excitedly. “With all of the posts we’re been seeing over the last two days, it looks like things are really taking a turn in your personal life—and so close to the promotional Gala, too!”

“That’s right,” Neige gave a soft sweet sort of laugh that had the audience swooning. “Although I definitely didn’t expect things to change this way.”

“Which brings me to the question of the hour!” the interviewer said brightly. “So the kiss. It’s brought a lot of attention lately. Was is staged?”

“Oh, definitely not!” Neige announced.

Fans screamed. Moaned. Some sounded like they were actively dying. Yuu couldn’t blame them—she felt like she was actively dying, too.

“Oh, wow! So it really was love, then!” the hostess gasped like she’d been handed a million thaumarks.

“Oh, but, um. We’re not together. It sort of…just happened.”

“Oh?” the interviewer waited with baited anticipation.

“Um, what I mean is, I—I actually had already been thinking about asking her out? Before that. The mystery girl. She's…brave. And nice. And…brave enough to yank a full-grown idol behind a curtain without blinking. Which is—uh—my type? The thing is, I never actually got the chance to ask her name.”

“So, is this your official declaration?”

“If I can ever find her again.” Neige turned to the camera. “If you're watching this—I’m sorry! And I’d still love to go for cocoa? Or a walk? Or like…not running from stampedes? That could be a first date?”

“Aw! Fans, #NameTheMysteryGirl is now trending! Let’s help Neige find his sweetheart!”

“You’re totally a target now, Yuu!” Cater said brightly, as though Yuu hadn’t just had a fan-based death warrant issued with her name on it.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no!

Visions of projectiles, and angry crowds flashed in her head. She was going to be delivered to Neige in a body bag. Probably.

“Cater…” she said weakly. “There’s no way to track people on this, right?”

Cater shrugged. “Probably not? Wanna read the comments?”

She didn’t, but Cater read them for her anyway.

“‘I think I saw someone like her the other day in the lounge!’—one says. ‘If I’d known that was Neige’s type, I’d have dragged him behind a curtain years ago!’ ‘Do you think Neige would kiss ME if I find her for him?’ ‘No need to hunt, Neige! I’m right here—’” boasted an account that claimed to be her, with several scantily-clad AI-produced images.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, face returning to her hands.

Then her phone buzzed.

A new text from Security Dispatch: “Please report to Dressing Room 4B. Vil Schoenheit has requested your presence.”

Her stomach sank. “Help prevent PR incidents,” Vil had said. “Help the promotion go smoothly,” Vil had said. “No national or international embarrassment—” well, he hadn’t said that, but to be fair, he very-flatteringly had thought he didn’t NEED to.

“I have to talk to Vil.”

Epel winced. “Bring chocolate. And maybe Kevlar?”