Morning before the sunlight felt intimate in its common rarity and mundane to some jaded few. Vil, he supposed, had gotten used to waking up before light to start his day, every cell in his body fixated on perfection like ants programmed only to serve their queen. Maybe that’s what he was. Programmed at a young age (no fault of his father) to be beautiful and terrible as the dawn.

Every inch of him was inspected, every flaw enlarged and screamed down the street. He got used to it because that was just showbiz baby! and how everything worked in this world. Those words didn’t stop it from hurting, nor did they stop him from succumbing to that vile blot, becoming the villains he so often portrayed in his roles.

Yet…

Everything hurts except for you. Vil gazed at your sleeping form - he’d insisted you stay over - and his heart squeezed. It still hurts.

After his Overblot, many people avoided him - to be expected. At first, he hated those stares, those hushed whispers, their valid concerns almost goading him to lash out. Sure, he felt better after releasing all that pent up emotion, but… well, he was ashamed.

He hated that he resorted to dirty tricks. Poisoning wasn’t as taboo as one might think; after all, that was what the Fairest Queen did to Snow White. But it wasn’t what Vil should have done.

He prided himself on his discipline, on his honour, and such an underhanded method was beneath him. It wasn’t self-respectful. If Vil was truely as great as he thought he was, then he could have won the VDC through his talents and not needed to poison someone.

It was jealousy. Petty jealousy.

And yet you cradled his face afterwards, saying that it wasn’t jealousy, it was… well, it was because Vil felt it unjust. He worked so hard - he always worked so hard - just to be second best. Neige most likely didn’t wake up before dawn, have an elaborate skincare routine, work out, count calories, make sure every waking second of his life was perfect and dignified…

It was a lot of effort for an eighteen year old boy with blisters on his feet from thirteen centimetre heels. And it built up, one straw and another on the weary camel’s back until he collapsed from the sheer number of tiny factors. And that was what Vil’s Overblot was, so you said.

You’ll still be alright if you just make it to the other side. (You both knew it wasn’t that simple, but you said it anyways.)

And you hugged him. Like a weighted blanket. Like the lingering warmth of hot chocolate. Like the knowledge that the day was over and a new one could start tomorrow.

So Vil decided to stop hating those stares and focused on improving himself. After all, if he didn’t love yourself, he couldn’t love anyone else. (He desperately wanted to love you like you loved him.)

Vil woke up before dawn, not because it was the optimal time, not because it was good for him, but because it was a habit, and some habits were comforting. He went through his ritual of skincare as well, because it was familiar and he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Vil’s arms were a little sore, so instead of weight training, he did sit-ups. When it was time for him to do his make-up, you had awoken.

“Good morning.” He said, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Did you sleep well, mein liebling?”