Excerpt (ending) from Milkweed and Chrysalis 1,047 words, Vil/Rook, written for a zine, CW: language, light gore, light emetophobia, blood AO3 link to full fic , 4,749 words, CW: cannibalism, paranoia, referenced dismemberment ~ Rook had always loved Neige. He had always gazed at him from afar, spinning poems for him, plastering the walls of his heart with Neige's saccharine little face. Vil had seen Rook blush in Neige's presence—Far from unable to contain his adoration, Rook practically shrank into a regular boy. Vil had taught him to do otherwise. "You taught me that I, too, was a star," Rook said, brazenly caressing Vil's blank face with both his gloved hands. Rook’s eyes sparkled; Rook blinked back tears. "You taught me that I had a place in it all, in the grand spectacle of this world." At the most gorgeous he had ever been, Rook was still wearing a nondescript black tuxedo, and plain black leather shoes. Vil wanted to mock him, say his individuality still had far to go, but he knew Rook would only agree, only rejoice how much he still could learn. Vil could not risk an atom of Rook’s joy infecting him. He stayed silent. "Vil," Rook said, snatching his hand up and pressing upon it a closed-lipped kiss, "I owe you everything." This jerked an ugly chuckle out of Vil. Vil knew what overblot felt like; he wouldn't let it happen again, not over some boy , he swore it. Rook's eyes were achingly sincere. Rook’s eyes were so beautiful, Vil felt sick. Vil could not fathom what madness could drive Rook to such lengths; Rook did not stink of blot, not even after all this; Vil was repulsed; his whole body prickled with something like hate, but still, he could not look away. I owe you everything, Rook had said. "And you'll die with that debt," Vil rasped. A drop of brightness left Rook's smile. "Mon Roi du Poison," he said, softly, slowly. "There are many stars in the sky. The first star one glimpses at dusk is rarely the brightest amongst the—" "Rook," Vil snarled, "would you shut the fuck up?" Rook's eyes went wide. "Very well," he said. "My chariot awaits, after all." He was taking a goddamned limousine to the dance. He inclined his head to Vil, and turned to step into it, taking one look back at him before shutting the door, terribly beautiful, blindingly radiant, all because he had done something so ugly, because he had acted so hideous, all in the name of Neige LeBlanche. The limousine began to roll away. Watery sunlight glared off its side, making Vil queasy. "Hey, wait," Vil said, speaking voice like a stage whisper above the crunch of tires. "Rook! Hey, fuck you, come back, you—ugly—" Vil was lying. "I can't stand you, you ugly, worthless—you nothing! You're nothing! You're less than—" His voice had risen to a screech. He had begun to run after the limousine. It felt good to run. He kept going, screaming at the vehicle's sleek black tail. The campus entrance became the back roads of Sage's Island. The road hard beneath his feet, Vil hurled lies and obscenities until his voice cracked open, and each scream tore at his throat. Vil was not himself. Vil was not anything but the breath in his lungs, the blood beginning to pump in his ears. It felt good to run. The black shape shrinking far down the road was his prey; he could catch it with the pitch of his cries and the speed of his feet; he had to catch it; he had no choice. He felt the coarseness of asphalt sting his hands, felt the sharp pain of a fingernail snapping; he kept going; it felt so good to propel himself forward like this. The thing swerved around a bend, and Vil realized he could gain on it by cutting through the trees by the side of the road; mud squelched into his palms as he careened over a ditch into the unkempt verge. He saw the shape puttering across the land, far across some yellow farmland, a stone's throw for a man as athletic as Vil. He bolted straight into the field, and husky stalks jabbed painfully into his palms, and foot where he had lost a shoe, and his hair clip had fallen out earlier amidst the trees, and his braids had been gradually coming undone, and at last, his hair fell over his face, so all he could see between dirty blond locks was the endless yellow of the field. When he was free of it, when he had finally scampered back onto the road, the limousine was a mere speck in the distance. In a moment, it was gone. Vil would not stop running. Vil was not a quitter. Another of his fingernails snapped, and the pain coursed through his flesh like ichor, like a shining idol amongst the constant thudding bolts of soreness from his limbs with every stride. It felt good. His muscles were sore; it felt so good. He forgot what he was chasing. Love, he believed. Some terribly human thing called love would spurt out when he sank his teeth into that vanished black shape; he could not fathom love , but knew, in his bones, that it would taste delicious. Some frightfully distant part of Vil's brain was grateful, now, that there were houses nearby, was somewhat ashamed that he had to be Vil Schoenheit, someone so recognizable, in the scene that would play out momentarily. Vil kept running. Everything hurt now, sweat blurred his eyes, but it would feel so good sinking his teeth into his prey. He would not be able to hold out much longer. Vil could hold out forever. Vil never gave up. When he collapsed on the pavement, feeling so horrible and so wonderful all at once, he could not help but giggle to himself. The sky up above was such a beautiful grey. He raised his hand above his face, and a stream of blood quickly dribbled down his fingers from the dark cavity of an open wound. As the world spun around him, he took great care in tipping the angle of his hand, so a drop of blood gathered downwards, and fell, wet and tangy, into his open mouth. He giggled again. What’s wrong with me? —he pictured himself crooning to the medics when they arrived— Can’t you see? I’m in love!