Work Text:
Vil sat alone in the sleek, candlelit office space within his dorm room. Sketches were strewn across the desk, mood boards were pinned to the walls.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed at the array of sketches scattered before him. Elegant silhouettes. Precise lines. Bold colors. All technically flawless, but all uninspired.
“Ugh,” he exhaled sharply, snatching one sheet from the pile. “It’s beautiful. But it’s been done. I’ve done it.”
He stood, draping a long velvet robe around his shoulders as he paced. The next Inter-Academy Showcase was months away, but for Vil, time had already begun collapsing into deadlines. NRC would be one of several schools featured. The spotlight would be shared—and he refused to be overshadowed.
“This year... they’re bringing in designers from Noble Bell and Royal Sword,” he murmured, tapping his lacquered nails against the window. “They’ll be expecting me to dazzle. Refined elegance. The usual Pomefiore flair.”
His reflection stared back at him: composed, poised, perfect. And yet...
“No. I want to challenge their expectations. I don’t just want beauty—I want contradiction. I want them to question everything they think they know about glamour.”
He turned sharply toward the sketchpad on his desk and scrawled in heavy ink: “The Sublime Strange.”
A concept formed in his mind: a collection that balanced chaos with elegance. Lines that clashed and complemented. Models that defied traditional ideals.
He flipped open his portfolio of prior candidates, looking for faces, figures. And that’s when his hand hesitated—hovering over a particular file.
Flaming hair. Pale skin. That sharp, ethereal glow.
“Idia Shroud.”
A snort escaped him. “He’d hate it,” Vil said aloud, though his lips curved into the faintest smile. “But that’s exactly why it might work.”
His fingers trailed over the image.
“Unpredictable. Magnetic in his own chaotic way. A challenge, yes... but perhaps, my most compelling muse yet.”
Neon lights cast dancing shadows across the walls. Holographic screens flickered with status bars and character stats. Music from the game filled the air, creating a digital bubble around Idia.
“C’mon, c’mon… just a few more—YES!”
Idia leaned in, eyes wide behind his glowing visor, hands a blur over the console. His voice cracked in excitement as his avatar launched a final devastating combo, sending the enemy boss into pixelated oblivion.
“Take that, you overcoded trash pile! Bow before the RNG god!”
Mad laughter chorused with the game music in a way most would find jarring.
“Brother, you have a guest,” came Ortho’s cheerful voice from the doorway.
No response. Idia was locked in, riding the dopamine high.
Ortho floated beside the door and smiled politely. “Vil-senpai, you can go in. He’s just... mid-battle.”
“Clearly,” Vil replied dryly, stepping past the threshold.
The first thing to hit him was the sound. Chaotic, buzzing, and utterly overwhelming. The second was the state of the room: part tech lab, part cave, part fever dream.
And in the center of it all, Idia—casual wear, hair flaring a vivid electric blue, almost white-hot at the ends.
Vil paused, struck not by the clutter or the cacophony, but by that color.
It wasn’t like anything he’d seen in the salon lighting of NRC or the polished sheen of the dorm halls. This was pure. Unfiltered. A luminous spectrum of emotion—concentration, exhilaration, power—waving through him like wildfire.
He forgot to scoff. Forgot to comment. Instead, he watched.
“…and that's the third raid boss in one night, baby. Who’s useless now?!” Idia threw his arms up in celebration, knocking over a half-full energy drink without noticing.
“Impressive.”
“GAH—!”
Idia’s chair tipped back as he whirled around in horror. His screen froze on a victory screen. His hair flared crimson at the tips, sparks scattering across the air like startled pixels.
“Vil? What—how—why are you in my room?! Did I forget to log out of something? Is this revenge for that one time I accidentally deleted your potion presentation slideshow?!”
Vil stepped forward calmly, inspecting the room with a practiced eye before letting his gaze fall directly on Idia.
“I came to discuss something important,” he said simply. “But now I’m even more certain.”
Idia blinked. “Certain of what?”
Vil smiled… just enough to unnerve.
“That you’re going to be my lead model.”
“…I’m sorry,” Idia deadpanned, eyes wide as saucers. “You... want me… to wear clothes… in front of people… on purpose?”
“And set the stage ablaze doing it.” Vil’s voice was smooth as velvet. “You have no idea what you’re capable of, Shroud. But I do.”
Vil had stepped outside to speak with Ortho after Idia had clearly blue-screened.
“Okayokayokay—nope, this is a trap. Some kind of ultra-high-level social prank quest,” Idia muttered, spinning in frantic circles. “There’s no way Vil Schoenheit just walked into my room and said I was... model material?! That’s NPC-tier nonsense!”
He scrambled to open a dozen tabs on his floating screen, typing keywords like “how to survive public exposure” and “fashion modeling escape routes.”
“I’ll explode! My flame cores will combust! There’ll be smoke! Sparks! Maybe death!”
From the hallway, Vil’s voice floated faintly: “I can still hear you, you know.”
“KYAAA—!”
“I take it he didn’t say yes?” Ortho asked with an amused tilt of his head.
Vil crossed his arms, sighing through his nose. “Not in words, no. But he will.”
“You’re awfully confident, senpai.”
“I’m not guessing,” Vil said, tone more thoughtful than usual. “I saw it. His flame. The way it flickers… as if alive. That’s the kind of power I want in my show. Unpredictable. Honest. He doesn’t even try, and he draws attention like a comet. It's maddening.”
Ortho tilted his head. “Most people don’t think of my brother as... inspiring.”
Vil’s gaze softened. “Then most people lack vision.”
He paused, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect him to be... so hesitant. But maybe that’s what makes this idea worth chasing. If I can create a stage where even someone like Idia feels luminous—then I’ll have done something truly unique.”
Ortho hummed. “If you’re serious about this, I can help nudge him along. You might not believe it, but... I think he admires you.”
Vil blinked, caught slightly off guard. “...Does he?”
“Not that he’d ever say it out loud.”
Vil allowed himself a quiet, thoughtful smile. “No. But maybe that’s what makes it worth hearing... when he finally does.”
Multiple screens hovered around Idia’s chair, each window displaying different fashion articles, past showcase clips, and endless stills of Vil on the runway.
He squinted at a clip: Vil striding through a swirling fog, wrapped in a high-collared obsidian coat with a phoenix-feathered train. Regal. Effortless. Untouchable.
Idia groaned and buried his face in his hoodie.
“How does he even walk like that?! He moves like he owns reality! Meanwhile I trip over my charger cable.”
He slid down in his chair, hair flickering with dull yellow static. Still, he didn’t close the tabs.
Instead, he clicked open another: “Behind the Glamour: Vil Schoenheit’s Design Philosophy.” He expected arrogance. Instead, he found handwritten notes, mood boards, and a quote that froze him in place.
“Beauty is truth made visible. Even if the truth is a little messy.”
Idia frowned.
Vil’s voice echoed in his mind.
“You have no idea what you're capable of, Shroud. But I do.”
He thought of the Underworld—the shadows, the terror, and Vil stepping forward, sacrificing what he held most sacred to save him. No hesitation, just resolve.
“…stupid beautiful altruistic maniac,” Idia mumbled.
He stared at the ceiling. He hated crowds. Hated expectations. Hated feeling like a glitch in someone else’s narrative.
But he didn’t hate Vil. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the vow he made in silence after everything ended.
Try. Talk. Connect. Ortho wanted that. And so did I. Even if it’s scary as hell.
“Uuuuughhh,” he groaned, reaching for his comm device.
It was late afternoon; golden light bathed the private solarium within the elegant dorm. Delicate porcelain cups sat untouched upon a white tablecloth as Vil entered the room and saw Idia nervously pacing form around the table, flames flickering lavender-blue.
“You physically came,” Vil said softly, stepping in with a gentle rustle of his coat.
Idia turned, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Yeah, well... I figured I should... um. You know. Not ghost you.”
Vil chuckled lightly. Not mocking, but surprised. “That’s very... generous of you.” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly with quiet thought. “To be honest, I half-expected you to send your floating tablet as usual.”
Idia froze mid-step. “Oh... huh. I didn’t even think of that.”
He sounded genuinely surprised. Like it had only just occurred to him—which was the point.
Vil’s smile softened, more thoughtful now. “That’s what I find most interesting. The fact that you didn’t even consider hiding.”
He moved forward gracefully and took his seat. “Maybe you’re more ready to face the stage than you believe, Shroud.”
They sat. Silence hung briefly until Vil poured the tea with precise grace. Idia watched, unsure whether to speak or combust.
Vil placed the teapot down gently. “Relax. This isn’t a test.”
Idia inhaled, slow and shaky. “Yeah, I know. It's just… I guess I’m still getting used to being ‘in-person.’”
Vil offered him a cup, his fingers brushing Idia’s just slightly in the exchange.
“You’ve been researching me.”
Idia almost choked. “WHAT—how—?!”
“You were logged into your school tablet. You think Ortho didn’t notice?” He arched a brow with amusement.
Idia shrunk half an inch. “...traitor.”
Vil sipped his tea, then leaned in. “You don’t need to become me, Idia. I’m not asking you to perform my beauty. I want you to show the world yours.”
Idia blinked. “My what now?”
Vil placed a small sketchbook on the table and opened it to a page—an elegant design with asymmetrical edges, dark-tech motifs woven with crystalline patterns, and light-reactive fabric. The figure had flame-like hair that shimmered with iridescence.
“It’s built around unpredictability. Built around you,” Vil said. “Every time your hair changes, it’ll reflect across the design. Real-time visual poetry. No one else could wear it.”
Idia stared, stunned silent.
“You don’t have to do it for me,” Vil added gently. “But I hope... you’ll consider doing it for yourself. Or even for what we shared, back there. In the dark.”
Idia lowered his gaze, heart thudding too loudly. His fingers curled around the teacup.
"...I’ll think about it."
And Vil smiled. Elegant and genuine.
“That’s all I ask.”
Golden light filtered through the drawn velvet curtains and illuminated the bolts of fabric and floating mannequins within the room. Idia stood stiffly in the center, arms awkwardly out as his hair flickered around him and he did his best to avoid catching his reflection in the nearby mirror.
“Stand still,” Vil said, voice precise but not unkind. He adjusted the tape measure at Idia’s shoulder. “I won’t get clean lines if you’re twitching like a skittish cat.”
Idia flinched as Vil gently adjusted his arm. “I-I’m not twitching. It’s just... involuntary glitch responses, okay? Being touched is like... ultra-nonstandard for me.”
“I’m aware,” Vil said coolly, noting the measurement and sliding the tape to Idia’s waist. “But you’re tolerating it. Which is more than I expected. Progress.”
“I still think you’re wasting your time,” Idia blurted. “There’s gotta be someone else—heck, I could build you someone. With motorized limbs and perfect posture!”
Vil paused. “I’m not looking for a mannequin with joints.”
He circled to face Idia directly, holding the measuring tape like a ribbon of truth.
“I need a soul, Shroud. Not a shell.”
The words hit harder than either expected. Idia’s hair dimmed into a low blue glow, quiet and searching. His mouth opened—then closed.
For a moment, they just stood there. Two extremes: polish and panic, sunlight and netherflame.
Then Idia mumbled, “…you’re way too good at this dramatic protagonist dialogue stuff.”
“And you’re too quick to run from things that scare you,” Vil replied, almost gently. “I’m not asking you to become someone else. I’m asking you to be seen. There’s a difference.”
Idia had already left, and as Vil sat at his desk, his long and elegant fingers drummed against the surface as he studied a blank page in his design journal.
“He has the frame. The presence is buried deep—but there’s no doubt he’ll ignite if coaxed. I saw it when he laughed. When he panicked. When he doubted me.”
He wrote a word at the top of the page: TRANSFORMATION.
“This isn’t about clothes,” he said aloud. “It’s about crafting a space where he belongs. A stage that honors what makes him unique.”
He leaned back, thinking of the heir to the Shroud family—hidden in the dark, brilliant in isolation, scared of the world he was born to influence.
“He’s going to inherit legacy. Power and fear,” Vil murmured. “If I can help him walk into that light…even once…it will mean more than any crown of laurels.”
He tapped his pen thoughtfully.
“First step… private training sessions. No audience. Mirrors optional. Praise measured—but sincere. And something tactile, maybe—wearable tech he can control. Let him interface with the show.”
A corner of his mouth quirked upward.
“You’re more than you believe, Shroud. I intend to prove it.”
The room had been cleverly transformed into a private training chamber. Floor to ceiling mirrors lined the walls. The lights were brights, and a playlist of soft, ambient music gently filtered into the air as background noise.
Idia stood stiffly in the middle.
He stared at the floor, arms folded, lips pressed into a line. “This whole thing feels like I’m playing a rhythm game with a ten-second lag.”
“You’re not supposed to feel like anything yet,” Vil replied calmly. “You’re simply meant to move.”
He circled Idia slowly, observing every angle. “We’re not aiming for a perfect walk. We’re finding your walk.”
“Yeah, sure. My walk. The legendary hunch-and-scoot combo. Super model core.”
Vil inhaled. “Start from the wall. One foot in front of the other. Breathe with the movement.”
Idia groaned but obeyed. Sort of. He managed a few steps before tripping on nothing but air and falling onto his knees as his hands caught against the wooden floor beneath.
“ACK—FRAGGLE—”
Idia’s hair flashed an embarrassed orange, ears going pink.
“…Cool,” he said flatly from the floor. “Nailed it. Bet all your fashion friends are gonna love the tragic clown arc.”
Vil approached and extended his hand. “Get up.”
“Why? So I can fail harder?”
“No. Because you’re not done.”
Idia looked up, startled. He had expected scolding, mocking. Not… encouragement, the challenging kind. He took Vil’s hand and let himself be pulled up.
Vil dusted off his sleeve with clinical precision. “You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to discover something.”
“…Like what? My deep inner shame?”
“Like the fact that you can keep getting back up.”
That shut Idia up for a long moment.
Vil stepped back, more thoughtful now. “Tell me… what would make you more comfortable?”
Idia hesitated. “Can I, uh… rig the lights? Maybe make the glow in the outfit respond to my pulse rate or something?”
Vil nodded. “Done.”
“And… maybe no mirrors for a while?”
“Consider them gone.”
He clapped once. The veils dropped over the reflective walls, softening the room into a gentle cocoon of shadows and warm light.
Idia blinked. “You… actually listened.”
“I don’t bring people into my world to force them to become me,” Vil said, voice soft now. “I bring them in so they can bring themselves. You are not a stand-in for an ideal. You are the subject.”
Idia’s hair flared a quiet pink.
“…That’s a lot of emotional damage for one Tuesday.”
Vil smiled. “Then let’s pace ourselves. Again, from the wall.”
Idia rolled his shoulders, took a breath.
And walked.
Still awkward. Still uncertain. But this time, he made it three steps before stumbling. And this time, he laughed first.
Twilight had fallen upon them, and the training session had ended. Vil and Idia sat at a stone bench overlooking the quiet, flowering courtyard as tea steam curled between them.
Idia sipped from his cup, hands steadier than before. His hair glowed a gentle blue, flickering as he gathered the courage to speak.
“…You know, I wasn’t always like this.”
Vil glanced at him. “Like what?”
“The, uh... emotionally stunted, ghost-in-the-machine recluse thing. When I was younger, I was... different.” He swallowed. “I thought I could be the hero. Like in the RPGs. Smart. Strong. Someone who made a difference.”
Vil stayed quiet.
“I got cocky. Tried to control something I didn’t fully understand. It backfired. And Ortho... died.”
The words hung between them. Heavy and sacred.
Idia didn’t cry—but his flame flickered to dark violet.
“When we brought him back... I stopped being a hero. I figured I already had my one life. Everything else was just... extra lives I didn’t earn.”
Vil didn’t speak for a long moment.
“Thank you for telling me,” he finally said, gently.
Idia fidgeted. “Now you’re probably gonna tell me I’m wrong and I should believe in myself and blah blah protagonist monologue—”
“No,” Vil cut in softly. “I understand.”
That surprised Idia. “You do?”
Vil looked up at the fading sun. “I’ve spent years sculpting myself into something the world would accept. Something perfect. But it wasn’t always a performance. Once, it was a survival tactic.”
He turned to Idia, voice steady.
“We’re not so different, Shroud. We both built walls. Yours are made of isolation. Mine are made of polish. But we did it for the same reason—to keep from breaking.”
Vil’s hand brushed the fabric of Idia’s sleeve.
“But that child you used to be? The one who dreamed of saving the world? He’s still here. You didn’t lose him. You just buried him.”
Idia’s voice was small. “...What if I don’t know how to dig him out?”
Vil’s lips curled just slightly.
“Then we’ll figure it out together."
The room was cluttered with fabric samples, circuit diagrams, mannequins mid-transformation, and one very excited Idia Shroud sprawled across a design table with at least three holograms open at once.
“I’m just saying,” Idia babbled, gesturing with a stylus like a conductor, “if we thread in some low-voltage reactive weave here—boom! The whole outfit could light up with actual animated pixel flow during the walk. We could even program it to pulse with my emotional feedback loop. Imagine the drama!”
Vil blinked. “...Are you suggesting turning your emotional state into a fashion effect?”
“Yes! I mean—assuming I don’t have a catastrophic meltdown mid-walk, but even that could be an aesthetic. What if the final look fractures as I reach the end of the runway? Symbolic release of control. The fabric blooms. Maybe even changes color with sound response!”
Vil stared at him.
Idia shrank slightly. “...Too much?”
Vil placed a hand on his chin, looking Idia up and down like he’d just spotted a rare gem in a pile of rubble.
“No,” he said at last. “Not too much. It’s ambitious. Risky. Borderline unhinged. And it’s perfect.”
Idia blinked. “Wait—you actually like it?”
“I don’t just like it,” Vil replied, a smile growing. “I’m impressed.”
Idia flushed all the way to his ears. His hair sparked neon pink and fizzed with a bit of static. “Hehe... n-not to be a diva or anything but... science!”
He pulled up another diagram. “Okay, okay… what if we add subtle magnetics to control the fabric movement mid-walk? Like, make it flutter just enough without needing wind? I could hide the charge source in the inner lining. Micro-servo tech, maybe some runes if you wanna go full arcane aesthetic—”
Vil hid a smile behind his hand. “Shroud. Breathe.”
Idia wheezed, then took a very dramatic inhale.
Vil chuckled. “You’re transforming right in front of me.”
Idia paused, blinking.
“You’re creating, leading, dreaming. This? This is your runway already.”
For a long moment, Idia just looked at him. Then he pushed up his glasses with sudden resolve.
“Well... don’t get used to it. I’m still a barely functional anxiety nugget 90 percent of the time.”
Vil smirked.
“And yet, you’re dazzling.”
A week before the showcase…
The full modeling team was assembled. Students from various dorms, all dressed in Vil’s designs. The atmosphere hummed with both nerves and excitement as Idia stood near the edge, cloaked in his finished look: a black-and-iridescent ensemble that shifted in color in tune with his flames, like his soul was stitched into every seam.
A few of the models whispered nearby.
“Is that... Idia Shroud?”
“The shut-in from Ignihyde? Vil’s letting him open the finale?”
“I mean... he doesn’t look terrible.”
“He looks like he’s gonna short-circuit.”
Idia’s hair flickered as he caught pieces of their conversation. His fingers twitched at the edges of his sleeves. For a second, the old fear crept back in—hot, choking, and familiar.
Then he felt it.
A hand on his shoulder.
Vil stood beside him, regal and calm, gaze forward.
“They’re not laughing,” he said. “They’re watching. Let them.”
Idia looked at him. “...What if I trip? Or glitch? Or my emotional pulse triggers the outfit to start a rave sequence?”
Vil’s smile was subtle. “Then the audience will remember it.”
He gave a nod, sharp and confident. “Places!”
The rehearsal music began—haunting, slow, building in intensity. One by one, the models took their marks. They walked well. Perfect, poised. But when Idia stepped onto the runway… everything changed.
The lights dimmed, just slightly. His outfit shimmered like a galaxy pulsing to the beat of his heart. His walk wasn’t polished, but it was purposeful. Like someone who wasn’t used to being seen and was daring the world to look anyway.
The emotional feedback loop responded to his nervous pride, casting shimmering pulses of violet and blue down his coat. His hair flared bright, rippling in sync with the soundtrack’s crescendo.
The other models watched from the wings.
“…Is that tech-reactive fabric?” one whispered.
“It looks like it,” another breathed. “It’s… incredible.”
Vil stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Idia complete the walk—slight hunch still there, but replaced with an edge of command. A boy once cloaked in self-doubt now moved like a shade reborn.
When he reached the end of the runway, he paused.
His gaze was uncertain but proud as it found and locked with Vil’s.
Vil nodded, once. And Idia turned and walked back with just a touch more confidence.
Afterward, the backstage buzzed with energy.
A model approached Vil. “I... I didn’t think it would work. But he’s… he’s brilliant.”
Vil allowed himself a rare, satisfied smirk.
“Of course he is. He just needed someone to see it.”
From the far side of the room, Idia watched Vil get praised. He didn't know whether to run or celebrate—but his hair flickered brighter.
And this time, he didn’t try to hide it.
Inter-Academy Showcase: One hour before showtime
In a hallway behind the stage, the buzz of stylists, lighting techs, and organizers faded behind thick velvet curtains. Idia leaned against a column, already in his showcase outfit, now worn like a second skin as he barely resisted the urge to fidget in place as he did his best to block out the ambient sound around him.
Vil approached, dressed in his own commanding ensemble. He held a small glass bottle of scent and dabbed it lightly onto his wrist before catching Idia’s gaze.
“You’ve barely complained,” he mused.
Idia shrugged, arms crossed loosely. “Guess I figured if I’m going to have a full-blown existential meltdown, I might as well do it in style.”
Vil chuckled, folding his hands before him. “Hardly a meltdown. You’ve been composed. Even elegant, I dare say.”
“...Gross,” Idia muttered, but the smile curled at his lips anyway. His hair flickered soft pink at the edges.
They stood in companionable silence for a moment. Then Idia, more hesitant, spoke.
“…I never thought I’d say this, but... this has actually been kind of... fun.”
Vil glanced over, brows raised in pleasant surprise.
“Don’t get me wrong!” Idia waved his hands. “It’s still like... seventy percent stress, twenty percent stage fright, five percent mortal dread, and five percent you bullying me into becoming a functioning adult.”
“That only adds up to one hundred and five percent,” Vil said, smirking.
“Exactly.” Idia winked. “It’s overclocked.”
Vil let out a soft laugh. “Still, I’m glad to hear you’ve enjoyed yourself. I had hoped you might.”
Idia looked away, brushing his hair back with a flick. “Still not as fun as gaming, though.”
“Of course not,” Vil said smoothly. “The digital world bends to your will. The real one... takes negotiation.”
A moment of contemplation.
“Perhaps,” Vil added casually, “after the show, you can coach me for once. I’ve never entered a gaming tournament before. It might be… entertaining.”
Idia stared. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying you want to game with me?”
Vil turned slightly, his profile regal, unreadable. “I’m merely suggesting an equitable trade. You joined my world. Perhaps I should visit yours.”
Idia’s eyes widened. His hair blazed just slightly as he processed the offer. He didn’t know whether to scream, faint, or grab a controller on the spot.
“…You’re gonna regret that.”
Vil smiled, and it was somehow softer than Idia had ever seen. “We’ll see.”
A chime sounded from the stage call.
Vil turned toward the curtain. “Ready?”
Idia exhaled—deep and grounded. He straightened, checked his cuffs, and nodded.
“Yeah… Let’s give ’em a show.”
The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. The stage shimmered. Each school had shown their best, but now, Vil’s finale was about to begin.
Backstage, Idia stood alone.
The hushed hum of the crowd beyond the curtain thrummed in his ears like a low-frequency panic attack. His hands were cold despite the brilliant fire threading through his hair. The outfit he wore felt like a second skin—stitched with tech, emotion, and a kind of magic he never believed he deserved.
This is it, he thought. End of the quest. Final boss. No extra lives.
His knees twitched. His breath caught.
And yet…
There was a stillness inside him, too. Not the tightly wound sense of dread and panic he expected.
He remembered every moment leading to this. Vil’s hand on his shoulder. His design suggestions being heard. Laughing until he couldn’t breathe during one late-night fitting. The strange, alien feeling of being wanted in someone’s orbit.
And then… Vil’s words earlier.
"Perhaps I should visit your world."
The thought hit harder than he expected.
He didn’t dread this moment because of the walk, or the eyes, or the lights. He was dreading the ending. The possibility that this connection, this strange gravity pulling him out of the dark and into the spotlight—might disappear after this show.
But it wouldn’t.
Vil had opened the door.
And Idia realized, with breathless clarity, that he was happy. That in some ridiculous, RPG-side-quest-turned-main-story kind of way… he’d loved this.
His chest tightened. Not with fear, but with joy.
The stagehand gave the cue, and somehow—Idia didn’t hesitate.
Idia walked.
The runway lights shifted to deep violet as he stepped forward. The music was slow, cinematic, and layered with rising strings that seemed to echo his heartbeat.
With each step, his hair flickered—a kaleidoscope of emotion.
Anxious red. Doubtful gray. Vivid panic orange.
But then…
Hopeful gold. Brave blue. Proud indigo.
The outfit responded in kind, shimmering with pixel-like fractals that glittered across his coat. Micro-lights and tech pulses flared in rhythm with his aura.
A reflection of his soul.
The audience was silent.
Not because they were unimpressed.
But because they were spellbound.
He reached the center of the stage. Paused. Looked out into the sea of strangers.
And for once in his life—he didn’t shrink. Didn’t hide. Didn’t retreat.
He stood tall.
He owned it.
Not like a model or even a prince.
Like a person who finally believed he belonged in the spotlight.
He turned, the fabric trailing like smoke and stars, and walked back—each step steadier than the last.
And though his face remained composed, inside?
He was rejoicing.
Because this wasn’t the end.
Vil had made sure of that.
Vil stood just beyond the curtain, arms crossed, expression unreadable yet always beautiful. The lights washed the runway in deep indigo as his final model—his muse—stepped onto the stage.
The moment Idia appeared, the atmosphere changed.
Vil held his breath.
He watched the subtle hitch in Idia’s breath, the way his shoulders twitched with the ghost of old anxieties—and how he straightened anyway. The way his flame flared with emotion not even the reactive tech could keep up with.
Every shift of color spoke to Vil like poetry given form.
Crimson tension. Gold hope. Midnight resolve.
Not a costume. Not trickery. Emotion made visible.
He’s not hiding anymore, Vil realized. He’s blazing.
The crowd was silent, held in the palm of Idia’s very existence.
And Vil… couldn’t look away.
He took in the sharp angles of Idia’s face, softened now by newfound confidence. The way his eyes caught the light like stars refracted through water. The slight curve of his mouth—not quite a smile, but the quiet echo of one. Real and unguarded.
He was breathtaking.
Not the curated, crafted kind Vil had always worshipped.
Something deeper. Something… untamed.
Vil’s heart tugged hard—too hard—and for the first time in years, he didn’t control it.
A thought arose—visceral and silent.
I want to kiss him.
It was ridiculous. He didn’t act on impulse. Never had. And yet…
Watching Idia turn at the end of the stage, cloak billowing with controlled chaos, flame and tech and soul blending into something divine, Vil felt undone.
Not by the spectacle… but by the truth of it.
This wasn’t just about showcasing a vision.
It was about helping someone rediscover their own.
And now, that someone—awkward, brilliant, unexpectedly fierce—was walking toward him, gaze lifted, mouth trembling with the effort not to grin too wide.
Vil’s throat tightened.
Not yet, he told himself.
Not in front of the crowd. Not with all eyes on them.
This moment belonged to Idia. His triumph. His light.
Vil swallowed the impulse. Smoothed his expression.
But as Idia stepped offstage and their eyes met…
Vil allowed just one truth to shine through.
Pride. Admiration. Awe.
NRC’s Banquet Hall was transformed for the showcase afterparty. Candles floated across the ceiling. Long tables glittered with silverware, floral centerpieces, and an absurd amount of sweets. Laughter filled the space, mingling with music, clinking glasses, and the merriment of celebration.
Idia stood near the end of the hall, cloaked in a simpler version of his showpiece outfit. The colors were muted now, the tech downscaled for comfort, but he still caught glances from across the room.
He fidgeted with a bread roll.
"Wow," Ortho beamed beside him. "You're popular tonight. Like, mini-boss-tier popular!"
Idia blushed. “Please don’t phrase it like that…”
“Yuu, Ace, Deuce, and Grim are trying to get past the punch bowl to say hi,” Ortho added cheerfully.
Sure enough, Yuu was waving from across the crowd. Grim was already stealing snacks. Ace and Deuce elbowed each other as they jostled past a tray of desserts.
“Yo! Fashion boy!” Ace called. “You looked sick out there.”
“Seriously, you were like… alive, man,” Deuce added, grinning. “Wait. That sounded weird.”
“You were epic!” Grim shouted through a mouthful of éclair.
“Thank you… I think?” Idia murmured, dazed.
As the crowd shifted, Riddle stopped by to comment on how his posture was “Very improved.” Azul complimented the “brand synergy potential” of Idia’s look, and even Leona gave a noncommittal grunt that might have meant “well done.”
Idia’s hair flickered blush-pink.
He was overwhelmed. But… not exactly unhappy.
They came. For me.
Every few moments, his eyes scanned the crowd for one person in particular.
Vil moved like the sun incarnate—gliding through the room in sleek cream and royalty, accepting compliments with practiced poise. Rook tood by his side, of course, and several faculty members trailed behind. Everyone wanted a word. A toast. A picture.
And yet…
Every time Vil turned his head, his gaze scanned for someone.
Their eyes met. Just once. Across the golden haze.
Vil lifted his glass.
Idia raised his own, awkwardly.
Only for someone else to pull Vil away. More congratulations. More praise.
Idia exhaled.
He didn’t want to be selfish.
But he wanted just one more moment.
A quiet one. A real one.
Much later, the night winding down, Idia stood near the window, watching fireworks burst in the sky beyond the garden.
Ortho had gone off to show Grim his new portable plasma projector. The music was softer now. The buzz of celebration faded into warmth.
He heard footsteps but didn’t turn.
He recognized them.
Vil stopped just behind him. Close enough to sense, not touch.
Neither of them spoke for a short stretch.
“You disappeared,” Vil finally said, softly.
“I didn’t want to take your spotlight,” Idia replied, barely above a whisper. “Besides… this was your win too.”
A soft and wistful pause.
“I’ve had enough spotlights,” Vil said.
Idia turned, eyes wide.
Vil looked at him, and it wasn’t pride on his face now.
It was longing.
But before either of them could say anything more…
Someone called for Vil. A toast. Another round of applause.
He hesitated.
So did Idia.
Then Vil offered the faintest smile. “Later?”
Idia nodded.
And even if the night pulled them apart again…
That single word, unspoken but understood, anchored them both.
Soon.
It was just past midnight when Vil received a quiet ping on his phone. A message from Idia.
Meet me at your rooftop garden?
No context. No emojis. Just that.
Fifteen minutes later, Vil stepped onto the rooftop garden of Pomefiore. The afterparty had long ended. The world below had fallen into stillness. Above them, the stars stretched wide—silver, cold, and endless. Ivy rustled in the soft breeze.
Idia sat on the garden bench, arms draped over the back, his cloak removed, hair flickering a soft blue as it draped lazily down his shoulder. He was in his comfort gear now—no makeup, no lights, just him.
Vil stepped out quietly from the stairwell. He had changed too, even if his makeup remained. Simpler clothes, slippers, his hair tied loosely back.
He paused when he saw Idia.
“You’re still here,” he said softly.
“I like quiet places after loud ones,” Idia replied. “This one’s… nicer than the server room.”
Vil approached, slow and graceful, but without performance this time.
He sat beside him. Not close, not far.
For a while, they just watched the sky.
It was a silence that used to be easy. During fittings, rehearsals. Now… it felt strange. Full.
Idia cleared his throat.
“So, um. We did it.”
“Yes,” Vil answered. “We did.”
Another pause followed.
“I thought I’d feel more…” Idia shifted. “I dunno. Finished?”
Vil tilted his head. “But you don’t?”
Idia shrugged. “I feel like I crossed the finish line and now I’m standing here like—wait. What now? Was that it? Is the game over or is this just a new level?”
Vil didn’t speak for a moment.
“I felt the same,” he admitted.
That made Idia turn. He looked at Vil. He wasn’t poised, not composed, just... himself. Eternally beautiful and elegant.
“I think…” Vil began, voice low, “the show gave us a reason to be near each other. It gave us structure. Rules. An excuse.”
“Yeah,” Idia said, a little laugh slipping through. “You mean I can’t just hide behind stage directions anymore?”
“Correct,” Vil said with a faint smile. “Now it’s choice.”
The word landed as heavily as it did softly.
They both stared ahead again.
Idia ran his fingers through his hair. “I was so scared of all of it. The show. The people. You.” He glanced over. “But now that it’s over, the only thing that scares me is… not having a reason to talk to you anymore.”
Vil’s breath caught.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a small, matte-black gift box.
“Then it’s fortunate,” he said, offering it without ceremony, “that I came prepared.”
Idia took it, confused as he opened it anyway.
Inside lay a simple metal pin, shaped like a pixelated heart. His own hair-color blue at the center.
Idia blinked. “Is this…?”
Vil leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “A custom badge. Commissioned by yours truly. So next time I inevitably ask you to join another project, you’ll know it wasn’t just a one-time collaboration.”
Idia swallowed. His hair glowed brighter.
Vil didn’t look at him.
“I didn’t want it to be over either,” he admitted quietly. “But I also didn’t want to rush what’s next.”
They sat there.
Not touching.
Not yet.
But closer.
And the space between them felt full of something new.
A week after the showcase, the world still buzzed with its aftermath.
Screens all across campus, social feeds, and magical media outlets lit up with headlines:
“The Phantom Flame: Ignihyde’s Reclusive Heir Sets Runway Ablaze in Schoenheit’s Daring Showcase.”
“Genius or Glitch? Idia Shroud Stuns with Tech-Fusion Fashion—Emotional Intelligence as Art.”
“From Shadows to Spotlight: NRC’s Most Surprising Model Leaves Audience Spellbound.”
In the dorms, magazines circulated with full spreads of Idia mid-walk—flames dancing around him, his cloak trailing light like a comet. Fan edits popped up. Cosplayers started replicating the outfit. Someone even created a rhythm game mod based on his runway strut.
And to his horror… he started trending.
Idia lay on the floor of his room, surrounded by projected screens and Ortho floating above him, cautiously optimistic.
“There’s too much happening,” Idia groaned, arms over his face. “People are talking about me like I’m some kind of cool, mysterious cyber prince. They’re drawing fan art, Ortho. Me. With abs. I don’t even have abs!”
Ortho floated a little closer. “Is it… bad to be liked?”
“It’s not… bad,” Idia mumbled begrudgingly. “It’s just… loud. I’m not used to it when it’s about Idia Shroud and not Gloomurai.”
There was a ping.
Another notification.
This one, different than all the rest.
From: Father and Mother.
Subject: Proud. Call us when you can.
A rare message from his parents with an old family crest and the message:
“You've honored the Shroud name in a way we never expected. We see you, Idia. Well done.”
Idia stared. The world tilted.
He didn’t cry. But his hair flickered sea-glass green and lilac, uncertain and full of things he didn’t know how to name.
Late afternoon filtered through Pomefiore’s greenhouse. Vil snipped a blossom from a violet-stemmed rose. Idia sat nearby, awkwardly elegant in a pale tech-fused jacket. Something new, a hybrid of his and Vil’s aesthetics.
“…I think I broke the internet,” Idia said, sipping iced tea like it was poison.
“I warned you,” Vil replied without looking up. “True beauty always causes a stir.”
Idia set down the glass. “My parents reached out.”
Vil turned slightly. “And?”
“They… said they were proud. Which was weird. I didn’t do anything Shroud-family-tech-worthy. I just… walked around looking shiny.”
Vil placed the rose into a vase before speaking.
“You did more than shine, Idia. You allowed yourself to be seen. That’s rarer than any invention.”
Idia shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know how to be seen.”
“You’re already doing it,” Vil replied, softer now. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
He looked at him fully then, with something quiet in his violet eyes.
“I can help you navigate it, if you’ll allow me. The praise. The pressure. The attention. You’re not a project to me, Idia. You never were.”
Idia’s fingers twitched at his side. His hair flickered as he looked back at Vil with both nervousness and wonder.
“And if I melt down again?”
Vil smiled—warm, radiant, and certain.
“Then we build you up again. Together.”