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The kitchen is running smoothly today, the ovens are warm, and the atmosphere is filled with the comforting scent of rich sauces and simmering spices. Today is a very special day for a certain Heartslabyul student.
When it comes to Deuce Spade, the boy is a walking contradiction. He is a young man desperately trying to paint over his past with the pristine, unblemished brush of an honor student. He wears his uniform perfectly, he memorizes rules that make absolutely no logical sense, and he tries so incredibly hard to make his mother proud. But beneath that polished exterior beats the heart of a rebel, a boy who craves the roar of an engine, the bite of the wind, and the freedom of the open road.
For his birthday, a stiff, formal tea party simply will not suffice. He needs a reminder that he does not have to bury his true self to be worthy of love and respect.
Please, take a seat and get comfortable.
Happy Birthday, Deuce Spade!
Serving: The Honor Student's Rebellion
The morning sunlight filtered through the grand, rose-tinted windows of the Heartslabyul dormitory, casting a warm, crimson glow over the perfectly manicured carpets. For most students, the gentle morning light was a welcome start to the day. But for Deuce Spade, it was simply the sounding bell for another grueling round of pretending to be perfect.
Deuce stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, his brow furrowed in deep, agonizing concentration. He was staring at the knot of his necktie. It was slightly crooked. Not by much—perhaps a millimeter to the left—but in Heartslabyul, a millimeter was the difference between a peaceful morning and the terrifying, decapitating wrath of Housewarden Riddle Rosehearts.
"Rule number eighty-two of the Queen of Hearts," Deuce muttered to himself, his voice a low, gravelly whisper as he undid the knot and started over. "One must never wear a tie that tilts toward the left on a Wednesday... wait, no. Is it Wednesday? Or is that rule only for the month of April? Dammit, I stayed up until two in the morning studying the rulebook and it is all turning into alphabet soup."
He gritted his teeth, his calloused fingers clumsily wrestling with the smooth fabric of the tie. Deuce was not built for delicate work. His hands were built for gripping the handlebars of a magical wheel, for throwing a solid right hook, for wrestling with heavy machinery. They were not built for the intricate, frustrating geometry of private school neckwear.
"You're gonna choke yourself to death before breakfast, man."
Deuce jumped, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. He whipped his head around to see Ace Trappola leaning against the doorframe, a massive, annoying smirk plastered across his face. Ace was already fully dressed, his tie perfectly loose, his uniform jacket hanging off one shoulder in a blatant, casual defiance of the rules that Deuce was currently sweating over.
"I am not choking myself, Ace," Deuce shot back, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. He forcefully yanked the tie tight, ignoring the way it dug into his collar. "I am ensuring my uniform is up to standard. Today is a special occasion, and I am not going to give the Housewarden any reason to collar me before I even make it to the dining hall."
"Right, right, the big birthday boy," Ace chuckled, pushing himself off the doorframe and strolling into the room. He clapped Deuce heavily on the back, a gesture that was half-affectionate and half-mocking. "Happy birthday, by the way. Did you get any smarter overnight, or is the brain cell still loading?"
"Shut up," Deuce grumbled, shoving Ace's hand away, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I studied for the alchemy quiz today. I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Sure you do," Ace laughed. "Anyway, hurry up. Trey made a special breakfast spread, and if we don't get down there soon, Grim is going to materialize out of thin air and eat your birthday pancakes. You know how that furball gets when he smells maple syrup."
Deuce nodded, grabbing his magical pen and slipping it into his breast pocket. He took one last look in the mirror. His uniform was crisp. His hair was reasonably neat. He looked every inch the perfect, respectable honor student his mother prayed he would become.
But as he stared at his reflection, a sudden, heavy wave of exhaustion washed over him.
He loved Heartslabyul. He truly did. He respected Riddle, he looked up to Trey, and despite how much they fought, he considered Ace his best friend. But the pressure was relentless. Every single day was a tightrope walk. He had to police his own speech to ensure no delinquent slang slipped out. He had to walk at a measured pace. He had to force his brain to absorb complex magical theories when all he wanted to do was take an engine apart and put it back together.
It was his birthday, but he didn't feel older. He just felt tired.
"Coming," Deuce sighed, turning away from the mirror and following Ace out into the hallway.
The dining hall was exactly the chaotic, high-stress environment Deuce had expected. The long tables were covered in pristine white tablecloths, decorated with fresh red roses. Trey Clover was standing near the head of the table, a warm, welcoming smile on his face as he set down a massive platter of fluffy, beautifully golden pancakes.
"Happy birthday, Deuce," Trey called out, adjusting his glasses. "I made sure to whip up something a little extra for you this morning. No strange rules attached to these, I promise."
Before Deuce could even pick up his fork, the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open with a dramatic, echoing bang.
Riddle Rosehearts strode into the room, his posture rigidly perfect, his heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. The entire dining hall went dead silent. Students froze mid-bite, their eyes darting nervously toward their Housewarden.
"Good morning," Riddle announced, his sharp gray eyes scanning the room for any infractions. His gaze locked onto Deuce. "Spade. Stand up."
Deuce swallowed hard, his heart immediately plummeting into his stomach. He pushed his chair back and stood at attention, his hands resting flat against the seams of his trousers. "Yes, Housewarden?"
Riddle walked slowly around the table, stopping directly in front of Deuce. He looked Deuce up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"It is your birthday today, is it not?" Riddle asked, his tone unreadable.
"Yes, Housewarden. It is."
"I see," Riddle murmured. "According to rule number four hundred and twelve of the Queen of Hearts, on the day of one's birth, one must consume exactly three bites of a strawberry tart before midday to ensure a year of prosperity. Trey, do we have a strawberry tart prepared?"
"Yes, Riddle," Trey sighed softly, already moving toward the kitchen. "I have one ready."
"Excellent," Riddle nodded, turning his attention back to Deuce. "Furthermore, rule number one hundred and eighteen dictates that a birthday celebrant must wear a white rose upon their left lapel until sunset. Cater, see to it that he receives one."
"On it, boss!" Cater Diamond chirped from down the table, already typing rapidly on his phone.
"And finally," Riddle said, his voice dropping slightly, "as you are a year older, I expect a proportional increase in your academic maturity. No lagging behind in magical history, Spade. I expect perfection."
"Yes, Housewarden," Deuce repeated mechanically.
He sat back down, the delicious smell of the pancakes completely lost on him. The white rose was pinned to his jacket. The slice of strawberry tart was placed in front of him. He was surrounded by his friends, but he felt entirely suffocated. The rules were stacking up like heavy bricks on his shoulders, pressing him down into a mold he was desperately trying to fit into.
He didn't want a white rose. He didn't want a strawberry tart. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted to ride.
But honor students didn't scream. So, Deuce picked up his fork, cut a precise, perfectly measured bite of the tart, and forced himself to smile.
The morning classes passed in a blur of exhausting, monotonous lectures. By the time the lunch bell rang, Deuce's brain felt like it had been run through a blender. He had managed to scrape by in alchemy without blowing up his cauldron, but Professor Trein's history lecture had nearly pushed him over the edge into unconsciousness.
He was walking down the bustling main corridor of the campus, his head down, staring at the polished stone floor. Ace was walking beside him, rambling about a new video game he wanted to buy, but Deuce wasn't registering a single word. He was too busy trying to ignore the dull, throbbing headache building behind his eyes.
"Deuce!"
The sound of his name, called out in a familiar, bright voice, cut through the noise of the crowded hallway like a beacon.
Deuce stopped, lifting his head. His breath caught slightly in his throat.
You were jogging down the corridor toward him, carrying a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Your uniform was slightly messy, as always, a stark contrast to the rigid perfection of the Heartslabyul students. But to Deuce, you looked like an absolute oasis in a desert of rules and regulations.
"Hey," you smiled, stopping in front of him and catching your breath. "Happy birthday. I've been looking all over campus for you."
The heavy, dark cloud that had been hovering over Deuce's head all morning instantly dissipated. A genuine, bright smile broke across his face, reaching his deep blue eyes. "Hey, Prefect. Thank you. I was just heading to the cafeteria."
"Yeah, about that," you said, glancing over at Ace. "Ace, do you mind if I steal Deuce for the rest of the day? The Headmaster gave me a... highly classified, incredibly urgent mission that requires a strong, capable student. And Deuce fits the bill perfectly."
Ace raised an eyebrow, looking between you and Deuce with a knowing, highly suspicious smirk. "A classified mission from Crowley? Right. Let me guess, he wants you to wash his windows again?"
"It is highly sensitive, Ace, I can't discuss the details," you replied smoothly, keeping a completely straight face.
Ace snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Take him. He's been acting like a zombie all morning anyway. Just make sure he doesn't trip over his own feet and ruin his precious uniform."
"I don't act like a zombie," Deuce protested weakly, but he didn't put up much of a fight. The prospect of escaping the campus crowds with you was far too appealing.
"Come on," you laughed, grabbing Deuce's wrist and pulling him away from the flow of student traffic. "We have places to be."
Deuce followed you willingly, allowing himself to be led out of the main academic building and into the bright, warm afternoon air. As soon as you were out of sight of the other Heartslabyul students, Deuce let out a massive, shuddering exhale, reaching up to loosen his tie just a fraction of an inch.
"Tough morning?" you asked gently, slowing your pace so you were walking side-by-side.
"You have no idea," Deuce groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Housewarden hit me with three different rules before I even had breakfast. I have a white rose pinned to my jacket, I had to eat a tart I didn't want, and I've been trying to keep my posture perfectly straight for six hours. My spine feels like it's made of glass."
"You look good, though," you offered, offering an encouraging smile. "Very dashing. Very honor student."
Deuce grimaced, looking away. "Yeah. Honor student. That's what I'm supposed to be. If my mom could see me right now, she'd be thrilled. But honestly? I feel like I'm wearing a costume. Every time I open my mouth, I'm terrified I'm going to slip up and say something stupid, or start a fight, or just ruin everything. It's exhausting."
You listened quietly, your heart aching for him. You knew how much pressure he put on himself. You knew the deep, agonizing guilt he carried regarding his past behavior, and how desperately he wanted to prove to his mother—and to himself—that he wasn't a failure.
But you also knew that suppressing his true nature was slowly killing his spirit.
"Well," you said softly, stopping at a fork in the cobblestone path. "It's a good thing we aren't going on a mission for the Headmaster, then."
Deuce blinked, looking at you in confusion. "We aren't? Then where are we going?"
"I told you, I'm stealing you for the rest of the day," you grinned, grabbing his hand again. "No rules. No textbooks. No posture checks. Today, you are just Deuce. Follow me."
Instead of turning toward Ramshackle Dorm, you led him down a narrow, overgrown dirt path that snaked behind the botanical gardens. This part of the campus was rarely used, completely hidden from the pristine, manicured lawns of the main grounds. The trees grew thick and wild here, casting long, cool shadows over the path.
Deuce followed you in silence, his curiosity piqued. He looked down at your hand holding his, a warm, comforting flush spreading across his cheeks. He liked the feeling of your hand in his. It felt incredibly grounding, a stark contrast to the frantic, high-stress environment of his dorm.
After ten minutes of walking, the trees broke, revealing a small, dilapidated stone building. It looked like an old, abandoned groundskeeper's shed, covered in creeping ivy and surrounded by tall grass. The wooden double doors were weathered and chained shut with a heavy, rusted padlock.
"What is this place?" Deuce asked, stepping up to the building and inspecting the rusted lock. "This looks like it hasn't been opened in decades."
"It used to be a storage shed for the old campus auto club, way back before the club was disbanded," you explained, pulling a small, heavy brass key from your pocket. "I found it a few months ago while I was exploring. I talked to Crowley, bribed him with a promise to clean the faculty lounge for a month, and he let me borrow the space."
You stepped up to the doors, inserting the key into the rusted padlock. It turned with a harsh, metallic click, and the heavy lock fell open in your hands. You pulled the chain away and pushed the heavy wooden doors open. They creaked loudly, protesting the movement, before swinging wide to reveal the dim, dusty interior of the shed.
Deuce peered inside, adjusting his eyes to the gloom. The shed smelled strongly of old motor oil, dust, and aged wood. There were rusted tools hanging on the walls, and a few old, broken-down wooden crates stacked in the corner.
But in the very center of the room, resting on a clean canvas drop cloth, was a large, heavy object covered entirely by a thick, dark tarp.
"Go ahead," you said softly, stepping back and gesturing toward the object. "Take a look."
Deuce walked forward slowly, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. The shape beneath the tarp was distinct. It was familiar. It was a shape that haunted his dreams, a shape he had explicitly forbidden himself from seeking out ever since he enrolled at Night Raven College.
He reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing the edge of the heavy tarp. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pulled it back in one fluid, sweeping motion.
The tarp fell to the floor with a heavy thud, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
Deuce stopped breathing.
Sitting in the center of the shed, gleaming in the dim light filtering through the open doors, was a magnificent, perfectly restored Magical Wheel.
It was a classic blastcycle model, heavy and aggressive, with a sleek, aerodynamic chassis painted in a deep, glossy midnight blue. The chrome exhaust pipes were polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the sunlight. The leather seat was pristine, and the massive, heavy-duty tires looked like they had never touched asphalt. It was not a toy. It was a machine built for raw, untamed speed.
"No way," Deuce whispered, his voice cracking. He dropped to his knees beside the bike, his hands hovering over the sleek metal frame, too terrified to actually touch it, as if he believed it was an illusion that might shatter. "No way. This... this is a V-700 Phantom. These haven't been in production for five years. Where did you get this?"
"I didn't buy it," you admitted, walking up to stand beside him. "It belongs to the school, technically. It was sitting in the back of this shed, completely rusted out and broken down. I've been coming out here for the past three months, fixing it up."
Deuce whipped his head around to look at you, his blue eyes wide with absolute, staggering shock. "You fixed this? You? But you don't know anything about magical mechanics!"
"I learned," you smiled, though your hands were covered in small, faded scratches and grease burns that you had tried to hide. "I read a bunch of textbooks from the library. I asked Idia for advice on the ignition core, which cost me a fortune in rare video game drops. I spent hours scraping off rust and polishing the chrome. I wanted it to be perfect."
Deuce looked back at the magical wheel, his mind completely reeling. He reached out, finally letting his calloused fingers graze the smooth, cold metal of the fuel tank. The tactile sensation sent an electric shock straight through his nervous system.
It had been so long since he had touched a bike. He remembered the smell of exhaust, the deafening roar of the engine, the feeling of absolute, unbreakable control as he tore down the empty streets of his hometown. He remembered the adrenaline, the danger, and the sheer, unadulterated freedom.
But with those memories came the guilt. He remembered the flashing lights of the police cruisers. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes when she had to come pick him up from the station. He remembered the crushing, devastating realization that his rebellion was breaking the heart of the person he loved most in the world.
He snatched his hand back as if the metal had burned him.
"I can't," Deuce said, his voice dropping to a harsh, strained whisper. He stood up abruptly, backing away from the magical wheel, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "I can't ride this. You shouldn't have done this, Prefect."
Your smile faded, replaced by a look of deep, empathetic concern. "Deuce... why not?"
"Because this is exactly what I'm trying to leave behind!" Deuce shouted, the frustration and fear boiling over. He paced frantically across the dusty floor of the shed, his hands pulling at his own hair. "This is the stuff that made me a delinquent! This is the stuff that made my mom cry! If I get back on that bike, I'm going to slip backwards. I'm going to turn back into that stupid, reckless kid who didn't care about anything. I am an honor student now. I have to be. I have to be."
He stopped pacing, leaning heavily against the wooden wall of the shed, his shoulders shaking. The pristine white rose pinned to his lapel looked entirely out of place against the backdrop of rust and motor oil.
"I can't disappoint her again," Deuce whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I promised her I would change."
You stood quietly for a moment, letting the heavy, emotional silence fill the room. You didn't argue with him. You didn't dismiss his fears. You walked across the shed, stopping right in front of him, and gently placed your hands over his clenched fists.
"Deuce, look at me," you said softly.
He slowly lifted his head, his blue eyes swimming with guilt and anxiety.
"You are not that kid anymore," you said, your voice firm and unwavering with absolute conviction. "You are Deuce Spade. You study until your eyes bleed. You protect your friends. You follow the rules, even when they drive you crazy, because you want to be a good person. You have already changed. A piece of metal and an engine cannot undo all the hard work you have put in."
You reached up, gently unpinning the white rose from his lapel and tossing it onto the dusty workbench nearby. Then, you reached up and loosened the tight knot of his Heartslabyul necktie, pulling it away from his throat.
"Your mother wants you to be a good man," you continued, your hands resting gently on his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart. "She doesn't want you to be a robot. She doesn't want you to kill the parts of yourself that make you happy just to fit into a mold. Riding a magical wheel doesn't make you a delinquent. It makes you a rider. That's it."
Deuce stared at you, his chest heaving as he struggled to process your words. He wanted to believe you. He wanted to believe it so desperately that it physically ached.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice incredibly small, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly earnest. "Are you sure I won't lose control?"
"I'm positive," you smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Because I know you. And I know your heart. You are the most honorable person I have ever met, Deuce. You don't have to choose between being a good son and being yourself. You can be both. Now..."
You turned, walking over to one of the wooden crates and opening it. You pulled out two heavy, reinforced leather jackets and two sleek, protective helmets. You tossed one of the jackets to him.
"Put that on," you commanded, your tone shifting into something playful and challenging. "It's your birthday. I spent three months covered in grease for this. You are going to take me for a ride, Deuce Spade, and you are going to show me exactly what this machine can do."
Deuce caught the heavy leather jacket. He looked at the thick, durable material, then over at the gleaming, magnificent magical wheel waiting for him in the center of the room. He looked at you, standing there with a helmet in your hands, offering him the one thing he had denied himself for so long: absolute, unconditional acceptance.
A slow, brilliant, dangerous smirk spread across Deuce's face. It wasn't the polite smile of an honor student. It was the sharp, confident, adrenaline-fueled grin of a boy who knew exactly who he was.
"You asked for it," Deuce said, his voice dropping an octave, shedding the polite, formal cadence he used in class.
He shrugged off his Heartslabyul uniform jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a crate, and pulled the heavy leather jacket on over his dress shirt. It fit him perfectly, broad in the shoulders and tight at the waist. He looked completely different. He looked older, rougher, and devastatingly handsome.
He grabbed the helmet from your hands, but he didn't put it on immediately. He walked over to the magical wheel, swinging his long leg over the chassis and settling into the leather seat. The bike creaked slightly under his weight, adjusting to its rider.
Deuce ran his hands over the handlebars, testing the grip, testing the weight of the machine. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the smell of the leather and the cold metal.
He reached down and engaged the magical ignition.
With a deafening, thunderous roar, the V-700 Phantom sprang to life. The engine didn't just purr; it snarled, vibrating with intense, raw magical energy that shook the dust from the rafters of the shed. The twin exhaust pipes spat a brief flare of blue magical exhaust, the sheer power of the machine echoing through the small space.
Deuce revved the engine, the sound hitting you right in your chest. His eyes snapped open, blazing with an intense, fiery excitement. The hesitation was completely gone.
"Get on," Deuce shouted over the roar of the engine, tossing you your helmet.
You quickly strapped the helmet on and climbed onto the back of the bike, sitting close behind him. You wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your chest against his back. He felt incredibly solid beneath the leather jacket, his muscles tensed and ready.
"Hold on tight," Deuce warned, shifting his weight forward, gripping the handlebars with absolute authority. "I don't ride slow."
Before you could even respond, Deuce kicked the gearshift and twisted the throttle.
The magical wheel shot out of the abandoned shed like a bullet fired from a gun.
The sheer, terrifying acceleration slammed you backward, forcing you to grip Deuce's waist with everything you had. The bike tore down the overgrown dirt path, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and dead leaves in its wake. Deuce navigated the narrow, twisting trail with the effortless, instinctive grace of a master. He leaned into the curves, the heavy bike responding to his every micro-adjustment as if it were an extension of his own body.
Within seconds, you burst out of the woods and onto the paved, winding coastal road that led away from the Night Raven College campus, hugging the edge of the jagged cliffs that overlooked the sea.
The moment the tires hit the smooth asphalt, Deuce opened the throttle completely.
The engine roared like a chained beast finally set free. The speed was incomprehensible, a blur of motion that turned the trees and the coastline into a streaking canvas of green, brown, and ocean blue. The wind howled past your helmet, a chaotic, deafening rush of air that drowned out everything else in the world.
But you weren't scared. Sitting behind Deuce, feeling the absolute, iron-clad control he exerted over the machine, you felt entirely safe.
He was magnificent. The rigid, anxious honor student was completely gone, replaced by a boy in his element. He moved with the bike, shifting his weight perfectly as he carved through the sharp turns of the coastal road. He didn't hesitate. He didn't second-guess himself. He read the road, anticipating every curve, every dip, riding with a fearless, beautiful confidence.
You pressed your face against his back, holding him tight, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm of pure adrenaline. You could feel the deep, vibrating rumble of his chest as he let out a loud, joyous, unrestrained laugh that was swallowed instantly by the wind.
He was free.
You rode for what felt like hours, putting miles between yourselves and the suffocating rules of the campus. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in breathtaking strokes of violently bright orange, deep magenta, and bruised purple. The ocean below the cliffs reflected the dying light, turning the water into a vast, shimmering sea of liquid gold.
Eventually, Deuce slowed the bike down. He navigated off the main road, pulling onto a secluded, rocky overlook that sat high above the crashing waves of the ocean.
He killed the engine. The sudden silence, after the deafening roar of the wind and the motor, felt incredibly heavy and profound. The only sounds were the distant crashing of the surf against the rocks below and the ticking of the cooling metal of the exhaust pipes.
Deuce kicked the stand down and secured the bike. You unclasped your hands from his waist and climbed off, your legs feeling slightly wobbly from the adrenaline and the vibrations of the ride. You pulled off your helmet, shaking your windblown hair out.
Deuce took his helmet off, resting it on the handlebars.
He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, looking out over the vast expanse of the ocean. His chest was heaving, his breathing heavy and erratic. His dark blue hair was a mess, completely ruined by the helmet, and there was a faint smear of grease on his cheek.
He turned to look at you.
The expression on his face was so intensely raw, so deeply emotional, that it made your breath catch. His blue eyes were shining, wide and completely unguarded. The heavy, crushing weight he had been carrying on his shoulders since the moment he woke up was completely, entirely gone.
"Prefect," Deuce breathed, his voice barely a whisper. He took a step toward you, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat.
Before you could say a word, Deuce reached out, grabbing the lapels of your jacket and pulling you forcefully into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, holding you with a desperate, crushing grip.
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a sound that carried years of repressed frustration, fear, and guilt, finally being released into the open air.
"Thank you," Deuce whispered fiercely against your skin, his voice thick with overwhelming emotion. "Thank you. I didn't realize... I didn't realize how much I needed that. I felt like I was dying in there. I felt like I was suffocating."
You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him just as tightly, rubbing your hands up and down his leather-clad back. "You're okay, Deuce. I've got you. You're okay."
He pulled back just enough to look at your face, though he kept his arms wrapped securely around your waist. His hands were trembling slightly.
"It felt exactly like it used to," Deuce confessed, a beautiful, genuine smile breaking across his features. "The speed. The noise. The control. But it was different, too. I wasn't running away from the cops. I wasn't trying to prove I was tough, or trying to pick a fight. I was just... riding. With you. It felt clean. It felt right."
"Because you are right," you said softly, reaching up to gently wipe the smear of grease from his cheek with your thumb. "You are not a bad person, Deuce. You never were. You were just a kid who was hurting and didn't know how to deal with it. You don't have to punish yourself forever. Your mom loves you. I love you. You are allowed to be happy."
The words hung in the quiet, cool evening air.
Deuce froze. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating until his irises were barely visible. He stared at you, his breath hitching in his throat.
"You... you love me?" he repeated, his voice cracking, as if he couldn't quite process the magnitude of the statement.
"Of course I do," you smiled, feeling a flush of warmth spread across your own cheeks, but you held his gaze firmly. "I love the honor student who studies until he falls asleep at his desk. I love the guy who punches bullies to protect his friends. I love the delinquent who knows how to handle a magical wheel. I love all of it, Deuce. You don't have to hide any part of yourself from me. Ever."
Deuce stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For a boy who was so quick to act, so quick to throw a punch or make a bold decision, he looked completely, entirely paralyzed by the sheer force of the affection you were offering him.
He had spent so much time believing he was broken, believing he had to assemble a completely new, fake version of himself to be worthy of anyone's time. To be told that his genuine, messy, flawed self was not only acceptable, but loved... it shattered the final, brittle walls of his insecurities into a million pieces.
"You..." Deuce swallowed hard, his throat working. He brought his hands up, gently cupping your face. His calloused fingers were rough against your skin, but his touch was incredibly, heartbreakingly tender. "You are crazy, Prefect. Do you know that? You are completely, utterly crazy."
"Probably," you laughed softly, leaning into his touch.
"I don't deserve you," Deuce whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. "I really don't. But I swear to the Great Seven, I am never going to let you go."
He didn't wait for a response. He tilted your chin up and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was everything Deuce Spade was. It was not polished, polite, or perfectly calculated. It was raw, deeply passionate, and fiercely protective. He kissed you with a desperate intensity, his hands sliding from your cheeks to tangle in your hair, pulling you flush against his chest. He poured every ounce of his gratitude, his relief, and his overwhelming, consuming love for you into the contact.
You gasped softly against his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, returning the kiss with equal fervor. The taste of the salty ocean air mixed with the lingering scent of motor oil and old leather. It was a chaotic, dizzying, perfect moment.
When he finally pulled away, he was panting heavily, his face flushed, a brilliant, uncontrollable smile stretching across his face. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with a deep, profound happiness that you had never seen in him before.
"Best birthday ever," Deuce declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.
"It's not over yet," you laughed, stepping back and reaching into your messenger bag, which you had strapped to the back of the bike. "I didn't bring a strawberry tart. And I definitely didn't bring tea."
You pulled out two somewhat squished convenience-store egg sandwiches, a couple of packaged sweet buns, and two cans of cold, black coffee. It was the exact type of cheap, unrefined, delicious junk food he used to eat sitting on the curbs in his hometown after a long night of riding.
Deuce looked at the food, and he let out a loud, genuine, booming laugh that echoed off the cliffs. It was the sound of a boy who had finally, truly come home.
"You," Deuce grinned, taking an egg sandwich and popping the tab on the coffee can, "are an absolute genius. Forget Trey's gourmet pastries. This is exactly what I wanted."
The two of you sat on the edge of the rocky overlook, your legs dangling over the precipice, watching the final rays of the sun sink below the ocean horizon. You ate the cheap sandwiches and drank the bitter coffee, talking quietly about everything and nothing. Deuce told you stories about his middle school days—not the apologies, not the guilt-ridden confessions, but the actual, funny, chaotic stories of his youth. He talked about his friends, about the stupid stunts they pulled, about the time he accidentally drove his old bike into a ditch to avoid hitting a stray cat.
He didn't police his language. He didn't check his posture. He sat with his shoulders slouched, a relaxed, easy grin on his face, entirely comfortable in his own skin.
As the stars began to pinprick the dark, indigo sky, the temperature dropped significantly. The cold ocean wind bit through your clothes, causing you to shiver violently.
Deuce noticed immediately. He set his empty coffee can down, stood up, and pulled off his heavy leather jacket. Before you could protest, he draped it around your shoulders, pulling the collar tight around your neck. The jacket was massive on you, entirely engulfing your frame, and it radiated the intense, comforting heat of his body.
"Deuce, you'll freeze," you argued, looking up at him as he stood there in just his dress shirt and uniform slacks.
"I run hot," Deuce smirked, offering his hand to help you up. "Besides, a man always protects what's his. Rule number one of the streets."
You rolled your eyes playfully, taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. "Look at you, quoting street rules instead of the Queen of Hearts. What would Riddle say?"
"Riddle can write me a fifty-page essay on why I'm wrong tomorrow," Deuce laughed, walking you back to the magical wheel. "Tonight, I don't care."
He swung his leg over the bike, waiting for you to climb on behind him. You strapped the helmet on, wrapped your arms around his waist—feeling the firm muscles of his back through the thin fabric of his dress shirt—and rested your head against his shoulder.
Deuce turned the key. The massive engine roared to life, a powerful, vibrating hum that echoed into the night. He flipped the headlight on, the bright beam slicing through the darkness of the coastal road.
"Ready to go back?" Deuce asked, turning his head slightly to look at you.
"Whenever you are," you replied, holding him tight.
Deuce smiled, facing forward. He kicked the bike into gear, and with a twist of the throttle, the magical wheel launched forward into the cool, dark night.
The ride back to Night Raven College was slower, more relaxed, but no less thrilling. The stars above provided a glittering canopy, and the rhythmic hum of the engine served as a steady, comforting heartbeat beneath you. Deuce navigated the dark roads with absolute precision, carrying you safely through the shadows, returning you both to reality.
When you finally parked the magical wheel back in the old, abandoned storage shed and locked the heavy wooden doors behind you, the campus was completely quiet. It was past curfew. The dorms were locked, the lights were out, and the strict, suffocating rules of the school were safely asleep.
You walked back toward the Heartslabyul dorm in comfortable, easy silence, hand-in-hand under the moonlight.
As you reached the edge of the rose maze, marking the boundary of his dormitory, Deuce stopped. He turned to face you, stepping close, the moonlight catching the striking, deep blue of his eyes.
"I have to go back in there," Deuce said quietly, looking at the grand, imposing structure of the Heartslabyul dorm. "I have to put the uniform back on tomorrow. I have to memorize the rules. I have to be the honor student."
"I know," you smiled softly, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt. "But you know it's just a uniform now, right? It isn't a cage. You can take it off whenever you need to."
Deuce looked down at you, his expression softening into profound, unconditional affection. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Thank you, Prefect," Deuce whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "For the bike. For the sandwiches. For everything. I won't ever forget today."
"Happy birthday, Deuce," you murmured.
He squeezed your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, turning, and making his way through the rose maze. You watched him go, noting the difference in his walk. His shoulders were no longer tight. His head was held high, not out of enforced posture, but out of genuine pride. He wasn't walking like a boy terrified of making a mistake.
He was walking like Deuce Spade. And he was absolutely magnificent.
----
A truly freeing ride!
It is a rare privilege to see the boy beneath the pristine uniform, to feel the roar of the engine and the unyielding loyalty of his heart. I hope this extensive, adrenaline-fueled dish satisfied your appetite and gave the good-hearted delinquent the celebration he truly deserved.
Thank you for spending time in the Lounge today. Keep the engine running, and please, come again!
The kitchen is taking a brief pause today to hang up the rainbow decorations and pour some celebratory drinks on the house, because it is officially Pride Month!
As a bisexual creator myself, this time of year always holds a very special place in my heart, and I wanted to take a quick moment to celebrate with all of you.
I want to issue a very clear reminder to everyone who walks through these digital doors: this blog is, and always will be, a 100% safe space. Whether you are loud and proud, still figuring things out, or quietly existing in your own truth, you are welcomed, loved, and celebrated here exactly as you are. There is a seat at the table for you.
Drink some water, be incredibly proud of who you are, and let's have a beautiful, joyful June!
Ah, welcome to the Mostro Lounge on this rather peaceful, quiet day.
The lights have been dimmed just a fraction, the usual bustling jazz music has been replaced by the soft, soothing sound of acoustic strings, and the kitchen is filled with the scent of earthy herbs and slow-roasted comforts. When it comes to the knights of Diasomnia, one must prepare a celebration that matches their spirit. For Sebek, it was thunderous and bright. But for Silver?
Silver requires something gentle. He requires a space where the heavy, enchanted pull of his eyelids is not seen as a weakness, but simply as a part of who he is. For the boy who grew up surrounded by immortal fae, who wields a sword with unparalleled grace, and who possesses a heart as pure as the forest he calls home, a traditional, loud birthday party is entirely the wrong approach.
The kitchen has decided to honor him properly. No booming surprises. No terrifying culinary experiments from his father. Just warmth, quiet devotion, and a feast meant to ground him in the waking world.
Please, take your seat. Get comfortable. This is going to be an incredibly extensive, deeply detailed serving.
Serving: The Waking Dream
The dream was always the same.
It was not a nightmare, though it carried the heavy, suffocating weight of one. Silver stood in the center of a vast, ancient forest. The trees were impossibly tall, their trunks thick as castle towers, their branches weaving together so densely that the sky was entirely obscured. The light that filtered down was a sickly, pale green, casting long, warped shadows across the moss-covered ground.
He was walking, though his legs felt like they were made of lead. He was searching for something. Or someone. He could hear voices echoing through the trees—the booming, fiercely loyal shout of Sebek, the deep, resonant, ancient tone of Malleus, and the bright, mischievous laughter of his father, Lilia.
“Come along, Silver,” Lilia’s voice would chime, sounding both right next to his ear and a thousand miles away.
Silver would try to run toward the sound, but the air was thick as syrup. The harder he tried to move, the heavier his eyelids became. The moss beneath his boots would soften, turning into a plush, inviting bed. The roots of the trees would curl up, offering themselves as pillows. The forest itself was whispering to him, a lullaby sung in a language older than humanity.
Sleep. Rest. Close your eyes, little knight.
He would fight it. He always fought it. He would grip the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, gritting his teeth, demanding that his body obey his will. But the enchantment was absolute. His knees would buckle. He would fall to the soft earth, his eyes fluttering shut as the voices of his family faded away into the mist, leaving him entirely, utterly alone in the dark.
Silver gasped, his eyes snapping open.
He shot up in bed, his chest heaving, his right hand instinctively reaching for the sword that rested against his nightstand. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the hilt, grounding him instantly.
He blinked rapidly, waiting for his vision to adjust to the dim, emerald-tinted light of his dormitory room. The high, gothic arches of the ceiling, the heavy velvet curtains, the familiar scent of old parchment and ozone—it was all real. He was in Diasomnia. He was awake.
Silver let out a long, shuddering sigh, releasing his grip on the sword and running a trembling hand through his messy, silver hair. He felt the cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck.
"Just a dream," he murmured, his voice thick and raspy from sleep. "Again."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor. A shiver ran up his spine, fully banishing the lingering fog of the nightmare. He looked at the ornate, magical clock resting on his desk. It was barely past dawn.
Today was May fifteenth. It was his birthday.
In the human world, a birthday was a milestone. It was a marker of growth, of passing time, of moving from childhood into adulthood. But growing up in the Briar Valley, surrounded by beings who lived for centuries, who viewed a decade as a mere blink of an eye, a birthday had always felt like a strange, isolating concept. When he was young, his father had thrown lavish, chaotic parties, showering him with gifts and affection. But every year that passed was a reminder of the fundamental difference between him and his family. They were eternal. He was fleeting.
And every year, the sleep grew heavier.
A sudden, catastrophic crash echoed from the floor below, rattling the heavy wooden door of his bedroom.
Silver didn't flinch. He simply sighed, pushing himself up from the bed.
"Father is in the kitchen," Silver noted softly to himself.
He moved to his washbasin, splashing freezing cold water onto his face, forcing the blood to rush to his cheeks. He dried his face with a towel, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His aurora-colored eyes stared back at him—strange, shifting, caught between the colors of dawn and dusk. He didn't look like a knight today. He just looked tired.
He dressed meticulously. Even on his birthday, he was a retainer to the future king of the Briar Valley. He fastened the complicated straps of his uniform, brushed the wrinkles from his jacket, and ensured his boots were perfectly polished. He strapped his magical pen to his hip. Duty did not pause for celebrations.
When he finally opened his door and descended the grand, spiraling stone staircase into the main lounge of Diasomnia, he was met with a scene of absolute, concentrated chaos.
Thick, unnatural purple smoke was billowing from the arched doorway of the kitchen.
"MASTER LILIA! PLEASE! THE INGREDIENTS ARE SCREAMING!"
Sebek’s voice cut through the smoke, booming with such incredible volume that Silver winced, rubbing his sensitive ears.
"Nonsense, Sebek!" Lilia’s cheerful, entirely unbothered voice floated back. "That is simply the sound of the mandrake root releasing its natural, celebratory flavors! A birthday cake requires a strong foundation! Now, pass me that jar of pickled newt eyes, I want to create a glaze!"
"THAT IS NOT A GLAZE! THAT IS A BIOLOGICAL WEAPON!" Sebek roared, the sound of heavy boots stomping frantically across the tile floor accompanying his panic.
Silver stopped at the base of the stairs, leaning against the cold stone railing. A small, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was loud. It was dangerous. It was terrifyingly unhygienic. But it was home.
"You are awake early, Silver."
Silver turned his head. Sitting in a high-backed leather armchair near the unlit fireplace, completely unfazed by the purple smoke slowly filling the ceiling, was Malleus Draconia. The Housewarden held a heavy, ancient tome in his lap, though his glowing green eyes were fixed on Silver.
"Good morning, Lord Malleus," Silver said, immediately stepping forward and dropping into a flawless, respectful bow. "I apologize if the commotion woke you."
"Do not apologize for Lilia’s culinary enthusiasm," Malleus said smoothly, closing the book with a soft thud. "And please, dispense with the formalities today. It is the anniversary of your birth. In the Briar Valley, such a day is meant to be spent in joyous reflection, not servitude."
Malleus stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. He approached Silver, his footsteps completely silent. He stopped in front of the younger boy, looking down at him with an expression that was ancient, unreadable, yet undeniably affectionate.
Malleus reached out, placing a massive, elegantly gloved hand on Silver’s shoulder.
"You have grown, Child of Man," Malleus murmured, his voice vibrating with a subtle, underlying magic. "Another year of life. Another year of strength. The Briar Valley is proud to call you its knight. Happy Birthday."
Silver felt a flush of warmth spread across his chest. Coming from Malleus, the words were not a simple pleasantry; they were a royal decree. "Thank you, Malleus. I will continue to dedicate my life to your service."
Before Malleus could respond, the kitchen doors burst open, and Sebek stumbled out, coughing violently, his face covered in soot.
"SILVER!" Sebek shouted the moment he spotted him, completely ignoring his own respiratory distress. He marched over, snapping into a rigid, military salute. "I HUMBLY CONGRATULATE YOU ON SURVIVING ANOTHER REVOLUTION AROUND THE SUN! AS YOUR FELLOW RETAINER, I DEMAND THAT YOU SPEND THIS DAY PERFECTING YOUR SWORDSMANSHIP SO THAT YOU MAY BETTER SERVE THE YOUNG MASTER!"
"Thank you, Sebek," Silver replied calmly, though he subtly took a step back to avoid the sheer concussive force of Sebek's voice. "I will be sure to train."
Suddenly, Lilia materialized upside down from the ceiling, hanging by his knees from one of the gothic chandeliers. He was holding a large, steaming plate covered in what looked like bubbling, neon-pink sludge.
"Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!" Lilia cheered, his fangs flashing in a wide, terrifying grin. "I have prepared a traditional, centuries-old birthday tart! It is packed with nutrients, magical enhancements, and just a hint of bat venom for flavor! Come, open wide!"
Silver stared at the bubbling sludge. A bubble rose to the surface, popped, and released a tiny puff of green gas that immediately withered a nearby potted fern.
Silver possessed an iron stomach. He had eaten his father’s cooking for his entire life, out of sheer love and respect. But today, the thought of consuming the glowing, toxic-looking mass made his already uneasy stomach churn violently. The lingering anxiety from his nightmare was still twisting in his gut.
"Father," Silver said gently, offering a polite, practiced smile. "I am deeply honored. Truly. But I fear my stomach is not quite awake yet. I... I think I need to take a walk. To clear my head. A morning patrol of the campus perimeter, to ensure the Young Master's safety."
Lilia paused, hanging upside down, his crimson eyes studying Silver’s face. For a moment, the cheerful, oblivious father persona dropped. Lilia was an ancient general; he saw everything. He saw the pale sheen of sweat on Silver’s forehead. He saw the slight tremor in his hands. He saw the shadows under his aurora-colored eyes.
"A patrol," Lilia repeated softly, righting himself and floating gently down to the floor. He set the terrifying tart on a nearby table. "Of course. Fresh air is vital for a growing knight. But do not wander too far, Silver. We have much to celebrate later."
"I will return soon," Silver promised. He bowed once more to Malleus, gave a nod to a sputtering Sebek, and quickly made his way toward the heavy oak doors of the dormitory.
As he pushed the doors open and stepped out into the cool, crisp morning air, he let out a massive breath he didn't realize he had been holding. The heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the dorm vanished, replaced by the sharp, clean scent of dew on grass.
He needed quiet. He needed to escape the sheer intensity of his family, just for a little while.
Silver did not walk toward the main campus. He did not want to deal with the chaotic energy of Heartslabyul students rushing to class, or the loud, boisterous laughter of Savanaclaw beastmen. Instead, he turned his boots toward the thick, dense forest that bordered the Botanical Gardens.
The woods at Night Raven College were not as grand or ancient as the forests of the Briar Valley, but they held a similar magic. The trees were tall, their leaves forming a thick, protective canopy that filtered the morning sunlight into soft, dappled beams. The underbrush was thick with ferns and wild brambles.
As soon as Silver crossed the tree line, his entire posture changed. The rigid, perfect posture of a royal retainer melted away. His shoulders dropped. His breathing slowed, matching the natural, rhythmic pulse of the forest.
He walked aimlessly, his boots crunching softly against the fallen leaves.
Almost immediately, the forest recognized him. Silver possessed a unique, entirely passive magic. It was not a spell he cast; it was simply an aura he radiated. A deep, profound tranquility.
A small, brown squirrel darted down the trunk of a nearby oak tree, stopping a few feet from Silver’s boots. It sat up on its hind legs, chittering softly. Silver smiled, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a small handful of mixed nuts he always kept on his person. He knelt down, offering his open palm. The squirrel didn't hesitate. It scampered forward, taking a nut directly from his hand before scurrying up onto his shoulder, finding a comfortable spot against his collar.
A moment later, a pair of bluebirds fluttered down from the canopy, landing delicately on his silver hair, mistaking it for a shining, metallic nest.
Silver stood back up, moving deeper into the woods with his newly acquired entourage. A family of deer watched him pass from a thicket of bushes, their large, dark eyes devoid of any fear. To them, he was not a predator. He was a part of the woods.
He walked until he found a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing stood a massive, ancient willow tree, its long, weeping branches forming a natural, green tent. The grass beneath the tree was soft, thick, and perfectly untouched.
Silver stepped through the curtain of willow branches and sat down, leaning his back against the broad, sturdy trunk.
The moment he stopped moving, the curse began to pull at him.
The silence of the woods, the comforting weight of the squirrel on his shoulder, the soft chirping of the birds—it was all a lullaby. The exhaustion from his restless night and the lingering anxiety of his nightmare crashed over him like a tidal wave.
His eyelids fluttered. They felt like they were made of iron.
No, Silver thought, his brow furrowing in distress. Not today. I do not want to sleep through today.
He pinched his own arm, a sharp, stinging pain meant to jolt his nervous system. It worked for exactly five seconds before the heavy, suffocating blanket of enchanted sleep settled over his mind once more. His chin dropped to his chest. The forest around him began to blur, the edges of his vision darkening into a soft, inviting gray.
I am missing it, he thought, a deep, profound wave of sadness washing over him as his consciousness slipped. I am missing my own life.
"Silver?"
The voice was soft. It was not a shout, nor a command. It was gentle, melodic, and entirely human.
Silver’s eyes snapped open. The sudden surge of adrenaline was so intense that the birds on his head took flight, fluttering up into the branches of the willow.
He looked up.
Standing on the edge of the clearing, pushing a willow branch aside, were you.
You were wearing a thick, oversized, incredibly comfortable-looking knitted cardigan over your uniform. In your arms, you carried a massive, woven picnic basket that looked heavy enough to strain your wrists, and a rolled-up, quilted blanket was tucked under your arm. Your hair was slightly windblown, your cheeks flushed pink from the morning chill, and you were looking at him with an expression of such absolute, unyielding affection that it literally made his breath catch in his throat.
"Prefect," Silver breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He scrambled to his feet, instantly defaulting to his polite, formal posture. "What are you doing out here? Did the Young Master send you to find me? Is there an emergency?"
"No emergencies," you smiled, stepping fully into the enclosure beneath the willow tree. The leaves fell back into place behind you, sealing the two of you in a private, green-tinted world. "Hornton didn't send me. Actually, no one knows I'm here. I sneaked out of Ramshackle before Grim even woke up."
Silver frowned, utterly confused. "Then why..."
"Because it's your birthday, Silver," you said simply, walking toward him and setting the heavy basket down on the soft grass. You unrolled the quilted blanket, spreading it out over the ground. It was large, thick, and colored in deep shades of forest green and silver.
"My... birthday," Silver repeated. He looked down at the blanket, then back up at you. "You came out into the woods... for me?"
"Of course I did," you laughed, a soft, musical sound that did absolutely nothing to trigger his sleep curse. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Your presence was like a sharp, bright ray of sunlight piercing through a heavy fog. "I know how Diasomnia celebrates. I know Lilia means well, but I also know that you probably haven't eaten anything this morning because you were too afraid it might dissolve your internal organs."
Silver actually chuckled at that, a rare, genuine sound that made the squirrel on his shoulder perk its ears up. "You are... incredibly perceptive, Prefect."
"Please, just sit down," you urged, gesturing to the blanket. "You look like you're about to fall over. I brought breakfast."
Silver hesitated for a fraction of a second, his ingrained sense of duty warring with the deep, overwhelming desire to just exist in this quiet space with you. He looked at your bright, encouraging smile, and the duty lost. He knelt down, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the blanket, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes.
You knelt opposite him, popping the latches on the woven basket.
The smell hit him instantly, and his stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble that made his pale cheeks flush bright red.
It was not the smell of toxic magic or bizarre, ancient ingredients. It was the smell of home. Real home.
You pulled out two large, heavy ceramic bowls. Next came a large, enchanted thermos that radiated a comforting heat. You unscrewed the cap and poured the contents into the bowls.
It was a thick, creamy, wild mushroom and roasted garlic soup. The broth was a rich, earthy brown, dotted with fresh sprigs of thyme and cracked black pepper. The steam rose in swirling columns, carrying the scent of butter, roasted vegetables, and a hint of white wine.
"I made it from scratch," you explained, handing him a bowl and a silver spoon. "I know you like foraging, so I went out yesterday afternoon and found the mushrooms myself. I had Jade verify them, so don't worry, they aren't poisonous. I simmered it all night."
Silver took the bowl. It was incredibly warm against his cold hands. He stared down at the soup, a strange, tight feeling building in the back of his throat. He had never had someone cook for him like this. Malleus did not cook. Sebek’s cooking was strictly utilitarian, focused purely on protein. And Lilia’s cooking was... Lilia’s cooking.
"You stayed up all night... to make this for me?" Silver asked, his voice thick.
"I wanted it to be perfect," you said softly, reaching back into the basket. You pulled out a massive loaf of freshly baked sourdough bread, still warm to the touch, and a small crock of whipped, salted honey butter. You tore off a large chunk of the bread, slathered it in the butter, and handed it to him. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
Silver took the bread. He dipped it into the thick soup, letting it soak up the broth, and took a bite.
He closed his eyes.
The flavor was extraordinary. It was deeply, intensely savory, the earthiness of the wild mushrooms perfectly balanced by the sweet, roasted garlic and the rich, heavy cream. The sourdough bread had a perfect, satisfying crunch, giving way to a soft, fluffy interior. It was warm. It was safe. It tasted like a hug.
Silver let out a soft, barely audible sigh of absolute contentment. He didn't say a word. He simply began to eat. He ate with the slow, meticulous focus of a starving man who was terrified the food might vanish if he rushed. He finished the entire bowl, and half the loaf of bread, before he finally set the ceramic dish down on the blanket.
"That was..." Silver swallowed hard, looking at you with an expression of profound, naked gratitude. "That was the greatest thing I have ever tasted. Thank you."
"You're welcome," you smiled, looking incredibly pleased. You packed the empty bowls back into the basket. "I also brought a cake, but we can save that for later. You looked like you needed actual food first."
"I did," Silver admitted, a small, self-deprecating smile crossing his face. He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the canopy of willow leaves above you. The green light filtered down, casting shifting patterns across his pale skin.
For a long time, the two of you sat in comfortable, easy silence. The squirrel had abandoned Silver’s shoulder to investigate a crumb of sourdough bread that had fallen onto the blanket. The woods were quiet, save for the rustling of the leaves and the distant chirping of the birds.
But as the physical hunger faded, the emotional exhaustion rushed back in to take its place.
Silver’s gaze dropped from the canopy to his own hands, resting in his lap. He stared at the callouses on his palms, forged by years of gripping a sword hilt.
"I had the dream again this morning," Silver said quietly, his voice breaking the peaceful silence. It was a confession. He rarely spoke of his dreams, viewing them as a personal weakness he had to overcome. But sitting here with you, the walls he built around his heart felt impossibly thin.
You stopped organizing the basket, giving him your full, undivided attention. "The one where you're lost in the woods?"
"Yes," Silver nodded, his expression turning bleak. "The one where my father, and Malleus, and Sebek are calling out to me. And I try to reach them. I try so hard. But the sleep is too heavy. I fall, and when I close my eyes, they disappear."
He clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms.
"I hate it," Silver whispered fiercely, a sudden, raw emotion bleeding into his usually calm voice. "I hate this curse. I hate this... this flaw in my blood. Today is my birthday. I am another year older. Another year closer to the end of my life. And what do I spend my life doing? Sleeping."
He looked up at you, his aurora eyes shimmering with unshed tears, filled with a deep, agonizing vulnerability.
"When I was seven years old," Silver continued, his voice trembling, "my father threw a massive party for me. He invited fairies from all over the Briar Valley. There was music, and dancing, and a mountain of presents. I was so excited. But... halfway through the celebration, the sleep hit me. I couldn't fight it. I passed out in my chair."
He looked away, staring into the dark underbrush of the forest.
"When I woke up, the party was over. The guests were gone. The candles on my cake had burned all the way down to the frosting, leaving nothing but melted wax. I missed my own birthday. I missed the joy. And I saw the look on my father’s face. He smiled at me, he told me it was alright, but I saw the sadness in his eyes. I was a disappointment."
"Silver, no," you said immediately, your heart breaking at the sheer weight of the guilt he was carrying.
"It's true," Silver insisted, shaking his head. "I am a knight. My duty is to protect Malleus. How can I protect him when I cannot even keep my own eyes open? What good is a sword if the man holding it is asleep? Sometimes I look at Malleus, and Lilia, and even Sebek... and I realize how fundamentally different I am. They are powerful. They are eternal. And I am just... a tired human. A fleeting, fragile thing that they have to constantly carry."
He squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping and tracking down his pale cheek. "I am terrified, Prefect. I am terrified that one day, I will close my eyes, and when I wake up... years will have passed. And they will be gone. Or worse, they will have realized that I am not worth the burden of carrying."
The silence that followed his confession was heavy, thick with a pain he had harbored for over a decade. He waited for you to offer a platitude. He waited for you to tell him that he was overreacting, or that his family loved him, words he had heard a million times but could never truly internalize.
You didn't do any of that.
Instead, you moved. You crawled across the quilted blanket until you were sitting directly in front of him. You reached out, taking his clenched fists in your hands. His hands were large, cold, and rigid with tension. You gently pried his fingers open, smoothing your thumbs over his calloused palms, offering a warm, grounding touch.
Silver opened his eyes, startled by the physical contact. He looked down at your hands holding his, then up to your face.
You were looking at him with an intensity that burned right through the fog of his insecurities.
"Silver," you said, your voice low, firm, and ringing with absolute conviction. "Look at me."
He met your gaze.
"You are not a burden," you stated, emphasizing every single word. "You have never been a burden. Do you think Lilia Vanrouge, a general who has fought in wars that shaped the world, would raise a child out of pity? Do you think Malleus Draconia, one of the most powerful mages in Twisted Wonderland, would accept a retainer he believed was weak?"
Silver opened his mouth to argue, but you squeezed his hands, silencing him.
"You look at your sleep as a curse," you continued, your eyes locked onto his shifting, dawn-colored irises. "You see it as an absence. But you are looking at it all wrong. Your sleep does not make you weak, Silver. Your sleep is proof of your strength."
He frowned, completely bewildered. "How can failing to stay awake be a strength?"
"Because you fight it," you said fiercely. "Every single day of your life, you are fighting a magical enchantment that would put an ordinary man into a coma. You fight it in class. You fight it during training. You fight it right now. You carry an invisible, crushing weight on your shoulders twenty-four hours a day, and yet, you still swing a sword perfectly. You still stand by Malleus's side. You still show up with a pure heart and a kind smile."
You released one of his hands, bringing your hand up to cup his cheek. Your palm was warm against his cold skin. He leaned into the touch instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment at the sheer comfort of the contact.
"You are not missing your life, Silver," you whispered, your thumb gently brushing away the stray tear on his cheek. "You are living it harder than anyone else I know. Your soul is awake, even when your eyes are closed. Your loyalty, your kindness, your bravery... none of that sleeps. Ever."
Silver let out a shuddering breath. The walls he had built around his heart, the heavy, iron fortress of his own guilt and insecurity, began to crack. He opened his eyes, looking at you with a desperate, overwhelming awe.
"You truly believe that?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"I know it," you promised. "And if you ever doubt it, you come find me. I will remind you every single day until you believe it yourself."
Silver stared at you. He looked at the gentle curve of your smile, the fierce determination in your eyes, and the way the dappled sunlight caught in your hair. In that moment, the dark, suffocating forest of his nightmares completely vanished. It was replaced by the bright, warm reality of the person sitting in front of him.
He didn't think. He simply acted.
Silver surged forward. He released your hand, wrapping both of his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, burying his nose against your collar.
You gasped slightly at the sudden movement, but immediately wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him just as tightly.
He was trembling. The stoic, perfectly composed knight of Diasomnia was shaking in your arms, overwhelmed by a wave of relief so profound it felt like a physical weight had been lifted from his chest. He breathed in the scent of your clothes—a clean, warm scent that smelled of the Ramshackle dorm, of the soup you had made, and of absolute safety.
"Thank you," Silver whispered brokenly against your skin. "Thank you."
"Happy birthday, Silver," you murmured, running your fingers through his soft, silver hair.
He held you for a long time, simply absorbing the reality of your presence. He realized, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he was not falling asleep. The heavy, pulling sensation in his mind had retreated. Your heartbeat, steady and strong against his chest, was an anchor holding him firmly in the waking world.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He kept his hands resting on your waist, his face mere inches from yours. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were incredibly bright.
"I brought you a gift," you said softly, breaking the intense silence.
Silver blinked, surprised. "You already brought me breakfast. And you gave me... your words. You do not need to give me anything else."
"Too bad," you smiled, reaching into the deep pocket of your cardigan. "You're getting it anyway."
You pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped box and placed it in his hands.
Silver looked at the box, treating it with the reverence of a holy relic. He carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, was a piece of jewelry.
It was a bracelet. But it was not made of precious metals or gems. It was intricately, meticulously hand-woven from thick, durable threads. The colors were specific—a deep, forest green intertwining with a brilliant, shining silver, and running through the very center of the braid was a single, vibrant thread in your favorite color. At the center of the bracelet, acting as a clasp, was a small, beautifully polished piece of sunstone, glowing with a warm, internal light.
"I made it," you explained nervously, watching his face for a reaction. "I know you can't wear heavy jewelry during training, so I wanted to make something lightweight. I enchanted the sunstone. I spent hours leaving it out in the sun, pouring a warming charm into it."
You reached out, gently taking the bracelet from the box. You took his left wrist, pushing his sleeve up slightly, and tied the bracelet around his arm.
"When the sleep curse hits you," you said softly, looking up into his eyes, "and you feel like you are falling into the dark... I want you to touch this stone. It will radiate physical heat. It will feel like standing in the sunlight. I want it to remind you that you are not alone in the dark. That I am out here, in the waking world, waiting for you."
Silver stared at the bracelet on his wrist. He reached over with his right hand, pressing his thumb against the smooth surface of the sunstone.
Immediately, a rush of intense, comforting warmth spread from the stone, traveling up his arm and blooming directly in his chest. It felt exactly like your touch.
He looked up from the bracelet to your face. The emotion in his eyes was so intense, so overwhelmingly powerful, it was almost tangible. He didn't have the words. There were no words in the human language, or the fae language, to adequately express what he was feeling in this moment.
So, he didn't use words.
Silver brought his hands up, gently cupping your face. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, his touch incredibly delicate, as if he were afraid you were a dream that might shatter if he held you too tightly.
He leaned in, closing the distance between you, and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was entirely unlike the aggressive, passionate romances written in novels. It was slow. It was profound. It was a desperate, tender exploration of a connection that ran deeper than magic. His lips were soft, warm, and slightly hesitant at first, checking to ensure he wasn't overstepping a boundary.
When you didn't pull away, but instead brought your hands up to grip the lapels of his uniform jacket, pulling him closer, he let out a soft, vibrating sigh against your mouth.
He deepened the kiss, angling his head to fit perfectly against yours. He poured every ounce of his gratitude, his devotion, and his love into the contact. It was a kiss that tasted of wild mushrooms, fresh sourdough, and the sharp, clean air of the forest. It was a promise, sealed in the quiet sanctuary of the weeping willow.
You kissed him back with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. You felt the tension completely leave his body, his rigid muscles melting under your touch. For this one, perfect moment, he was not a knight. He was not a cursed boy. He was just Silver, and he was entirely yours.
When the need for oxygen finally forced him to pull away, he kept his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy and erratic.
"You..." Silver panted softly, a beautiful, genuine smile spreading across his flushed face. "You are a miracle. Do you know that?"
"I'm just a prefect," you laughed breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"You are my miracle," Silver corrected firmly, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
The adrenaline of the confession and the kiss slowly began to fade, and as it did, the natural laws of his body reasserted themselves. The heavy, comforting warmth of the food in his stomach, combined with the profound emotional release and the absolute safety of your presence, created a perfect storm.
The curse did not pull him into the dark this time. It simply invited him to rest.
Silver’s eyelids fluttered, a soft, sleepy sigh escaping his lips. His head drooped slightly, resting heavily against your shoulder.
"Silver?" you whispered gently.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice slurring slightly, thick with sleep. "I don't... I don't want to fall asleep. Not now. I want to stay awake with you."
"It's okay," you soothed, shifting your position so you were sitting more comfortably against the trunk of the willow tree. You gently guided him down until his head was resting squarely in your lap. "You can sleep, Silver."
He fought it for a second, his brow furrowing. "But... it's my birthday. I shouldn't..."
"Your birthday, your rules," you smiled, looking down at his beautiful, exhausted face. You reached out, gently running your fingers through his silver hair, massaging his scalp in slow, rhythmic motions. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I will watch over you. I promise."
Silver looked up at you through half-lidded eyes. He reached up, his hand finding the woven bracelet on his wrist. He pressed his thumb against the sunstone, feeling the warmth. He looked at your face, committing every detail to memory.
The fear was gone. He wasn't falling into a dark, lonely forest. He was falling asleep in the sun.
"Okay," Silver whispered, a soft, contented smile remaining on his lips. "Wake me... when the sun sets."
"I will," you promised.
Silver closed his eyes. Within seconds, his breathing evened out into a deep, steady rhythm. The tension completely vanished from his face, leaving him looking incredibly young, peaceful, and unburdened.
You sat in the quiet clearing, the heavy, comforting weight of him resting in your lap. You continued to stroke his hair, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
As if sensing that the knight was finally at rest, the forest around you came alive. The bluebirds returned, landing quietly on the branches above. A family of rabbits hopped into the clearing, settling into the grass near the edge of the blanket. Even a large, majestic stag stepped through the willow branches, lying down a few feet away, acting as a silent, natural guard.
It was a scene straight out of a fairy tale. But it wasn't a storybook. It was real.
You pulled a small book from the picnic basket, leaning back against the tree, and began to read, perfectly content to spend the next several hours serving as the guardian of the Sleeping Knight.
---
Hours passed. The sun traveled across the sky, shifting the light in the clearing from bright gold to a deep, fiery amber. The air began to cool, signaling the approach of evening.
Silver shifted in your lap. He let out a soft groan, his brow furrowing as he slowly began to transition from deep sleep to wakefulness.
He didn't wake up with a gasp. He didn't reach for his sword. He woke up slowly, peacefully, the scent of your clothes and the warmth of the sunstone on his wrist guiding him out of the dream.
He opened his eyes, blinking up at the orange-tinted canopy of the willow tree. Then, he tilted his head back, looking up at you.
You had put your book away, and you were looking down at him with a warm, soft smile.
"Good evening, sleepyhead," you murmured.
Silver stared at you for a long moment, processing the reality of the situation. He had fallen asleep. He had slept for hours. And when he woke up... you were still there. The party wasn't over. The candles hadn't burned down. You had stayed.
A profound, indescribable joy blossomed in his chest.
"You stayed," Silver whispered, reaching up to gently touch your hand.
"I told you I would," you smiled, helping him sit up. "Did you have any nightmares?"
Silver shook his head, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist. "No. I dreamt of a sunny field. And you were there. It was the best sleep I have had in years."
He stood up, stretching his stiff muscles, before turning and offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up to your feet. He didn't let go of your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, holding on with a gentle, firm grip.
You quickly packed up the picnic basket, rolling the quilted blanket and tucking it under your arm. Silver immediately reached over, taking the heavy basket from you with his free hand, insisting on carrying it himself.
"We should probably head back," you noted, looking at the setting sun. "If Sebek hasn't formed a search party by now, I'll be shocked."
"Let him search," Silver said calmly, a rebellious sparkle in his usually serious eyes. "I am in no rush to return to Lilia’s toxic baking. But... I suppose we must."
The walk back to the campus was slow, deliberate, and entirely peaceful. The woods were darkening, but Silver guided you flawlessly through the trees, his senses perfectly attuned to the environment. He kept your hand tightly secured in his, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your knuckles.
When you finally emerged from the tree line and approached the imposing, gothic gates of the Diasomnia dorm, the silence was shattered.
"THERE HE IS!"
Sebek’s booming voice echoed across the courtyard. The green-haired guard was standing on the front steps, looking frantic, holding a massive, glowing magical lantern.
"SILVER! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! THE SUN HAS SET! THE YOUNG MASTER HAS BEEN WAITING TO PRESENT YOU WITH HIS GIFT! I WAS ABOUT TO DRAFT A SEARCH WARRANT FOR THE ENTIRE CAMPUS!"
Silver sighed, though his smile never faded. He squeezed your hand one last time before gently letting go, preparing to face the chaos of his family.
"I am right here, Sebek," Silver called back, his voice calm, grounded, and completely devoid of its usual morning exhaustion.
As you reached the steps, the heavy oak doors opened. Malleus stepped out, his ancient, green eyes sweeping over Silver, noting the relaxed posture, the bright eyes, and the hand-woven bracelet resting on his wrist. Malleus’s gaze shifted to you, and a knowing, imperceptible smile touched the corners of his lips.
Lilia popped his head out from behind Malleus, looking completely unbothered.
"Ah, the birthday boy returns!" Lilia cheered. "And you brought the Prefect! Excellent! The tart has finally stopped screaming, which means it is ready to be consumed! Come inside, come inside!"
Silver looked at you, a look of mild, humorous terror crossing his face at the mention of the tart. You laughed, shaking your head, stepping up to stand beside him.
"We'll face it together," you whispered to him.
Silver looked at you, the warmth of the sunstone pulsing steadily against his wrist, grounding him in the reality of your presence. He looked at his loud, chaotic, immortal family waiting for him on the steps, and then he looked back at you, the mortal who had chased away his nightmares.
For the first time in his entire life, Silver did not feel like a fleeting, tragic thing. He felt awake. He felt alive. And he felt entirely, unconditionally loved.
"Yes," Silver smiled, gesturing for you to walk through the doors first. "Together."
----
And there you have it. A quiet, sprawling, intensely detailed forest feast for our beloved Sleeping Knight.
Sometimes the grandest celebrations are not the loudest ones, but the quietest moments spent with the people who truly understand you. I hope this extensive serving properly celebrated Silver, giving him the peaceful, waking birthday he so deeply deserves.
Thank you for joining me in the Lounge for this special event. Eat well, sleep peacefully, and please, come again.
Ah, welcome to the Mostro Lounge on this incredibly festive day!
The kitchen is running at full capacity, the ovens are radiating a comforting warmth, and the scent of cinnamon and baked sugar is wafting through the dining area. Today, we are celebrating a very specific Pomefiore student, and honoring his birthday requires a delicate touch. Or rather, it requires knowing exactly when to throw the delicate touch entirely out the window.
For Epel Felmier—the boy who was ripped from the rustic, sprawling orchards of his home and shoved into a gilded cage of corsets, high heels, and endless etiquette lessons—a traditional Pomefiore birthday filled with restrictive formal wear and macrobiotic, sugar-free cakes simply will not do.
He needs a taste of the earth. He needs the freedom to be loud, to be messy, and to be entirely himself.
The kitchen took it upon itself to whip up a special purely out of love for our favorite poison apple. Please, take a seat and settle in. I have prepared an absolute feast of a story to celebrate him properly, sparing no detail for this extensive Harveston-style celebration!
Serving: The Core of the Apple
The absolute worst part about being a student in Pomefiore on your birthday was that the day ceased to belong to you.
From the exact moment the sun broke over the horizon, casting its first golden rays through the pristine, spotless windows of the dormitory, Epel Felmier had been on a strict, unyielding schedule. Housewarden Vil Schoenheit had decided that a birthday was not an excuse for leisure, but rather an opportunity to showcase the absolute pinnacle of Pomefiore elegance.
Epel had been dragged from his bed at dawn. He had been subjected to a rigorous, ninety-minute skincare routine that involved a terrifying amount of peeling masks, hydrating serums, and a jade roller that felt like it had been kept in a freezer for a decade. He had been forced into a bespoke uniform, complete with a waistcoat that was tailored so tightly around his ribs he was convinced his internal organs were attempting to migrate to his throat.
"Posture, Epel," Vil had commanded, his voice echoing through the grand lounge as Epel attempted to sit in a velvet armchair. "You are slouching like a weary farmhand. A Pomefiore student does not sit; they perch. They command the space. Lift your chin. Elongate the neck. Do not let the tailoring wear you."
"Yes, Housewarden," Epel had murmured, his voice strained as he forced his spine straight, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in his lower back.
The "party" had been a meticulously choreographed nightmare. There were no balloons, no loud music, no chaotic games. Instead, there was a string quartet playing a somber, classical sonata in the corner of the room. The guests were entirely comprised of Pomefiore students, all sitting with perfect posture, sipping on a bespoke, caffeine-free herbal infusion that tasted vaguely of dried grass and disappointment.
The cake—if it could even be called a cake—was a three-tiered monstrosity of unflavored gelatin, edible flowers, and a fruit puree that contained absolutely zero refined sugar. It was stunning to look at, a true masterpiece of culinary architecture, but when Epel took a bite, it felt like eating a beautifully decorated sponge.
He smiled. He thanked everyone. He maintained his soft, high-pitched, perfectly modulated voice, hiding his thick Harveston accent behind layers of practiced elocution. He played the part of the fragile, delicate poison apple flawlessly.
But inside, Epel was screaming.
He wanted a massive, greasy, heart-stoppingly rich piece of meat. He wanted a cake made with a pound of actual, churning-churned butter and brown sugar. He wanted to rip the stiff collar of his shirt open, kick off his immaculately polished shoes, and run through the dirt until his lungs burned. He missed the smell of the earth. He missed the loud, boisterous laughter of his family. He missed the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair on a magical wheel, the sheer, untamed speed of it all.
He felt trapped. He felt small.
Across the room, standing near the heavy oak doors, you watched him.
You had been invited to the gathering as the Prefect of Ramshackle, though you felt entirely out of place in your slightly wrinkled uniform among the glittering elite of Pomefiore. You held a teacup with both hands, pretending to sip the awful herbal water, but your eyes never left Epel.
You saw the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the armrests of his chair. You saw the tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his jaw every time Vil corrected his posture. You saw the deep, hollow exhaustion in his striking blue eyes—an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical labor and everything to do with spiritual suffocation.
You couldn't take it anymore.
You set your teacup down on a passing silver tray with a quiet clink. You smoothed the front of your uniform, took a deep breath, and began to weave your way through the crowd of perfectly postured students.
You approached the velvet armchair where Epel sat. Rook Hunt, who had been standing a few paces away observing the room with his sharp, hunter's gaze, immediately focused his attention on you. A knowing, slightly amused smile curled the edges of his lips, but he made no move to intercept you.
"Pardon me, Housewarden Schoenheit," you said, your voice clear and steady as you stopped before the Fairest Queen himself.
Vil turned his head slightly, his violet eyes assessing you. "Ah, Prefect. I trust you are enjoying the celebration? The herbal infusion is a special blend imported from the Shaftlands, designed specifically to promote cellular turnover."
"It's fascinating," you lied smoothly. "However, I must formally request to borrow Epel for a short while. Headmaster Crowley has suddenly demanded an emergency meeting regarding the structural integrity of the Ramshackle plumbing system, and as Epel is highly skilled in... mechanical and structural matters, the Headmaster specifically requested his presence for a consultation."
It was the most absurd, flimsy lie you had ever constructed. Epel’s eyes widened, darting toward you in absolute shock.
Vil stared at you. The silence stretched, heavy and dangerous. He looked at you, then down at Epel, and then back to you. Vil was not an idiot; he knew the Headmaster would never call a Pomefiore student for plumbing advice during a formal event. But Vil also possessed a keen, terrifying perception. He saw the tension in Epel's frame. He saw the determined, unyielding fire in your eyes.
Vil let out a soft, elegant sigh, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second.
"The Headmaster’s timing is, as always, exceptionally poor," Vil stated, his tone dripping with disdain for Crowley, though he offered no argument. "Very well. Epel, you are excused to assist the Prefect. But I expect you to return before curfew, and you are not to ruin the tailoring of your uniform. If I see a single drop of grease on that waistcoat, you will be scrubbing the grand chandelier until the end of the semester."
"Yes, Housewarden!" Epel practically leaped from the chair, the sheer force of his relief almost causing him to stumble.
"Let us go," you said, quickly turning on your heel and walking toward the grand doors before Vil could change his mind.
Epel followed you like a shadow, his polished shoes clicking rapidly against the marble floor. The moment the heavy oak doors of Pomefiore slammed shut behind you, sealing away the classical music and the scent of expensive perfume, the atmosphere shattered.
Epel let out a massive, shuddering gasp, his hands flying up to his throat. He aggressively ripped the silk cravat away from his neck, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his stiff shirt with frantic, trembling fingers.
"Oh, Great Seven," Epel wheezed, his voice dropping an octave, the thick, heavy drawl of his Harveston accent bleeding instantly back into his speech. "I couldn't breathe in there! I thought I was gonna croak! It was suffocatin'! I felt like a prize pig at a county fair, just sittin' there waitin' for the ribbons to be handed out!"
"You survived," you laughed softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "But your birthday isn't over yet. Come with me."
Epel looked at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Where are we goin'? I thought we had to go to Ramshackle to fix the pipes."
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with the pipes at Ramshackle," you smiled, grabbing his hand. "Well, nothing more wrong than usual. I lied to Vil."
Epel’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. "You lied to the Housewarden?! Are you outta your mind?! If he finds out—"
"He knows," you assured him, pulling him along the stone path. "Vil isn't stupid. He let you go because he knew you needed to escape. Now, stop worrying and follow me. We have a schedule to keep, and unlike Vil's schedule, mine actually involves having fun."
You led Epel away from the pristine, manicured lawns of the main campus, dragging him toward the dense, untamed woods that bordered the Botanical Gardens. The sun had completely set, the sky painted in deep, bruised shades of purple and indigo. The air here was entirely different—crisp, biting, and smelling of damp earth, decaying leaves, and wild magic.
Epel followed you without hesitation, his hand gripping yours tightly. The deeper you walked into the woods, the more the tension seemed to bleed out of his frame. He kicked a stray rock with his expensive shoe, grinning as it skipped off a tree trunk. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the raw, unfiltered air of the forest.
After ten minutes of navigating through the thick underbrush, you finally reached a small, secluded clearing.
You stopped, turning to face him. "Okay. Close your eyes."
"Close my eyes?" Epel asked, his tone laced with suspicion. "You ain't gonna push me into a mud puddle, are you? Because my uniform—"
"I am not going to push you into a puddle," you laughed. "Just trust me. Close them."
Epel let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, but he closed his eyes. You gently placed your hands on his shoulders, guiding him forward a few more steps until you were standing in the very center of the clearing.
"Alright," you whispered, stepping back. "Open them."
Epel slowly opened his eyes.
The clearing had been completely transformed. It was no longer just a patch of dirt and wild grass in the woods. You had spent the entire week preparing this space, pouring every ounce of your energy into making it perfect.
High above, strung between the thick, ancient branches of the oak trees, were dozens of warm, glowing fairy lights, casting a soft, golden, firefly-like illumination over the area. In the center of the clearing, a massive, thick woolen blanket in a classic red and black buffalo plaid pattern was spread across the grass.
But it was what was on the blanket that made Epel’s breath catch in his throat.
There was a feast. But it was not a feast of macrobiotic salads or unflavored gelatin. It was a rustic, hearty, chaotic spread that looked exactly like the harvest festivals back in his village.
There was an enormous, steaming pot of thick, hearty beef and vegetable stew, rich with dark gravy and massive chunks of potatoes. There was a gigantic loaf of crusty, artisanal bread, torn into pieces rather than sliced, resting beside a massive crock of soft, salted butter. There were thick slices of roasted ham, glazed with brown sugar and mustard.
And in the center of it all, sitting proudly on a wooden cutting board, was a massive, deep-dish apple pie. It was not elegant. The crust was thick, flaky, and uneven, overflowing slightly at the edges where the thick, bubbling, cinnamon-spiced apple filling had boiled over during the baking process. It was a mess. It was absolute, undeniable perfection.
"I..." Epel stammered, his eyes darting across the spread. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the dry leaves. The smell of the roasted meat and the cinnamon hit him with the force of a physical blow. "You did all this? For me?"
"I know Pomefiore has strict rules," you said softly, walking up to stand beside him. "And I know Vil wants you to be this perfect, delicate thing. But I also know that you are Epel Felmier from Harveston. You carve wood. You drive magical wheels faster than anyone else. You punch harder than half the guys in Savanaclaw. You aren't a fragile poison apple, Epel. You're the whole damn tree. Strong, deeply rooted, and capable of weathering any storm."
You gestured to the blanket. "I wanted to give you a piece of home. I couldn't bring the orchards to you, so I brought the harvest here. Happy birthday, Epel."
Epel didn't say anything. He stood frozen, staring at the apple pie. His chest heaved, his breathing hitching erratically. For a terrifying second, you thought you had done something wrong. You thought perhaps the reminder of home was too painful, or that the food wasn't right.
Then, Epel moved.
He didn't walk; he threw himself onto the blanket. He didn't bother undoing his waistcoat carefully; he grabbed the fabric and yanked, the sound of tearing threads filling the quiet clearing as he forcefully freed himself from the restrictive garment, tossing it into the grass without a second thought. He kicked off his polished shoes, digging his stockinged feet into the soft earth.
He grabbed a massive piece of the torn bread, dipped it directly into the pot of beef stew without using a spoon, and shoved it into his mouth.
A loud, wet, completely unrefined groan of absolute bliss tore from his throat.
"Oh, Great Seven," Epel mumbled around the mouthful of food, tears springing to his eyes. He chewed rapidly, swallowing hard before grabbing a slice of the glazed ham with his bare hands. "This is... this is exactly it. This is real food! It ain't pretty, it ain't balanced, and it tastes like actual, genuine heaven!"
You laughed, a bright, joyous sound that echoed through the trees. You sat down cross-legged on the blanket opposite him, grabbing a piece of bread for yourself. "Eat as much as you want. There are no etiquette lessons here. If you want to eat the pie with your hands, I won't tell Vil."
"You couldn't stop me if you tried," Epel declared fiercely, tearing into the meat.
For the next hour, the clearing was filled with the sounds of aggressive, joyful eating. Epel ate with a ferocity that would have made a Savanaclaw beastman proud. He didn't bother wiping his mouth; he didn't care that gravy was dripping onto the cuffs of his pristine white shirt. He ate until his stomach was visibly distended, his face flushed with warmth and satisfaction.
The heavy, oppressive atmosphere that had surrounded him all day completely evaporated. The elegant, soft-spoken boy from the Pomefiore lounge was gone. In his place was the loud, boisterous, fiercely passionate farm boy from Harveston.
He talked with his mouth full, waving a piece of crust around as he launched into incredibly animated, highly exaggerated stories about his family, about the annual apple harvest festivals, and about the time he accidentally drove a magical wheel into his grandmother’s prize-winning pumpkin patch. His thick accent rolled off his tongue effortlessly, the words tumbling out of him in a rushing, joyful torrent.
You sat back, listening to him, your heart swelling with an overwhelming affection. You watched the way the fairy lights caught the golden highlights in his lavender hair. You watched the way his eyes sparkled with genuine, unfiltered happiness. This was the Epel you loved. Not the polished porcelain doll, but the fierce, untamed boy hiding beneath the surface.
Eventually, the massive pile of food was reduced to mere crumbs and an empty stew pot.
Epel let out a long, dramatic groan, collapsing backward onto the thick blanket, his arms spread wide. "I'm done. I'm finished. Stick a fork in me, I am absolutely cooked. I don't think I can move another inch."
"We haven't even had the pie yet," you teased, crawling over to the wooden cutting board and grabbing the knife you had brought.
"I'll find room," Epel stated with absolute, terrifying conviction, sitting up slightly, propping himself up on his elbows.
You cut two massive, uneven slices of the deep-dish apple pie, handing one to him on a simple paper plate. He didn't wait for a fork. He picked the slice up with his hands, taking a huge bite.
The cinnamon, the nutmeg, the soft, perfectly baked apples, and the rich, buttery crust combined into a symphony of rustic perfection. Epel closed his eyes, a soft, incredibly contented sigh escaping his lips.
"It tastes like home," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at you, his blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "It really does. Thank you."
"You're welcome," you smiled softly, eating your own slice.
The two of you finished the pie in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rustling of the wind through the oak leaves and the distant, lonely hoot of an owl. The air had grown colder, biting through the thin fabric of your uniform shirt.
Epel noticed you shiver. He immediately sat up, wiping his sticky hands on the grass. Without a word, he reached over and pulled the thick woolen blanket up, wrapping it securely around your shoulders. He didn't let go; he scooted closer, sliding under the blanket with you, pressing his side flush against yours to share his body heat.
"Warmer?" he asked softly, his accent thick and comforting.
"Much warmer," you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder.
He felt incredibly solid. For a boy who looked so delicate, his muscles were dense and hard, forged by years of manual labor in the orchards. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tightly against his side, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your hip.
"I hate it there, sometimes," Epel confessed quietly, his gaze fixed on the glowing fairy lights above. The sudden shift in tone caught you off guard, but you simply listened, letting him speak. "Pomefiore, I mean. I know it's a prestigious dorm. I know Vil is tryin' to make me stronger in his own way. But... it feels like I'm constantly puttin' on a costume. It feels like I gotta hide everything that makes me me just to fit in."
He let out a frustrated sigh, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. "I wanted to be in Savanaclaw. I wanted to be somewhere where strength meant somethin' you could see. Where nobody cared if you were loud, or messy, or if you spoke with a drawl. In Pomefiore, they look at me and they just see a pretty face. They see somethin' fragile. And I ain't fragile."
"No," you agreed firmly, lifting your head from his shoulder to look at him. "You aren't. You are one of the strongest people I know, Epel."
He looked down at you, his brow furrowed with a mix of disbelief and vulnerability. "You really think that? Even when I'm forced to wear heels and balance books on my head?"
"Especially then," you said, shifting your body so you were fully facing him, keeping the blanket wrapped around the two of you. "Do you think a weak person could survive Vil Schoenheit's training regimen? Do you think a fragile person could endure hours of that kind of pressure without snapping? Physical strength is easy, Epel. Anyone can lift a heavy rock if they work out enough. But the mental strength required to endure an environment that actively tries to change you, and still manage to hold onto your true self deep down? That requires a core of absolute iron."
You reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of lavender hair out of his eyes. His skin was warm, flushed from the food and the cold air.
"Vil might see a delicate apple," you murmured, your fingertips tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "But I see the poison. I see the bite. I see the boy who can drive a magical wheel at breakneck speeds and who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. You don't have to be in Savanaclaw to be strong. Your strength is entirely your own. And it is terrifyingly beautiful."
Epel’s breath hitched. He stared at you, his striking blue eyes wide and searching. For a moment, the entire world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, sitting in the glowing clearing under the ancient oak trees.
Slowly, the insecurity and the frustration melted away from his features, replaced by a profound, overwhelming affection.
"You always know exactly what to say," Epel whispered, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rasp. "You always see right through the act. You never treat me like a porcelain doll."
"Because you aren't one," you smiled, your hand coming to rest on the nape of his neck.
"Good," Epel murmured.
He didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, closing the distance between you in a sudden, decisive movement. His hands came up to cup your face, his calloused palms slightly rough against your cheeks—a physical reminder of the hard-working farm boy he truly was.
He pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was entirely unlike the image he projected in Pomefiore. It was not gentle, nor was it perfectly composed. It was urgent, desperate, and filled with a raw, fierce passion. It tasted of cinnamon, baked apples, and the crisp, wild air of the forest. He kissed you with the same untamed energy he applied to driving his magical wheel, plunging headfirst into the contact with absolute, reckless abandon.
You gasped softly against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his ruined shirt, pulling him closer. He let out a low, vibrating sound deep in his throat, shifting his weight until he was practically hovering over you, his body pressing you back into the thick layers of the blanket.
His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, demanding everything you had to give and offering everything he had been forced to hide. It was a kiss that communicated exactly who he was: strong, fiercely protective, and deeply, overwhelmingly in love with the one person who truly saw him.
When the need for oxygen finally forced him to pull away, he didn't go far. He rested his forehead against yours, his chest heaving, his breath ghosting hotly across your skin. His eyes were dark, dilated, and blazing with a terrifying intensity.
"You..." Epel panted, a wide, genuine, completely unfiltered smile breaking across his face. "You are the absolute best thing that has ever happened to me. Do you know that?"
"I try my best," you laughed breathlessly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Epel let out a joyous, booming laugh, rolling off you to lie on his back in the grass, pulling you tightly against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you as if you were the most precious treasure in the world.
"I don't wanna go back," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I wanna stay out here all night. I wanna sleep in the dirt and wake up and eat the rest of that stew."
"Vil will literally murder both of us," you pointed out, though you made no move to get up.
"Let him try," Epel scoffed aggressively, though the threat lacked any real heat. "I'll hit him with an apple."
"We have to go back," you said gently, resting your hand flat against his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart. "But... before we do. I have one more thing for you."
Epel peeked open one eye, looking down at you with curiosity. "Another thing? You already gave me a feast."
You shifted, reaching into the deep pocket of your uniform jacket. Your fingers brushed against the small object you had been carrying around all day, the smooth wood familiar and comforting against your skin. You pulled it out and held it up between you.
It was a small, hand-carved wooden charm. You had spent hours whittling it down from a piece of solid oak. It wasn't perfectly symmetrical, and the edges were a bit rough, but the shape was unmistakable. It was a miniature, highly detailed carving of Epel’s customized magical wheel.
"I know it's not much," you said, suddenly feeling a surge of nervous energy. You traced the tiny carved wheels with your thumb. "I wanted to get you a new acceleration rune, or maybe some polish for the exhaust, but I couldn't afford the high-end stuff. So... I made this. I put a small protection charm on it. You can tie it to the handlebars. Just... so you know I'm always riding with you, even when you're going too fast for me to keep up."
Epel stared at the wooden charm. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes tracing the intricate, rough-hewn details of the carving. He reached out with a trembling hand, his calloused fingers gently taking the charm from your palm.
He held it up to the fairy lights, examining it with the eye of a master craftsman. He saw the hours of labor. He saw the cramped fingers and the sheer, focused dedication it took to carve something so small and detailed. He saw the deep, undeniable love carved into every single groove of the wood.
He didn't cry, but the look in his eyes was so profoundly emotional it physically made your chest ache.
"It's perfect," Epel whispered, his voice incredibly thick. He clutched the charm tightly in his fist, bringing it to his chest, right over his heart. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And I ain't just sayin' that."
He looked back down at you, his expression fierce and determined.
"I'm tyin' this to the wheel the second we get back. And the next time I race, I'm winning. For you."
"You better," you smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek again.
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and letting out a long, contented sigh. For a long while, the two of you simply lay there under the fairy lights, the cold air held at bay by the thick blanket and the intense, radiating heat of his body.
Eventually, the reality of curfew began to loom over the clearing like a dark cloud. The distant bell of the campus clock tower chimed, a hollow, echoing sound that broke the peaceful silence of the woods.
"We have to go," you murmured reluctantly.
Epel groaned, a deep, guttural sound of protest. "Five more minutes."
"Vil will turn me into a toad, Epel. Or worse, he'll make me drink that herbal infusion again."
That threat was enough to spur him into action. Epel chuckled, sitting up and pulling you with him. He carefully pocketed the wooden charm, treating it with more reverence than he had ever shown his expensive Pomefiore accessories.
The cleanup was quick. Epel packed the leftover food into the magical stasis containers you had brought, his movements efficient and practiced—the movements of a boy who was used to cleaning up after a harvest feast. You folded the heavy blanket, turning off the fairy lights and plunging the clearing back into the natural, shadowy darkness of the woods.
As you prepared to make the long walk back to the campus, Epel stopped you.
He reached down into the grass, retrieving the discarded, violently torn waistcoat. He looked at it for a moment, a look of profound disgust crossing his features, before he unceremoniously tucked it under his arm. His white shirt was wrinkled, a small smear of brown gravy stained the cuff, and his hair was windblown and messy.
He looked absolutely nothing like the pristine, flawless Housewarden of Pomefiore’s dreams. He looked wild, untamed, and incredibly handsome.
"Ready?" you asked, offering him your hand.
Epel didn't take your hand. Instead, he stepped close, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leaned down, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your temple.
"I'm ready," Epel declared, his voice ringing with a newfound, unshakeable confidence. "Let's go face the music. And if Vil complains about the tailoring... well, I'll just tell him the plumbing at Ramshackle was highly aggressive."
You burst out laughing, leaning your head against his shoulder as the two of you began the walk back through the dark woods.
The birthday party in the Pomefiore lounge may have been a suffocating, elegant nightmare. But out here, in the dirt, the cold air, and the messy, chaotic reality of a true harvest feast, Epel Felmier had finally found exactly what he wanted.
He had found his strength. He had found his home. And most importantly, he had found the person who loved him exactly as he was—poison apple, dirt, drawl, and all.
--------
A massive, deeply rooted, and fiercely authentic dish for our favorite Harveston boy!
Sometimes, the kitchen simply has to step in to ensure a birthday is celebrated exactly the right way—no orders required, just a genuine appreciation for the birthday boy himself. I hope this exceptionally detailed and lengthy serving provided the perfect escape into the woods and captured the true spirit of Epel Felmier.
How would you guys feel if I made a separate Tumblr blog where it's Manager Seru's personal account?
Basically, just a place where you guys could talk to me about stuff outside of fics. This is where you guys could ask questions about Seru, updates, or just casual talk.
It'll be 50/50 on whether or not I reply in my Seru persona or just normally. (Maybe there will be emojis where you can add to pick which one you want to answer you).
It'll make the Mostro Lounge Menu more clean, getting rid of clutter posts.
I can also make a fanart section where the fanarts you make for me will have a permanent spot on my blog.
"Canonically hot; getting pregnant would probably fix him; I'm not convinced he isn't the one who was pregnant with Asriel."
[Dire Crowley]
"He needs a taste of his own medicine. By medicine, I mean properly bent over and impregnated. He somehow can barely manage an entire college of mages causing problems, and cares about image and the budget. What better image for him (i mean his academy) than a generous, kind headmage AND father? Besides, look at his waist is so grabbable."
I reach out to you all again with tears in my eyes and a dream in my heart. What is that dream you ask? Dire Crowley pregnant. Please. *stares at you with huge moist eyes*
Yes, the "Closed" sign is still hanging on the front door of the Mostro Lounge. Yes, I am still officially on an indefinite hiatus while I focus on my own mental headspace.
But...
If you thought for one single second that I would remain completely silent today, you are sorely mistaken.
Today is not just any day on the calendar. Today is the birthday of the Sunset Savanna's most hardworking, resourceful, and deeply endearing beastman. Today is the birthday of Ruggie Bucchi.
He is my all-time absolute favorite character. There was no timeline, no universe, and no hiatus strong enough to keep me from opening up this kitchen to celebrate him. For the boy who has spent his entire life scraping by, surviving on scraps, and putting everyone else's needs and survival before his own, a standard celebration simply will not suffice. He deserves the absolute world, and since I cannot give him the world, I will give him a feast that rivals a royal banquet.
So, I am briefly stepping back into my apron. I am firing up the stoves. For my favorite hyena, only the most massive, extravagant, and heartwarming dish will do.
Grab a napkin, because this is going to be a long one.
Happy Birthday, Ruggie!
Serving: A Feast for a King in the Slums
The sun had not yet dared to peek over the jagged, gothic spires of Night Raven College, leaving the campus submerged in the cool, blue-gray ink of the early morning. A heavy, clinging mist rolled off the nearby lake, shrouding the ancient stone pathways in a damp chill. Most of the student body was deeply asleep, wrapped in the thick, luxurious blankets of their respective dormitories, dreaming of magic and mischief.
But Ramshackle Dorm was awake.
In fact, it had been awake since well before the witching hour. The old, drafty building, which usually groaned and settled with a melancholic quiet, was currently vibrating with an intense, frantic energy. The kitchen—a space that was typically used to boil plain pasta and perhaps fry a solitary, questionable egg—had been transformed into a culinary war zone.
You stood in the center of the chaos, a flour-dusted apron tied tightly around your waist, your hair tied back to keep it out of your eyes. You were moving with the precision and desperation of a general commanding a final, decisive battle.
Today was April 18th. It was Ruggie Bucchi’s birthday.
For months, you had been preparing for this exact day. You had taken on extra shifts at the Mostro Lounge, enduring Azul’s relentless demands and the Leech twins' chaotic whims, meticulously hoarding every single madol you earned. You had skipped buying new clothes, you had ignored the rare, shiny magical items in Sam’s shop, and you had politely declined weekend trips to the local cafes with Ace and Deuce. Every piece of currency you acquired went into a heavily guarded, magically sealed lockbox hidden beneath the loose floorboards under your bed.
Ruggie was a boy who understood the world entirely through the lens of transaction and survival. He knew the exact caloric value of a bruised apple versus a fresh one. He knew how to stretch a single loaf of bread to last three days. He knew the humiliating, necessary art of taking the leftovers off Leona Kingscholar’s plate just to ensure his stomach didn't violently ache during his afternoon classes. He was a scavenger, a hustler, a survivor who wore his cheeky grin as a shield to hide the deep, gnawing anxiety of a life lived in perpetual scarcity.
You loved him. You loved his laugh, you loved the rough texture of his hands, you loved the way his ears twitched when he heard a coin drop three rooms away. And because you loved him, you knew that buying him a shiny, expensive trinket would only stress him out. He would look at a gold watch or a high-end magical pen and instantly calculate how much food it could buy if he pawned it. He wouldn't be able to enjoy it; the guilt of possessing luxury while knowing hunger would eat him alive.
So, you decided to give him the one thing he could not pawn, but desperately needed: a day of absolute, shameless, overwhelming gluttony.
The counters of the Ramshackle kitchen were entirely invisible, buried beneath a mountain of ingredients that you had spent hours aggressively haggling over with Sam the day prior.
On the massive cast-iron stove, three different pots were currently bubbling. One held a rich, dark beef stew, the meat having been braised for six hours in a heavy red wine and a bouquet of aromatic herbs until it was so tender it fell apart at the mere suggestion of a fork. The scent of roasted garlic, caramelized onions, and thyme hung in the air like a thick, savory perfume.
Next to it, a massive skillet was searing thick cuts of premium Savanaclaw flank steak. You had explicitly demanded the highest quality cuts from the butcher, ensuring the marbling was perfect. The fat rendered down into the pan, popping and sizzling violently as you basted the meat with copious amounts of butter and rosemary.
In the oven, two enormous trays of root vegetables were roasting in duck fat, their edges turning a beautiful, crispy golden-brown. Beside them sat a towering, three-tiered cake. You had debated the flavor for weeks before settling on a dense, moist honey-spice cake, layered with a rich, salted caramel buttercream. It was sweet, earthy, and entirely decadent—a stark contrast to the dry, stale dandelion pastries Ruggie usually convinced himself were a treat.
"More butter," you muttered to yourself, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. "He needs more calories. The boy runs on nervous energy and sheer willpower. He needs butter."
You moved like a whirlwind, chopping fresh parsley, whisking a heavy cream sauce for a massive platter of specialty pasta, and keeping a watchful eye on a frying pan filled with thick-cut, imported bacon. Your back ached, your feet were throbbing, and you had a small burn on your left index finger from a rogue splash of hot oil, but you didn't care. The physical toll was entirely irrelevant.
By the time the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed seven times, signaling the start of the morning, the kitchen was finally still.
You leaned against the sink, breathing heavily, and surveyed your work.
The dining table in the adjoining room had been extended to its maximum length. It was covered in a clean, pristine white tablecloth that you had spent an hour ironing. Upon it sat a feast that looked like it had been stolen directly from a royal banquet hall. Platter after platter of steaming, shining, glorious food covered every available inch of surface area. There were mountains of roasted meats, bowls overflowing with buttered starches, delicate pastries, fresh fruits, and the towering, magnificent cake sitting proudly in the center.
It was an obscene amount of food. It was excessive. It was perfect.
You quickly untied your apron, tossing it onto a chair, and sprinted upstairs to change out of your flour-covered clothes. You splashed cold water on your face, threw on your clean uniform, and bounded back down the stairs, adrenaline completely overriding your sheer exhaustion.
It was time to collect the birthday boy.
The walk to the Savanaclaw dormitory was brisk. The morning sun was finally beginning to crest the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue over the campus. As you stepped through the magical mirror and into the arid, sun-baked landscape of the Savanaclaw dorm, the dry heat hit you like a physical wall.
You navigated the rocky paths, dodging a few early-rising students who were already out for their morning runs. You didn't head toward the main lounge; you headed directly for the laundry facilities behind the dorm. You knew Ruggie’s schedule better than you knew your own. On a typical morning, before his classes even started, he was already awake, washing Leona’s clothes, organizing the athletic gear, and performing the countless chores required to keep the dorm running smoothly.
Sure enough, as you rounded the corner of the stone building, you spotted him.
Ruggie was standing in front of a massive, heavy wooden wash bin, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, his hands submerged in soapy water. His hyena ears were pinned back against his head in annoyance, and his tail was giving a slow, agitated swish. He was aggressively scrubbing a grass stain out of what looked like Leona’s favorite Magift jersey, muttering a string of highly colorful, deeply creative curses under his breath.
"I swear to the Great Seven," Ruggie grumbled, wringing the heavy fabric out with a surprising amount of upper-body strength. "If that lazy, overgrown housecat slides through the mud one more time, I’m charging him double. I’m charging him triple. I’m going to sell his favorite boots to a pawn shop in the Scalding Sands just to spite him. Does he think grass stains just magically vanish? Does he think I am made of endless patience and elbow grease?"
"I think he just takes you for granted," you said, stepping out from the shadow of the building.
Ruggie jumped, his ears snapping forward instantly. He whirled around, soapy water splashing onto his shoes, his defensive instincts flaring up before his eyes focused on you. The moment he realized it was you, the tension immediately bled out of his shoulders, replaced by his signature, cheeky grin.
"Shishishi! Don't sneak up on me like that, Prefect! You’re gonna give a guy a heart attack!" Ruggie laughed, wiping his wet hands on his uniform trousers. "What are you doing lurking around the Savanaclaw laundry this early? Come to steal my secrets on how to get blood out of a shirt?"
"I came to steal you, actually," you replied, walking up to him.
Ruggie blinked, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second in confusion. "Steal me? Listen, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I am currently on the clock. If Leona wakes up and his jersey isn't folded perfectly at the foot of his bed, he’s going to turn the entire dorm into a sandbox. I got chores, I got errands, and I gotta figure out how to stretch a single meal voucher to cover my lunch today."
"No, you don't." You reached out, grabbing the wet jersey from his hands and unceremoniously tossing it back into the soapy water.
"Hey!" Ruggie squawked, his eyes going wide with panic as he lunged for the shirt. "Are you crazy?! Do you know how long I spent scrubbing that?!"
"Leona can wear a different shirt. Or he can do it himself. Or he can walk around shirtless, I really don't care," you stated firmly, grabbing Ruggie’s wrist and pulling him away from the basin. "You are off the clock."
"I don't get 'off the clock'!" Ruggie argued, digging his heels into the dirt, though he was careful not to actually pull hard enough to hurt your arm. "If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, I don't eat! You know how this works!"
"I have already spoken to Leona," you lied smoothly. You hadn't actually spoken to Leona, but you were fully prepared to fight a lion if it came down to it. "He gave you the day off. It's your birthday, Ruggie."
Ruggie froze. His ears twitched, slowly lowering until they were pointing outward, a sign of genuine surprise. He looked at you, his eyes searching your face for the punchline of the joke. When he found none, a complicated expression washed over his features—a mix of disbelief, deep-seated anxiety, and a tiny, fragile spark of hope.
"My... birthday," he repeated, his voice losing its usual boisterous volume. "I mean, yeah, technically it is. But that doesn't mean the world stops spinning. Birthdays are just another Tuesday for people like me. I don't have the luxury of taking a day off just because I survived another year."
"You do today," you insisted, your grip on his wrist softening into a gentle hold. "Please, Ruggie. Just come with me. I have something for you."
He looked at the wash bin. He looked at the path leading back to Leona’s room. He looked down at your hand holding his. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his tail drooping slightly.
"Alright, alright," he muttered, though he didn't pull his hand away. "But if Leona turns me into dust, I'm haunting you. I hope whatever you have is worth me losing a day's wages. A guy’s gotta eat, you know?"
"Trust me," you smiled, leading him away from the dorm. "You are going to eat."
The walk back to Ramshackle was quiet. Ruggie seemed on edge, constantly looking over his shoulder, as if expecting a Savanaclaw upperclassman to tackle him and drag him back to his chores. He kept his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, carrying the invisible, crushing weight of his responsibilities even when he was physically away from them.
When the imposing, dilapidated structure of Ramshackle Dorm finally came into view, Ruggie let out a sharp, hyena-like chuckle.
"Shishishi... bringing me back to your haunted mansion? What, did you wrap a ghost in a ribbon for me? Or did you find a really shiny rock in the graveyard?"
"Just open the door, Ruggie."
He rolled his eyes playfully, stepping up to the porch and pushing the heavy wooden door open.
The moment the door swung wide, the smell hit him.
It was a physical force. The scent of roasted meat, caramelized sugar, fresh bread, and savory herbs billowed out of the hallway like a warm, suffocating embrace. It was the smell of a high-end restaurant, of a king's kitchen, of a reality that Ruggie Bucchi was rarely allowed to look at, let alone touch.
Ruggie stopped dead in his tracks. His body went entirely rigid. His nose twitched violently, taking in the scent, his highly sensitive beastman olfactory senses immediately dissecting the complex layers of the aroma.
"What..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "What is that smell?"
"Go look in the dining room," you urged gently, placing a hand on his back.
He didn't walk; he drifted. He moved down the hallway with the cautious, agonizingly slow steps of a wild animal approaching a trap that looked too good to be true. He reached the archway of the dining room and looked inside.
He stopped breathing.
His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, blew wide open in sheer, unadulterated shock. His pupils dilated until his irises were barely visible. His jaw dropped, and he just stared. He stared at the mountain of beef stew. He stared at the perfectly seared steaks resting in pools of butter. He stared at the golden pastries, the overflowing bowls of pasta, the three-tiered cake sitting like a monument to sugar and excess.
"This..." Ruggie stammered, his hands coming up to grip the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. He looked wildly around the room, as if expecting Azul Ashengrotto to step out of the shadows holding a contract signed in blood. "Wh... Whose food is this? Are you holding a banquet for the Headmaster? Did someone cater a party here?!"
"No," you said softly, stepping up beside him. "It's all for you."
Ruggie whipped his head to look at you, his face pale beneath his fur. "For me?! Are you insane?!"
He spun back to the table, his brain immediately shifting into survival-calculation mode. He started pointing frantically at the dishes.
"That—that’s premium Savanaclaw beef! I’ve seen the price tags on that at the butcher! That’s easily three thousand madol a cut! And those spices—that’s imported saffron in the rice! That’s real butter, not the cheap margarine from the cafeteria! This cake alone... the sugar cost..."
He grabbed his head, his ears flattening completely against his skull, his breathing turning shallow and rapid. The panic was real. To someone who lived in poverty, seeing this much wealth manifested in perishable goods was terrifying. It felt illegal. It felt dangerous.
"How much did you spend?!" Ruggie demanded, his voice bordering on hysterical. "Did you take out a loan?! Did you sell your soul to Azul?! You can't afford this! I can't afford to pay you back for this! Why would you do this?!"
"Ruggie, breathe," you said, stepping directly in front of him and grabbing both of his shoulders. You forced him to look at you, grounding him with your touch. "Listen to me very carefully. I didn't borrow money from Azul. I didn't take out a loan. I saved up. I worked extra shifts. I put money aside specifically for this day, for months."
Ruggie stared at you, his chest heaving. "But... why? It’s too much. It’s a waste on me. I’m fine with scraps! I’m fine with leftovers! You shouldn't have wasted your savings on a guy from the slums!"
"It is not a waste," you said fiercely, your voice filled with a profound, unyielding affection that made him flinch. "You are not a waste. You spend every single day of your life making sure Leona is fed, making sure your grandmother has money, making sure everyone around you survives. You eat the worst parts of the meal so others can have the best. Not today. Today, you are sitting at the head of the table, and you are going to eat the absolute best parts until you can't breathe."
"I..." Ruggie’s voice broke. He looked down, his hands trembling slightly. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to just... take something like this without working for it."
"You don't have to work for it," you smiled softly, pulling him toward the table and pushing him down into the largest, most comfortable chair. "Consider it back-pay for being the best person I know. Now, pick up a fork before the steak gets cold. I didn't spend three hours rendering duck fat for you to stare at it."
Ruggie looked at the massive plate you set in front of him. You loaded it with a thick slab of the premium steak, a huge ladle of the rich beef stew, a mound of buttered potatoes, and three different kinds of pastries.
He picked up his fork. His hand was shaking. He cut a piece of the steak, the knife gliding through the meat as if it were warm butter. He slowly brought it to his mouth and took a bite.
The moment the flavor hit his tongue, the panic in his eyes vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, transcendental bliss.
The meat was perfect. The fat melted instantly, coating his mouth in a rich, savory, deeply seasoned warmth that he had never, ever experienced in his entire life. The herbs, the butter, the sheer quality of the ingredients—it was an explosion of culinary luxury.
Ruggie let out a sound that was half-moan, half-whimper. His eyes slipped closed, and his tail began to wag beneath the chair. It wasn't his usual, calculated twitch; it was a frantic, uncontrollable thumping against the wooden floor.
"Oh my Seven," Ruggie mumbled around the food, his voice thick. "This is... this is the best thing I have ever tasted. It’s so soft. Why is it so soft?!"
"Because it’s not cafeteria gristle," you laughed, taking the seat next to him and preparing a much smaller plate for yourself. "Eat. There’s plenty more."
And eat he did.
Watching Ruggie Bucchi eat was usually a slightly stressful experience. He normally ate with a frantic speed, wolfing down his food as if he expected someone to steal it off his plate at any second. He ate to survive, prioritizing caloric intake over flavor.
But today, while he ate a massive quantity, he slowed down. For the first time, he actually savored the food. He closed his eyes when he tried the rich, wine-braised stew. He practically purred when he bit into the flaky, buttery crust of the meat pies. He ate until his plate was entirely clean, and then he looked at you with wide, pleading eyes, silently asking for permission that he didn't need.
"Go ahead," you nodded toward the serving platters. "Take all of it."
He loaded his plate a second time. Then a third. He ate cuts of meat he couldn't name. He ate roasted vegetables that tasted like honey and smoke. He ate until the sheer physical limits of his stomach forced him to slow down to a lethargic, contented crawl.
By the time you finally cut into the towering caramel and honey cake, Ruggie was slumped back in his chair, his uniform jacket discarded on the floor, his tie loosened, and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked absolutely blissed out, radiating a deep, sleepy warmth.
You set a large slice of the cake in front of him.
Ruggie groaned, pressing a hand to his incredibly full stomach. "I can't. I literally cannot. If I eat one more bite, I am going to explode, and then you’re going to have to clean hyena out of the curtains."
"Just try a bite of the frosting," you coaxed, holding a forkful up to his mouth. "I made the caramel from scratch."
He opened his mouth lazily, letting you feed him the bite. His eyes widened slightly at the intense, sweet-and-salty flavor of the buttercream, and he let out a low, rumbling purr from deep within his chest. It was a sound he rarely made—a sound of absolute, unconditional comfort.
"Okay, maybe just one more bite," he mumbled, pulling the plate toward him and picking at the cake slowly.
For a long time, the dining room was quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and the soft clinking of silverware. The mountain of food had been significantly reduced, standing as a testament to the sheer, terrifying capacity of a beastman’s appetite.
Ruggie let out a long, slow exhale, letting his head fall back against the top of his chair. He stared up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.
"You know," he started, his voice completely devoid of its usual cheeky, defensive edge. It was soft, raspy, and incredibly vulnerable. "When I was a kid... birthdays were just the day you realized you were one year closer to having to fend entirely for yourself. My grandma tried her best. She really did. She would find an extra piece of fruit, or maybe bake a little loaf of sweet bread using leftover flour from the neighbors. But there was never enough."
You set your fork down, giving him your full attention. You knew how rare it was for Ruggie to speak about his past without wrapping it in a joke or a hustle.
"I used to sit in the alleyways in the slums," Ruggie continued, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. "And I’d smell the food coming from the richer districts. The roasted meats, the spices. I used to imagine what it would be like to just... sit down at a table, and eat until I wasn't hungry anymore. Not just eating until the pain went away, but eating until I was actually, physically full. I thought it was impossible. I thought that was a feeling reserved for princes like Leona, or rich kids like Azul."
He slowly rolled his head to the side, his amber eyes locking onto yours. The defensive walls he had built over a lifetime of hardship were completely lowered. He looked at you with a profound, quiet awe.
"You gave me that," Ruggie whispered. "You gave me the thing I dreamed about when I was starving. I didn't even know it was possible for someone to care enough to do this for me. Just... for me."
Your heart ached with a fierce, overwhelming love for him. You reached across the table, taking his rough, calloused hand in yours. You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles, feeling the small scars and burns he had accumulated over the years.
"You deserve to be full, Ruggie," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to have things that are just yours, that you don't have to share, and you don't have to work for. You deserve to be spoiled."
Ruggie let out a wet, breathless laugh, looking down at your intertwined hands. A single, traitorous tear slipped down his cheek, catching in his fur, but he didn't wipe it away. He simply tightened his grip on your hand, holding on to you like a lifeline.
"Thank you," he choked out, the words carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken fears and a lifetime of gratitude. "Thank you. I... I don't know how to repay you for this. I owe you my life."
"You don't owe me a single madol," you smiled, reaching out with your free hand to wipe the tear from his cheek. "But... if you really want to show your gratitude, you can help me carry the rest of this food into the kitchen. Because I am not doing the dishes by myself."
Ruggie let out a genuine, booming laugh, the sound filling the room and washing away the heavy emotional tension. He wiped his eyes with the back of his arm, his cheeky grin returning, though it was softer now, devoid of its usual defensive edge.
"Shishishi! Now there’s the catch! I knew there was a catch!" he joked, slowly pushing himself up from the chair with a groan of physical protest. "Alright, alright. The birthday boy will help you clean up. But I am claiming all the leftovers. Every single container. I am taking this back to Savanaclaw and I am hiding it under my bed in a magical vault."
"It's all yours," you laughed, standing up to gather the plates.
It took the better part of an hour to box up the massive amount of leftover food, pack it into magical stasis containers, and wash the mountain of dishes. By the time the kitchen was clean, the sun was fully up, and the physical toll of the massive meal had finally hit Ruggie with the force of a freight train.
He was practically sleepwalking as you led him out of the kitchen and into the Ramshackle common room.
The common room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn to keep out the morning light. A fire was crackling softly in the hearth, casting a warm, dancing glow over the worn, overstuffed sofa.
"Sleep," you commanded gently, pushing him toward the couch.
Ruggie didn't need to be told twice. He collapsed onto the sofa face-first, burying his head into the plush cushions. He let out a long, contented sigh, his body completely relaxing into the soft fabric.
You walked over to the fireplace, reaching behind an old armchair to retrieve a large, wrapped package that you had hidden there the night before. You walked back to the sofa and gently tapped him on the shoulder.
"Ruggie. Sit up for one second. I have one more thing for you."
He groaned, rolling over onto his back and looking at you through half-lidded eyes. "Prefect, if you try to feed me another piece of meat, I am going to pass out."
"It's not food," you chuckled, sitting on the edge of the coffee table facing him. You held out the wrapped package. "It's your actual gift."
Ruggie blinked, his sleepiness instantly evaporating. He sat up, crossing his legs, and looked at the package with a mix of curiosity and hesitation.
"I thought the food was the gift," he said softly.
"The food was the celebration. This is the gift," you insisted, pushing it into his hands.
Ruggie took the package. He didn't tear it open like a child; he unwrapped it with an almost reverent carefulness, preserving the paper as if he planned to reuse it later. When he finally pulled away the final layer of wrapping, he stopped breathing again.
Sitting in his lap was a brand-new, incredibly high-quality, heavy-duty leather satchel. It was crafted from thick, durable dragon-hide, reinforced with brass rivets and intricate stitching. But it wasn't just a bag. As Ruggie ran his hands over the leather, he felt the faint thrum of powerful magic woven into the material.
"It’s an enchanted preservation pack," you explained softly, watching his reaction. "It has an expansion charm cast on the inside, so it holds three times more than it looks like it can. And the interior is magically insulated. If you put hot food in there, it stays piping hot for forty-eight hours. If you put cold food in there, it stays freezing. It's completely waterproof, tear-proof, and scent-proof. No one will ever be able to smell what you're carrying."
Ruggie stared at the bag. He opened the heavy brass buckles, looking into the deep, dark interior. He ran his calloused fingers over the smooth, flawless leather.
He had never owned anything brand new in his life. Everything he wore, everything he used, was a hand-me-down, a thrift store find, or something he had scavenged and repaired himself. To hold something of this quality—something designed specifically to make his life easier, to protect his food, to ensure his survival—it broke the final, fragile barrier around his heart.
"It's..." he whispered, his voice shaking so badly he could barely form the words. "It's beautiful. It's... perfect."
He looked inside the bag again, and noticed a flash of color at the bottom. He reached in and pulled out a thick, hand-knitted scarf. It was made from incredibly soft, thick wool, dyed in the bright yellow and deep black colors of the Savanaclaw dorm.
"I knitted that," you admitted, feeling suddenly shy. "I know it gets cold during your morning patrols when the desert temperatures drop. I wanted you to have something warm."
Ruggie clutched the scarf to his chest. He buried his face in the soft wool, inhaling deeply. It smelled like your perfume, like the Ramshackle kitchen, like safety.
He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He simply leaned forward, bridging the gap between the coffee table and the sofa, and buried his face into the crook of your neck.
He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, holding you with a desperate, crushing grip. He buried his face against your collarbone, his body shaking with silent, overwhelmed tears. He cried not out of sadness, but out of a profound, shattering relief. The relief of knowing that someone saw how hard he fought every single day, and loved him enough to give him the armor he needed to keep fighting.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him just as tightly. You ran your fingers through his messy, unkempt blonde hair, scratching gently behind his hyena ears, exactly where you knew he loved it.
"I love it," he choked out against your skin, his voice muffled. "I love it so much. Thank you. Thank you."
"Happy birthday, Ruggie," you whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of his head.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet, but he was smiling. It wasn't the cheeky grin of a hustler; it was the raw, beautiful, genuine smile of a boy who finally felt safe.
He leaned up, capturing your lips in a desperate, deeply affectionate kiss. It tasted like caramel, salt, and the sweet, dizzying rush of unconditional love. He kissed you with all the intensity he usually reserved for survival, pouring his gratitude, his devotion, and his entire heart into the contact.
When he finally pulled away, he was panting slightly, his forehead resting against yours.
"I'm never letting you go," he whispered fiercely, his hands gripping your waist. "You know that, right? You feed a stray hyena a feast like this, and they belong to you forever. I'm yours. Completely."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," you smiled, brushing a tear from his cheek.
Ruggie let out a long, incredibly tired sigh. The emotional exhaustion had finally caught up with the food coma. He slumped back onto the sofa, pulling you down with him until you were lying next to him, tangled in the soft blankets.
He wrapped the new, hand-knitted scarf securely around his neck, clutched the enchanted satchel to his chest like a dragon guarding its hoard, and buried his face into your chest. Within minutes, the deep, rhythmic, rumbling purr started up again, vibrating against you as he fell into the deepest, most peaceful sleep of his entire life.
You lay there, holding him close, watching the firelight dance across the room. The kitchen was a mess, your savings were completely gone, and you were exhausted.
But as you listened to the soft, steady breathing of the boy you loved, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was worth every single madol.
-----
And with that, the kitchen is officially closed once more.
Writing this out, putting all of this love into words for my absolute favorite character, was exactly what I needed today. I hope that reading this brought you even a fraction of the joy that writing it brought to me.
Ruggie Bucchi deserves the absolute best, and I will always, always step out of the shadows to ensure he gets it.
Thank you all for your continued patience while I remain on hiatus. Please take care of yourselves, eat something delicious today, and I will see you all when I return.
I know that the "Closed" sign is still technically hanging on the door of the Mostro Lounge. My hiatus is still in effect while I continue to navigate things on my end and take care of my family.
However... I simply could not let today pass by. Missing birthdays just doesn't sit right with me. The students of Night Raven College only celebrate these days once a year, and as the Manager, it feels like a dereliction of duty to ignore the Fairest of them all on his special day. Vil Schoenheit demands perfection, and ignoring his birthday is a surefire way to be cursed with bad skin for the rest of eternity.
Also, on a brighter note: I am doing much better. My family is healing, my headspace is clearing up, and I think I might be officially returning to the kitchen to resume regular operations very soon! Thank you all for holding down the fort while I’ve been gone.
But for now, please enjoy this very extensive, highly detailed serving for the Queen of Pomefiore.
Happy Birthday, Vil Schoenheit!
Serving: The Fairest Reflection
The pressure of selecting a birthday gift for Vil Schoenheit was unlike any other stress you had ever experienced at Night Raven College.
It was not the physical danger of dodging an Overblot, nor was it the intellectual strain of passing one of Professor Trein’s impossibly dense history examinations. No, this was an entirely different breed of terror. This was the terror of aesthetic judgment. To give Vil Schoenheit a gift was to invite the most critical, unyielding, and flawless eye in Twisted Wonderland to evaluate your taste, your effort, and your understanding of his impossibly high standards.
You had spent three agonizing weeks preparing for this day. You knew better than to purchase something generic from a store. Vil possessed the wealth to buy anything he desired, and the influence to have it delivered on a silver platter. He owned custom-formulated skincare serums that cost more than your entire tuition. He wore clothing spun from arachnid silk and enchanted to never wrinkle. What could you, a magicless prefect residing in a drafty, rundown dorm, possibly offer the Fairest Queen?
The answer, you had realized after a frantic conversation with Trey Clover and a surprisingly helpful (if not terrifyingly intense) consultation with Rook Hunt, was not luxury. It was profound, unwavering attention to detail.
You had decided to craft a bespoke, hand-blended herbal tea meant specifically for the preservation of vocal health and the reduction of internal inflammation. Vil was a perfectionist. He pushed his body, his voice, and his magic to their absolute breaking points to maintain his flawless image. You wanted to give him something that encouraged genuine restoration, not just surface-level beauty.
You had scoured the botanical gardens for weeks, carefully harvesting the rarest chamomile, the most pristine dried elderflowers, and a specific variety of Briar Valley mint that Malleus had casually mentioned was good for soothing a tired throat. You had dried the herbs yourself, hanging them in the driest, cleanest corner of Ramshackle Dorm. You had blended them with a mortar and pestle, ensuring the ratios were absolutely exact. Finally, you had placed the blend inside a beautiful, heavy glass jar, sealed it with wax, and tied it with a velvet ribbon in Pomefiore’s signature deep violet.
It was simple. It was elegant. But as you stood outside the imposing, intricately carved wooden doors of the Pomefiore dormitory, the jar felt incredibly heavy in your hands.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pristine cobblestone paths that led up to the dorm. The air here always smelled faintly of expensive perfume and blooming roses, a stark contrast to the dusty, metallic scent of the school's main campus. Pomefiore was a fortress of beauty, and today, it was practically vibrating with the energy of Vil’s birthday celebration.
You took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your uniform. You had spent an extra hour ironing it today, terrified that Vil would spot a single crease and dismiss you before you even had the chance to present your gift.
You pushed the heavy doors open and stepped into the grand foyer.
The interior of Pomefiore was dazzling. The chandeliers above were weeping crystals that refracted the warm evening light into a thousand tiny rainbows. The floors were polished marble, so clean you could see your own nervous reflection staring back at you. In the main lounge area, a massive, elaborate celebration was winding down. The remnants of a breathtakingly beautiful cake sat on a crystal pedestal. Students in pristine uniforms were quietly cleaning up, their movements synchronized and elegant.
At the center of the room, seated upon a plush, velvet chaise lounge that looked more like a throne, was the man of the hour.
Vil Schoenheit was a vision. Even after hours of socializing, receiving gifts, and maintaining perfect posture, he looked entirely flawless. His blonde hair fell perfectly around his sharp, aristocratic features. His makeup was immaculate, highlighting the striking violet of his eyes. He wore his dorm uniform with a casual elegance that made everyone else in the room look like they were wearing potato sacks.
He was currently speaking to Epel Felmier, who looked like he was desperately trying to remember the proper posture for holding a teacup. Rook Hunt stood just behind Vil’s shoulder, a mysterious smile playing on his lips as he observed the room with a hunter’s keen eyes.
As you approached, Rook’s eyes snapped to you. His smile widened.
"Ah!" Rook announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the grand room. "The final guest arrives! The courageous Prefect of Ramshackle graces us with their presence. Roi du Poison, your day is now truly complete."
Vil slowly turned his head. His gaze swept over you, starting from the tips of your polished shoes and traveling upward, lingering for a fraction of a second on the hem of your slacks, the knot of your tie, and finally meeting your eyes. The room seemed to hold its breath. Pomefiore students paused in their cleaning, waiting to see how the Housewarden would react to the late arrival of the magicless student.
"You are late, Potato," Vil stated. His voice was smooth, cultured, and carried a dangerous edge of authority. "The official festivities concluded precisely fifteen minutes ago. I do not appreciate tardiness, especially on a day that requires such meticulous scheduling."
"I apologize, Vil," you said, keeping your voice steady despite the frantic beating of your heart. You stepped forward, bowing your head slightly in a gesture of respect. "I was delayed in making sure my gift was perfectly prepared. I didn't want to bring you anything less than my absolute best."
Vil’s eyes narrowed slightly, zeroing in on the small, wrapped box in your hands. He waved a manicured hand, a dismissive yet commanding gesture. "Approach."
You walked forward, feeling the eyes of every Pomefiore student burning into your back. You stopped a few feet from the chaise lounge and offered the box to him with both hands.
Vil did not reach for it immediately. He looked at the box, evaluating the wrapping. The paper was high-quality, a deep, matte black, tied with the violet velvet ribbon. It was understated. It did not scream for attention, but it demanded respect.
"Rook," Vil murmured.
Rook stepped forward, taking the box from your hands and presenting it to Vil. Vil finally reached out, his long, slender fingers moving with practiced grace as he untied the ribbon. He did not tear the paper. He unfolded it with the precision of a surgeon, revealing the heavy glass jar inside.
He lifted the jar, examining the wax seal and the meticulously blended herbs visible through the glass. He brought the jar closer to his face, observing the colors and the textures of the dried flowers.
"A tea blend," Vil noted, his tone unreadable. "Not a store-bought brand. The cut of the chamomile is irregular, suggesting it was done by hand. The elderflower is whole, not crushed into dust. And... is that Briar Valley mint?"
"Yes," you answered, swallowing hard. "I harvested it myself. I dried and blended it by hand. It’s a specific formulation designed to reduce vocal strain and internal inflammation. I know how hard you push yourself during rehearsals, and I wanted to give you something that helps you restore your energy, rather than just masking exhaustion."
Silence fell over the lounge. Epel looked between you and Vil with wide eyes. Rook let out a soft, approving hum from the back of his throat.
Vil stared at the jar for a long, agonizing moment. His face was a perfect, unreadable mask. You braced yourself for the critique. You expected him to point out that the wax seal was slightly off-center, or that handmade gifts were terribly quaint and unhygienic.
Instead, Vil lowered the jar to his lap. He looked up at you, and for the first time that evening, the severe lines of his face softened into an expression of genuine, unguarded surprise.
"You crafted this yourself," Vil repeated softly. It was not a question. It was an acknowledgment of the hours of labor, the careful research, and the sheer audacity it took to make something by hand for a man who demanded perfection.
"I did," you confirmed.
Vil let out a slow, measured breath. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opened them, the intense, scrutinizing glare was gone. In its place was a quiet, profound appreciation.
"Rook. Epel," Vil said, his voice returning to its usual commanding volume. "You are dismissed. In fact, all of you are dismissed. The celebration is over. I wish to retire for the evening."
The Pomefiore students immediately scrambled to finish their tasks, bowing deeply before exiting the lounge. Epel shot you a quick, encouraging thumbs-up before scurrying out the door. Rook simply tipped his hat to you, his green eyes sparkling with amusement, before vanishing into the corridors.
Within moments, the grand lounge was empty, save for you and the Fairest Queen.
"Sit," Vil commanded, gesturing to the velvet armchair opposite his chaise.
You quickly complied, sinking into the plush fabric. The silence in the room was heavy, but it was no longer suffocating. It was intimate.
Vil set the jar of tea on the small glass table between you. He leaned back against the cushions, letting out a sigh that sounded thoroughly, deeply exhausted. It was a sound he never made in front of his students. In front of the school, Vil Schoenheit was a pillar of endless energy and flawless grace. But here, in the quiet aftermath of the day, the mask slipped just a fraction of an inch.
"Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be celebrated?" Vil asked, his voice laced with a dry, bitter amusement. "To sit for hours, accepting gifts that cost thousands of madol but carry absolutely zero thought? 'Oh, Vil loves beauty, let us buy him another diamond-encrusted mirror.' 'Oh, Vil is an actor, let us buy him another ostentatious script binder.' It is a performance, Potato. A performance that never ends."
He reached up, gently massaging his temples with his fingertips. "They look at me and they see a product. They see a standard they can never reach, or a prize they wish to claim. They do not see the work. They do not see the pain."
You watched him, your heart aching slightly at the vulnerability in his voice. "I see the work, Vil."
Vil paused. He lowered his hands, opening his eyes to look at you. The violet of his irises was striking in the dim light of the chandeliers.
"I know you do," Vil said softly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locking onto yours. "That is why you are sitting here, and they are not. You do not cower before my beauty, nor do you try to flatter me with empty praise. You look at me, and you see a person who needs a remedy for a tired throat."
He reached out, his fingertips tracing the wax seal on the jar you had given him.
"This is..." Vil struggled for the word, a rare occurrence for someone so articulate. "This is incredibly thoughtful. The effort required to source these specific ingredients, the patience to dry them properly without losing their essential oils... it is a meticulous process. It is a pursuit of perfection that mirrors my own."
"I wanted it to be perfect for you," you admitted, feeling a flush of warmth creep up your neck. "I was terrified you would hate it."
A genuine, breathtaking smile broke across Vil’s face. It wasn't his practiced, camera-ready smile. It was small, soft, and painfully beautiful.
"You underestimate yourself, Prefect," Vil murmured. "True beauty is not merely about symmetry or expensive cosmetics. True beauty is found in intention. It is found in the relentless pursuit of a goal, in the dedication to a craft. You poured your intention into this gift. You gave me your time, your focus, and your care."
He picked up the jar again, holding it as if it were the most precious artifact in the world.
"It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful gift I have received today."
The weight that had been sitting on your chest for three weeks instantly evaporated. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, a huge, relieved smile spreading across your face.
"I'm so glad," you breathed. "I really am."
Vil watched your reaction, his expression softening even further. He placed the jar back on the table and gracefully stood up from the chaise lounge. He walked slowly around the glass table, his movements fluid and silent, until he was standing directly in front of your chair.
You looked up at him, your breath catching in your throat as he closed the distance between you.
Vil reached down, offering you his hands. You hesitated for a moment before placing your hands in his. His skin was impossibly soft, but his grip was firm and strong. He gently pulled you up to your feet, stepping closer until there was barely an inch of space between you.
The scent of his perfume—a heady mix of night-blooming jasmine and sharp citrus—enveloped you completely.
"You have given me a gift," Vil whispered, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "It is only fair that I offer you something in return."
"You don't owe me anything, Vil," you stammered, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. "It's your birthday."
"Hush," Vil commanded gently. He released one of your hands, bringing his fingertips up to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was electrifying, sending a shiver down your spine. "I do not do things out of obligation. I do them because I desire to."
He tilted his head down, his violet eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the world melt away.
"You look at me and see the exhaustion beneath the makeup," Vil murmured, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw. "You see the grueling rehearsals, the strict diets, the relentless pressure. You see all of it... and yet, you do not look away in disgust. You do not pity me. You simply offer me a cup of tea to soothe the ache."
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek.
"That level of understanding is rare. It is intoxicating. And it makes me want to drop the performance entirely when I am with you."
Vil closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours. It was an incredibly intimate gesture, a display of trust and vulnerability that he offered to absolutely no one else. You felt the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, his body relaxing into yours as he finally allowed himself to rest.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him close. He let out a soft sigh, his arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
For a long time, the two of you simply stood there in the quiet grandeur of the Pomefiore lounge. The celebration was over. The audience was gone. There was no need for perfect posture, no need for cutting remarks, no need to be the Fairest Queen.
He was just Vil. And in this quiet, unguarded moment, holding him in your arms, you realized that this—this raw, exhausted, profoundly genuine version of him—was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
"Thank you," Vil whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for staying. Thank you for seeing me."
"Always," you promised softly, running a hand up and down his back. "Happy birthday, Vil."
He pulled back just slightly, keeping his arms wrapped around you. He looked down at you, his violet eyes shining with a deep, consuming affection. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to.
Vil tilted your chin up and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was slow, deliberate, and devastatingly tender. It wasn't a performance. It was a confession. It was the taste of gratitude, of profound relief, and of a love that demanded nothing but your presence. You melted into the kiss, your hands gripping the fabric of his uniform as he pulled you flush against his chest, completely surrendering to the intoxicating reality of being loved by Vil Schoenheit.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, a breathtaking, genuine smile illuminating his features.
"Now," Vil murmured, his tone shifting back to its usual authoritative lilt, though his eyes remained soft. "I believe you owe me a cup of that spectacular tea. And while we drink it, you are going to tell me exactly what sort of ungodly skincare routine you have been following, because your pores are visibly stressed, Potato."
You laughed, the sound echoing brightly in the quiet room. Even in a moment of profound romance, Vil Schoenheit would never miss an opportunity for an aesthetic critique.
"Only if you promise to actually drink the tea and go to sleep before midnight," you challenged.
Vil sighed dramatically, linking his arm through yours and leading you toward his private chambers.
"A demanding condition," the Fairest Queen conceded, a fond smile playing on his lips. "But for tonight... I suppose I can allow it."
--------
A deeply devoted, meticulously crafted dish for a man who accepts nothing less than perfection. I hope this birthday special was worth the wait!
Thank you all again for your incredible patience. I look forward to officially reopening the kitchen soon.
Ah, I know the kitchen’s lights have been off recently, but...
Do you really think I could sleep through the sheer volume of this particular celebration? The sheer acoustic force of Diasomnia’s most dedicated guard demands attention, and the Mostro Lounge always honors a birthday.
For the boy whose voice can shatter glass but whose dedication is entirely unbreakable, we have prepared a special, limited-time dessert.
Happy Birthday, Sebek Zigvolt!
Serving: A Guard's Rare Day Off
The halls of Diasomnia were quiet, which, to Sebek Zigvolt, meant they were highly suspicious.
Normally, the dorm was filled with the low hum of ancient magic, the soft rustling of Lilia hanging upside down from a chandelier, or the aggravating sound of Silver sleeping while standing up. But today, the silence was absolute.
Sebek paced the length of the entrance hall, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the polished stone. His brow was furrowed so deeply it looked permanently etched into his face. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his green eyes darted to every shadow.
"Too quiet," Sebek muttered to himself. "This is exactly the sort of environment assassins favor. I must remain vigilant. The Young Master’s safety depends entirely upon my unwavering focus!"
"You're going to wear a trench into the floor, Sebek."
Sebek whirled around, instantly dropping into a defensive stance, magic sparking at the tip of his pen. "STATE YOUR BUSINESS AND STEP INTO THE—oh. It is you."
You stepped out from behind a large tapestry, holding a suspiciously ornate box. "You really need to lower your baseline volume, Sebek. You’re going to give the gargoyles a headache."
Sebek immediately straightened up, his cheeks flushing a faint pink, though he refused to drop his severe expression. "I am merely fulfilling my duties as a guard! Which you are currently interrupting! Why are you lurking in the shadows? Did Silver put you up to this? If he is sleeping in the courtyard again, I swear—"
"Silver is asleep, yes, but not in the courtyard," you interrupted smoothly, walking up to him. "And Malleus is currently in the library with Lilia. They are perfectly safe."
Sebek’s eyes narrowed. "And how would you know the exact whereabouts of the Young Master?"
"Because Malleus explicitly told me to tell you that if you do not take the next three hours off to relax, he will personally enchant your boots to dance the waltz until sunset."
Sebek gasped, absolute horror dawning on his face. "The... The Young Master threatened me with a curse? Because I am working too hard? What a profound display of mercy and concern! As expected of the future ruler of the Briar Valley!" He brought a hand to his chest, looking close to tears of sheer loyalty. "I am unworthy of such benevolent punishment!"
"Right. Well. Before you start crying over his majesty," you sighed, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the dorm's private dining area, "you're coming with me. Sit."
You shoved him gently into a plush velvet chair. Sebek looked incredibly out of place, sitting stiff as a board, his eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush.
You set the box down on the table and carefully lifted the lid.
Inside was a masterpiece from the Mostro Lounge's secret menu: The Thunderbolt Matcha Mille-Feuille. It was a towering dessert of crisp, buttery pastry layered with rich, earthy matcha cream. The top was glazed with a stunning emerald mirror sheen, and it was garnished with spun sugar shaped like jagged bolts of lightning.
Sebek stared at it. "What is this?"
"It's a cake, Sebek. It’s your birthday."
"I am aware of the date of my birth," Sebek huffed, crossing his arms and looking away, though his eyes kept betraying him by darting back to the sugar lightning bolts. "But a true guard does not require frivolous celebrations. My birth is only significant because it allowed me to live in the same era as the Young Master. That is gift enough."
"Sebek." You leaned across the table, fixing him with a stare that brooked absolutely no argument. "You train harder than anyone I know. You patrol in the rain. You study until you pass out at your desk. You yell at everyone who slacks off. For one day out of three hundred and sixty-five, you are allowed to just be Sebek. Now, eat the cake before I shove it into your mouth."
Sebek’s mouth opened, likely to issue a booming reprimand about your lack of respect, but he closed it.
He looked at you. Truly looked at you. The fierce, defensive energy that usually radiated off him in waves seemed to temper, dialing down from a raging storm to a quiet, electric hum.
"You... requested this to be made?" he asked, his voice dropping to a volume that could actually be classified as a normal human speaking level.
"I did," you said softly, pushing a silver fork toward him. "Matcha. Not too sweet, earthy, with a bit of a crunch. I figured it would suit you."
Sebek picked up the fork with surprising delicacy. He cut a perfect, geometric slice from the pastry, the layers cracking satisfyingly under the pressure, and took a bite.
You watched him, holding your breath.
Sebek chewed in complete silence. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch. The tension in his jaw melted away, and his shoulders dropped from where they had been permanently hiked up around his ears. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well?" you prompted.
"It is..." Sebek cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "It is not entirely offensive to my palate. The bitterness of the tea balances the sugar adequately. The pastry technique is... acceptable."
"I’ll take that as a glowing five-star review," you laughed, resting your chin in your hands.
Sebek took another bite, eating with the focused efficiency he applied to everything in his life, but there was a distinct softness to his gaze now.
"Thank you," he muttered, so quietly you almost missed it.
"What was that? Couldn't hear you over your usual volume."
"I SAID THANK YOU!" Sebek roared, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato as he slammed a hand on the table. "DO NOT MOCK ME WHEN I AM EXPRESSING GRATITUDE!"
You couldn't help it; you burst out laughing. It was loud, joyous, and completely unafraid of his temper.
Sebek glared at you for a moment, panting slightly. But then, the glare fractured. He let out a sharp sigh, shaking his head, though the faint smile returned to his lips.
"You are an incredibly frustrating individual," he stated, picking up his fork again.
"Happy Birthday, Sebek," you smiled.
"Hmph. Yes. Well." He focused very hard on the matcha cream, avoiding your eyes. "...Sit down. There is too much of this for one person to consume efficiently. You will assist me."
You pulled up a chair beside him, the silence of the room no longer feeling suspicious, but rather, perfectly, comfortably shared.
---
Hey everyone. As I mentioned in my previous announcement, I am still officially on an indefinite hiatus.
However...
I remembered what day it was. And I know that Sebek is the absolute favorite of a very special patron of mine ( @bluessmau ). I couldn't in good conscience let his birthday pass by without opening the kitchen doors for a quick, special serving just for them.
Thank you all for the continued patience and well wishes while I'm away. It means the world to me. I'll be retreating back into my hiatus now to take care of my family, but I hope this brought a little bit of joy to your day!
"Look he did the most insane shit possible (including going to therapy to learn how to cry) just to manipulate an Alpha into falling for him. Then he banged said Alpha and knocked him up! All while secretly feeding said Alpha foods rich in baby nutrients. So I think it’s only fair play if he ends up pregnant after being responsible for the first live action drama mpreg out there."
[Jiaoqiu]
"i want him to stop sacrificing himself and getting pregnant would help him with that. (also, link. any complaints contrary to the matter will be addressed to @glitchdecay off-anon)."
