Hello again, everyone.
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."
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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.
— Manager Seru
