S.O.S.

Like an icon of fairytale True Friendship, Epel had agreed—after copious begging—to accompany her to the studio room, if only to keep her from getting murdered on the way there.

On the way, Yuu was…practicing.

“Hi Vil. I know what it looked like, but I assure you that kiss was completely accidental, and I have been emotionally devastated ever since, thank you.”

Pause.

She winced. “Too pathetic. Try again.”

“Mhm,” Epel agreed.

“Listen, I didn’t ask to be tackled by a walking cherub. If I had seen it coming, I would have swan-dived into a potted plant instead.”

“Well…” Epel hummed, thinking.

“He hates it when I make jokes in a crisis. Again.”

She shook out her arms and stood straighter.

“I’m your assistant. My job is to keep chaos away from you. And yes, I failed spectacularly, with soda and lips involved—but I am trying to fix it, and I would appreciate being treated like an accidental casualty, not a traitor. Well?” She glanced at Epel.

“Add some guilt?”

She turned to the wall, hands pressed to it dramatically like a soap opera heroine. “Epel, remind me exactly how bad this is again?”

Epel scratched behind his ear hesitantly. “…Do you want the nationwide or the international coverage count?”

She groaned, beating at the wall frustratedly. It was probably a moot point anyway.

When she and Elep reached Vil’s studio, Epel helped her get the door open—her arms had gone oddly listless—only to be greeted with a scene so damning, she nearly changed her name and fled the country. The entire room had been flooded with flowers. White carnations. Yellow roses. Something big and pink and pollen-ey that was dripping yellow dust on the carpet. Yuu walked in cautiously. The lights were dim, the scent was violent.

Epel whistled, long and low. “Dang. You die or somethin’? This is funeral-sized.”

Yuu shook her head, scooping up the note on the recording table. “No…but I might be about to.”

"🌸 Thank you for catching me. I hope to fall for you again someday! –N.L. 💫"

“Why is this man allergic to subtlety?” she muttered at the paper.

How did he even know she was going to be here? Oh… Vil was going to be here. Of course.

Her phone buzzed: “Vil has cleared for arrival. ETA: 10 mins. Please be in place.”

CRAP! VIL WAS GOING TO BE HERE!

“Right, well, I walked you to the studio. And you’re safe now, so—”

Yuu caught onto Epel’s arm desperately before he could back out of the room.

“Epel, PLEASE! I’ll smuggle sweets into Pomfiore for you until VIL GRADUATES! Please, help me get rid of these things!”

He looked at the room skeptically. “That’s... a lot. You want me to... eat ‘em?”

“Just make them vanish! Shove them in the shower. Throw them over the balcony. Set them on fire—just GO.”

With the proper motivators in place, Epel scrambled to her aid. Unfortunately…Vil Schoenheit was never ever late. Yuu was elbow-deep in hydrangeas. Epel was dragging a vase the size of a table into the hallway like a dead body, when they both heard the voice that haunted their dreams.

“…What is this.”

Both froze like bad actors in a school play. Yuu turned slowly. Vil stood in the doorway, pristine as always. His gaze swept over the room—crime scene—with imperious detachment. Then to Yuu.

“We didn’t think that all the flowers were…conducive to work. But if you like, we’ll put them back? Fan gifts just usually go to your dressing room, so…” Yuu stammered.

It was the first time she’d seen him in 48 hours. There were a mere two days to the Gala. They didn’t have TIME for this.

Vil crossed to the vanity, removed his gloves, and began unpacking his products—saying absolutely nothing. No accusations. No sarcasm. No nothing. Epel flinched subtly every time he set something down.

Yuu agreed with him. The silence was worse than yelling.

“Epel, you do know that this room is staff-only, yes?” Vil said at last. “But since you’re here, do just…take these away.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Epel looked far too relieved to be abandoning Yuu, and she watched him go with an equal mixture of jealousy and dread.

The silence between them grew roots. What had she been practicing again? She was going to say…something.

Vil didn’t look at her. He arranged his skincare with reverent precision, his face carved from restraint. Every movement was practiced, distant—like Yuu wasn’t even in the room. She decided to go casual before bringing up accidental assault and international shame.

“So… are you—are you running lines today? Blocking? Or just the photoshoot?”

No answer.

Vil gently uncapped a bottle of foundation and dabbed it on with the solemnity of a surgeon. The brush movements were featherlight. His eyes, on the mirror. She picked up the garment bag she'd dragged in, laying it out on the rack beside his usual outfits.

“I know things are…bad,” she ventured, once the ‘potato tasks’ were done. “And I know that you have a better bead on exactly how much so. But, I did also think that of all people, I would get some understanding from you.”

He still didn’t answer. Remembering Epel’s words from earlier, she slid the bar of chocolate she’d grabbed from the En-Route market onto the vanity next to him.

“Yes, yes,” she said, in lieu of his response. “Sugar is bad for your skin. Caffeine will ruin your digestive tract, and such, but it’s sugar-free, and frankly, its the strongest substance either of us imbibe, so…”

Still nothing. She folded her arms crossly.

“Alright. Not even a sarcastic ‘Potato, your taste in food is as underwhelming as your choice of shoes’?”

Vil reached for his concealer.

She added more quietly, “I’d take that.”

Nothing. The silence was surgical. Measured. Cutting without needing to touch.

“Right. Professionalism. Got it.” She retreated a few steps, biting the inside of her cheek. The room smelled like toner, roses, and embarrassment—or maybe her stress was starting to run away with her imagination.

Just then, a chime sounded in the hallway—the security tone for studio access granted. Her stomach lurched. The security was exactly how it should be, and it was playing with her nerves.

A voice from the hall, cheerful and loud, called out: “He’s here! Neige has arrived on-site! He’s headed to Wardrobe and Mics first—should be on set in five!”

Vil didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He kept on blending. Yuu, on the other hand, instinctively glanced toward the door, like a rabbit hearing hounds.

“…I’ll, um. I’ll go prep the script packets.” She made to leave—just as the door swung open with a cheerful clack and—

“Oh, Hi, Vil! You’re here first! Of course you are!” His voice beamed like a sunrise. Dressed in white and pastels, hair in soft waves, eyes wide with innocent glee, and UTTERLY oblivious to the tension in the room. “Oh—OH! And, it’s you!” Neige laughed, suddenly breathless as he addressed Yuu. “Wow! You are here! I’ve been looking for you all morning—I brought macarons! Vil here loves sweets, too!”

Vil still said nothing, his gaze fixed on his reflection—but his brush slowed.

“Mr. Leblanche. Good morning,” she greeted with a polite smile, keeping her voice as flatly middle-of-the-road as possible.

“Did you get the flowers? Looks like they might have moved them somewhere else already….Oops! It’s fine if not! But wow, we do photograph well together, huh? Kind of iconic?”

Vil set down his brush. Very, very quietly.

“Hey, Vil! Ready for a fun day? Hope you got some sleep—you look incredible. Yuu must be working overtime keeping you this flawless, huh?”

Vil finally, finally turned his head.

“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with my assistant.” There was a subtle inflection on the word ‘my,’ like he was reminding her to do her job.

“Oh, yes!” Neige blurted.

Since when? she wanted to scream, but she was frozen in abject horror as she watched his explanation—the way one might watch a flock of sheep stumble over a cliffside. Not because you could actually do anything about it, but because it was a catastrophe, and it was HAPPENING.

“She’s just been so present lately, you know? Like, always showing up at the exact right time—like magic!” He laughed, then lowered his voice conspiratorially toward Vil, while simultaneously throwing one of those crowd-rabies winks at Yuu. “I mean, she’s even been keeping both of us from the Paparazzi. I’m just so impressed! And then there was the behind-the-curtain move. So smart.”

“Ah, yes. The one you described to the press?” Vil said evenly.

Yuu stuffed down a squeaking noise like a dying kettle. She wanted to fall through the floor. Or bite him. Either of those options would be fine.

Neige beamed at her like a golden retriever who had just dropped a flaming newspaper on the carpet and wanted praise, and offered a shy little wave. “She’s really fast.”

Vil's smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Isn’t she just.”

“And just… so easy to talk to.”

“Fast and easy. Delightful,” Vil said saltily.

Yuu found herself wanting to join Roger in eternal tea-burning purgatory—anything to get away from this….THIS.

Neige was dense, but not so dense that he didn’t start spluttering at Vil’s implication.

“No! No, I would never say—listen, um, what’s your name, again?”

Vil actually did laugh at that, a cold, derisive sound that simultaneously put Neige more at ease, and communicated to Yuu JUST how poorly he thought of the situation—and of her.

What have you done? that laugh seemed to say, And you were willing to do it with someone who doesn’t even know your name? Just how desperate have you become?

Yuu hadn’t actually introduced herself to anyone not directly working for Vil, so it was no wonder that Neige still didn’t know her name, but still, she’d have to be dead for all of this not to sting a little. She was tired beyond belief. She hadn’t slept well since the beginning of this week, and what would usually be an easy-to-brush-away ridiculousness that couldn’t POSSIBLY rival what she’d been through already at NRC, she was starting to feel salt prick at her eyes.

OH NO.

She could be magically assaulted. She could be internationally humiliated. She could undergo kiss-robbery in broad daylight. But she would ACTUALLY DIE before she started crying in front of Prissy-and-Perfect SCHOENHEIT.

Mortified, she dropped the first, and WORST excuse she could:

“My, um, shirt is on backwards. I’m gonna run and change. Good luck with the appointment, both of you!”

And then she booked it out of the room.