[Memory, Closed] Close to Your Chest

[Rhys Valentin]

the Stacks

late evening on the 78th of Roalis, 2707

Close to your ChestShow

[media]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3B9eZzv7kQ [/media]

"Clocking hell, it's hot." Complained the redhead who leaned against the bar of the Queen's Arms, the young galdor reaching to tug at the buttons of his collar as an excuse to lift his elbow from the sticky countertop of the tiny pub shoved between two larger, no less-appropriately named taverns, all of them overflowing at this house of the evening on the last weekend before classes began again with so many godsbedamned students having returned from their internships and intensives and vacations.

Regrets Way was the Brunnhold nickname for this street of the Stacks—a tidy cobblestone thoroughfare lined with various restaurants and far too many establishments that served alcohol long past lower form curfew. During the day, it was well-kept and shaded with trees, but after sunset, it was more often than not overflowing with inebriated young people, the scent of ozone from irresponsible duels in the street and the slight acidic hint of far too much discretely deposited vomit something an embarrassingly significant number of upper forms considered a regular part of their schedules.

Rhys had been a regular all fucking summer.

Frederick sipped at his foamy beer like the toffin he was in the most irritating of fashions, sighing and squinting at the crowded pub full of inebriated laughter, clumsy flirting, and too many well-washed but sweaty bodies. He'd forgotten his spectacles, if only because just a few weeks before he'd had them knocked off his face and stepped on by some ersehole his blond drinking buddy had totally pissed off over nothing in particular—well, no. It was always something with the young Valentin. He knew exactly what that something was but talking about it had only gotten him a whole lot of nowhere.

Tilting his head toward the shorter, freckled boy, said taller student sniggered, "You sure's Bash's balls 're stone don't have to stay." He leaned against the bar next to the other sixth form, two overturned, empty shot glasses behind him, a third now-empty one in his long fingers once he knocked his head back and hissed a sharp inhale. Tongue roaming over his teeth, he shrugged.

"No, Rhys. The last time you drank alone—which was last clocking week, mind you—Ashlynn and I happened to leave the Badger in time to drag your erse into a damn rickshaw to keep you from throwing shit at the Collies. I'm not doing that again. You need—"

The memory of tossing a couple of rocks at strangers in familiar green Seventen uniforms made the blond laugh—a bitter, throaty sound that lingered in his chest the way a dull ache from a bruise stuck around while it faded into that ugly yellow. He felt like that ugly yellow. His jaw clenched at the way one thought drifted from another, the lanky boy eagerly drinking himself from the shallow waters of a fun buzz into the darker depths of just plain drunk, one gulp at a time:

Damen D'Arthe himself, all the way from godsbedamned Vienda. Dark and powerful like a chroven, collected and professional like some serpent in disguise. He'd cornered Rhys in his own damn dorm, flashing around those pretty polished snaps like they were some badge of honor earned through bloodshed instead of bullshit posturing and well-bred privilege. The young Valentin seriously doubted the man had risen to Captain by virtue or genuine efforts in cleaning up the Anaxi streets, and given the way Damen talked down to Brayde County-born lower class society-sucking sorry excuses for a galdor like Rhys—his words, not the boy's—the young blond knew Charity's father wasn't in command of the Patrol Division because he had a silver tongue, either.

Stay the hell away from my daughter was just about the nicest thing off that Bastian-born stopclocker's lips, but Rhys would certainly never forget the phrases directed at him like blows of a baton to his ribs: never going to be good enough, never going to have a chance of marrying, and never should have wasted his time on such a lofty, expensive, and beautifully unattainable prize as Charity D'Arthe.

Just like that, he'd lost more than just a friend.

He'd lost everything.

"—fucking shut your head 'bout what you think I need, Freddy, my boy. I need another drink." Growled the blond teenager, shifting to turn around and making sure to jostle noisy-ersed, self-righteous, and admittedly well-meaning Frederick with one bony elbow as he did so, slamming his empty shot glass upside down on the bar and waggling two fingers at the greying wick woman behind it, "One more, please!"

Fred grunted, rolling his eyes as some of his barely-touched beer sloshed over the edges of his mug and onto his well-tailored pants, "You can't drink your way through the rest of the school year, you know."

"Thanks, mom." Snorted the inebriated taller boy, bleary blue eyes greedily watching the witch turn and fill another small cup with whatever the hell he'd asked to drink in the first place (he couldn't remember but it had been expensive in that gross upper-classed sort of way and it burned with the sweet promise of forgetfulness).

The words soured on his tongue after he said them and a wave of nausea caught him off-guard, Rhys turning the rolling of his alcohol-infused innards into a loud, unsavory belch to hide the sting of naming a parent he couldn't remember or, more truthfully, never even knew. His father had never been quiet clear on that one, but that was just how Ol'Theo was—

"I'll be fine come the first. Ready for another exciting second semester! You'll see!" He raised his shot glass in a mockery of a salute, making promises he knew he couldn't keep with a wink before swallowing one more bitter, burning gulp of liquid escapism.

Ersehole fathers.

Fuck them all.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 78th Roalis, 2707
Queen's Arms, The Stacks

"C ome on!” Niccolette cried out, voice cutting through the hot, hazy evening air of the stacks. “We have left only two more nights - two! - before the second term begins. And you wish to sleep?”

A burst of laughter echoed from behind her, two drunk boys staggering out of a bar with their arms clasped around one another’s shoulder. One whispered something in the other’s ear, their faces flushed with the heady summer night.

“Nicco...” Francoise laughed, stretching a hand back towards the other girl. The Anaxi shook her head, making her long spiraling corkscrew red curls jump. “We’ve been casting all clocking day, and drinking for hours besides! Everyone is tired.” The other Brunnhold students in the clump behind her nodded.

“We can party more at campus, Nicco, promise!” Sy’rien, a Hessean with thick, sleek dark hair, grinned over Francoise’s head.

“That is what you say,” Niccolette said. Her tone was sharp, but there was a wicked grin on her face. “Every night it is, oh, Nicco, we will party more! And then when we have returned, then! No - we are tired - we have lessons tomorrow. Well!” Niccolette spread her arms wide beneath the flickering street lamp, the dark yellow silk of her dress luminous. “We have no lessons tomorrow. So, now, what is your excuse?”

“That we’re all tired!” Another girl called from the middle of the group, scowling.

The two week long healing intensive was offered every summer for students in their sixth year specializing in living conversation. Competitive and expensive both, it swallowed up the last quarter of the break between terms with a grueling daily pace. Niccolette had loved it - she had shown up on time nearly every day, and soaked up the lessons. The actual healing was something of a chore, but all the rest - a delight.

The only problem was her classmates. Like so many Brunnholders, they were dull. They cared about all the wrong things, like rules, like getting enough sleep before the start of classes.

“I’ll stay,” Marcellos stepped forward from the edge of the group. He was an awkward boy - slightly pudgy, with a shock of bright red flopping hair that curled around the edges of his head and almost seemed to be slightly damp. His most redeeming factor, in Niccolette’s opinion, was the equally fat state of his wallet, well-backed by wealthy Viendan parents. He had yet to hesitate to buy drinks at the bars they visited, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to show up with a drink for her even before Niccolette had asked for one. His eyes locked onto Niccolette, fixed somewhere below her chin and above her stomach.

“Great - sorted, then,” Sy’rien said. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” his eyes met Marcellos’s, and both grinned.

Francoise made a face at Niccolette, mouthing the word ‘sorry,’ but turned and left after the rest of the group.

Niccolette stood in the faint light of the street lamp, watching the retreating backs of the other students. She turned to Marcellos and raised an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” she said. “Where shall we go, then?”

“I mean, your anesthesia spells aren’t bad!” Marcellos was all but shouting to be audible over the din of the Queen’s Arms.

“Mmmmm,” Niccolette drew the syllable out as long as possible, in the hope that it would drown out a few more of his words. She sat back in the narrow chair, crammed tight against a tiny table. Marcellos was leaning forward intently. Niccolette noticed, with a faint grimace, that his shirt was visibly stained with sweat. Perhaps, she thought, if he could just be quiet for a few moments, it would still be possible for her to enjoy a little bit of the evening.

“But,” Marcellos continued, “I mean, you just don’t have the raw power for real healing. It’s all right, girls usually don’t.”

Niccolette reached forward, picked up the small glass of pale golden liquid, and drained it. She set it down with a quiet thump, and looked at Marcellos. "Perhaps you could get me another, rather than force me to listen to more of your nonsense?"

“What?" Marcellos called.

Niccolette raised dark eyebrows at the empty glass.

"Oh! Of course! Another!" Marcellos nodded, fumbling and eager. He adjusted his pants as he rose, glancing once at Niccolette, and squirmed his way over to the bar, heedless of the tall blonde Anaxi and his red headed companion who he shoved past. 

Niccolette sat back with a huff, looking around the crowded bar. Small pale fingers ran through her long hair, pushing it back off her face, and she toyed with the tight yellow cuff of the dress at her wrist, sliding her fingers under it.

Marcellos was yelling something at the barkeep, flashing bills in the air. Niccolette glanced at him again and grimaced.

“All right!” Marcellos shoved back through the crowded bar and set two glasses down on the table with a thump. He grabbed the back of his chair, dragged it closer to Niccolette’s, and sat down with an audible thump.

Niccolette pressed her legs together as tightly as she could manage, keeping her thigh well away from Marcellos’s knee.

“I know somewhere we could go!” Marcellos all but yelled, loud enough to be fully audible over the din. “My dorm monitor’s kind of a kenser’s erse but my friend’s not back yet and I have his key - if you want to -“ he leaned in, whispering a suggestion into her ear.

Niccolette shrieked. “You are disgusting!”

“Come on!” Marcellos hissed. “I’ve been buying you drinks for two weeks! Everyone says Bastian girls are easy. Just - “ he fumbled for her hand, grabbing it, and yanked it under the table.

Niccolette shrieked again, much louder, and yanked her hand back with enough force that the yellow sleeve ripped. She leapt to her feet, snatched the glass off the table, and threw the entire contents into Marcellos’s red, sweaty face. 

“You are a filthy pig!” Niccolette shrieked, her voice more than loud enough to be audible even over the drunk uproar of the bar. “How dare you say such things to me? From the feel, you are barely even an excuse for a man, you pathetic -“ she was shaking with rage, her field red-shifting the air around her, the bright, vibrant energy of living conversation swooping through the crowded space.

“HEY!” Marcellos roared, spluttering, wiping his face off with his sleeve. He rose; he was only three or four inches taller than the petite Bastian, but he had well more than two thirds again her weight, and when he grabbed her arm this time, it was with considerably more force.

“You slut,” Marcellos spat. “You’ve been giving me the eye for weeks, don’t deny it now!” He gave her arm a firm shake. If her field was red-shifted, his was a dark, throbbing crimson, and fury lapped from him like a weapon.

Niccolette shrieked again, trying to draw back - stumbling, constrained between chairs and tables and the thick crush of the crowd.

[Rhys Valentin]

the Stacks

late evening on the 78th of Roalis, 2707

"You know what your problem is, Fred-oh? You're too fuckin' used to all that spoiled city life." Rhys had definitely had one too many (maybe two or three, honestly) by now and he waved the half-empty contents of whatever shot he was on to shove it in Frederick's chest, red-faced and grinning in all his lopsided glory. The shorter ginger sixth form had insisted that it was time to go, whining to get out of this oven of a pub packed full of hot, sweaty, drunk bodies and into the night air of the Stacks. But, no, the damn blond just needed to finish this one. Or the one before it.

Some other student shoved their way to the bar, shouldering Rhys roughly enough that the inebriated boy huffed forward, nearly falling off his stool and literally spilling his drink everywhere over his so-called friend and all but tripping over himself. His mouth worked as if he was thinking of a few choice words for the ersehat, but Mercellos was shouting for service while the witch barkeep was busy filling several orders, waving way more cash than was at all necessary as if he owned the fucking place.

"I'll be right with you, sir." The older woman crowed, too used to this treatment to at all hurry up her pace.

"Watch your damn self." Sputtered the lanky blond as he picked himself up and straightened himself out, a few buttons shy of well-dressed now that he was beyond warm on the inside anyway. One alcohol-damp hand reached up and raked through his hair to toss it out of his face and his other began to reach for the back of the larger, sweatier boy's shirt, but Fred hissed, not sober enough to avoid the knuckles or the glass against his sternum, suddenly covered in too-expensive Gioran whatsit. His green eyes narrowed and he curled hands around his friend's wrist, shaking his head slowly,

"Obviously your rural up-uhhhh-upbringing has done you so many clocking favors, Val. C'mon. Let's call it a night, and I promise we'll—"

He was about to finish his sentence when the larger ginger whirled from the bar like he'd just won some pig at the fair and paraded his drinks back to his table where some girl looked helplessly trapped.

"Go? Fine." Rhys growled, unsteady on his feet and laughing about it before he began to fish in his waistcoat pocket for money in order to settle up for drinks. Setting way too much on the sticky bartop decorated with his delicate tower of shot glasses, squinting at his work with a nod of thanks toward the witch and a wink.

Fred groaned, grabbing his friend and turning him, beginning to shove his taller, stubborn self toward the door in a tired eagerness to just go home and forget any of the summer had even happened. They'd made it about halfway through the small, narrow pub when suddenly the girl who'd been sitting at Marcellos' table shouted and leapt upward, causing the ginger to have to scramble to change both their courses, snatching Rhys' shoulder to point him in one direction while he stepped in another.

The tall blond snapped to attention at the word slut, not because it was leveled at him (could it have been? not at this point in his illustrious career as single bachelor, surely), but because he'd surely heard the word before and found it always seemed to strike him the wrong way. Also, gods, like the portly redhead had anything at all to say about such things, given the way the youth spent money in the hopes of getting someone's—anyone's—mouth near his trousers.

"Hey—fuck off! Th' lady obviously said no. Everyone in this godsbedamned pub would say no—"

"—Val, just leave them alo—oh, shit."

Frederick wasn't sober but he wasn't stupid. He was just too slow in shouting his warning. He saw his friend's bleary blue gaze come into focus and immediately screeched a slurred warning, stuck out of reach for the lanky youth as he turned toward the pair, pushing himself with all the grace that his level of intoxication could provide—which was very little—and immediately regretting his chest-to-chest vicinity to Marcellos.

"There's no clockin' way anyone's gonna—gods—" Senses overwhelmed by too much expensive imported Hessean cologne and even more sweat permanently etched into the bulkier boy's clothing, the young Valentin gagged instead of made the words for him to stop, eyes wide when the other boy released the girl and shoved Rhys hard in the shoulder instead, sending him staggering to one side in a clattering of chairs and glasses and tables, Rhys' long limbs scrambling to catch himself from falling over.

Marcellos laughed at him, rolling his eyes while he pulsed his fierce field in perceived victory, "Ah, sweet Valentin, I think you're confused. She's not even blonde, Niccolette here. This little Bastian doesn't belong to you—oh, wait—neither does that other Bastian's daughter, eh? D'Arthe, was it—"

"—I wouldn't—" The poor redhead who'd made valiant efforts to get Rhys out of there before any of this could unravel over one hapless student's bad night out was met with a meaty hand to the chest, the much bulkier ginger who'd attempted to convince Niccolette of his appeal in all the wrong ways shoving him with an open palm, slapping it against his hard liquor-soaked shirt and sending Frederick onto the floor.

That was, of course, the last spark for Rhys (as if Marcellos' words hadn't actually been the real fire here), and he shoved off from the table with a gurgle, fingers having found their way around the neck of someone's empty Neverbetter discarded on the floor. Gripping it tightly, he swung the bottle with a farmboy's strength straight for the portly galdor's face with that satisfying smacking, cracking noise from the sheer force of impact.

The pub erupted in raucous laughter, jeers, and taunts, of course, and from behind the bar, the witch scowled, waving a hand toward someone near the door.

Meanwhile, the shorter, rounder galdor squealed in pain, hands raising up to his bloodied face, cradling his nose, while the tall blond's body continued with the momentum of his strike to send him staggering forward, shoulder leaning for a precarious second against Marcello's round, soft stomach while he threw up nearly the entirety of his liquid-filled evening all over the floor and the poor ersehole's trouser leg and shoes. The noise was too much. The smells were too much. The words had been too much. The drinking had been too damn much.

The bottle clattered to the floor and Rhys straightened, gasping for breath while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, repeating himself in a wet gurgle while he swayed dizzily, grinning as adrenaline mingled with drunkenness the way mona mingled in a pair of intimate fields, "Now, fuck off."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 78th Roalis, 2707
Queen's Arms, The Stacks

Niccolette pulled as best as she could, trying desperately to get her arm out of Marcellos’s sweaty, ham-fisted grip. “Let me go!” She spat the words at him – but she couldn’t move back, and the tight yellow silk skirt hampered her – her shoes caught on the hem, and she teetered, trying not to fall – wanting neither to land on the floor nor – much more terrifying – to land on the floor with Marcellos’s heavy, sweaty weight on top of her.

Niccolette let out an inelegant grunt, pulling again.

Marcellos was grinning, as if her struggling amused him, and his hand tightened on her upper arm. There was, Niccolette realized with a shiver that made her blood run cold beneath her heavy, fuzzy head, something in his eyes that was pleasant, and – if the rest of him was any indication –

”Hey!” The shout from Marcellos’s other side was a welcome distraction, and Niccolette’s gaze shot to the lanky, blond student charging towards them, an unexpected, unlikely, and extremely drunken would-be savior.

Marcellos let her go, and Niccolette finally managed to stumble back, the hem of her dress ripping rather loudly beneath her shoe. Her arm ached where Marcellos had held it, and the other forearm was already bruising beneath her torn sleeve, reddened skin swelling slowly under ripped silk.

Niccolette didn’t feel bruised. She felt – furious.

Marcellos was taunting the other boy – Valentin, he’d called him. Rhys Valentin, Niccolette remembered, even if his usually handsome face was red and flushed from drink. Niccolette crossed her arms over her chest, and she felt something of a thrill rush through her when Marcellos shoved Rhys, an odd fluttering excitement that built a little more when Marcellos shoved the blond’s friend as well, and peaked as Rhys slammed the bottle into Marcellos’s face.

Niccolette grinned, wide, amused with all the rest at the spurt of blood from Marcellos’s nose. She was gripping her arms with her hands, shaking. The rush of excitement was wonderful, buoyant and even better than all the alcohol she’d drank.

Marcellos was clutching at his nose, squealing in pain like the pig he was. Rhys, doubled forward, vomited all over the other student’s pants and shoes, and Marcellos yelled aloud in fury, the heavy smell of vomit filling the air.

“No clocking way,” Marcellos spat, blood streaming down his face. He was shaking with anger, his voice thick and slurring in his throat. "I'll make you regret that, Valentin - you disgusting -"

Niccolette shifted behind him, her breath coming hot and fast. She bit her lip, teeth dragging over the lower one, and tried to think. A spell? What would she do in a duel? A pain spell – something to mark him – no – that would only make him angrier. Niccolette’s eyes dragged up and down over the other student.

Anesthesia, she remembered, thinking of the spell she had cast more than a dozen times that day. Localized, capable of numbing a patch of skin for surgery – as large as a hand if done properly, even by beginning students, or even – Niccolette called the mona to her with a tight pulse of energy, too drunk to think how reckless it was to cast like this, too furious to care. Energy fluttered in the air around her, pulsed and swelled –

Marcellos snatched a bottle off a nearby table, too furious to even speak, smashed the edge of it so the sharp glass glittered in the dim light –

“Hey!” The bartender called, tiredly, slumped forward against the counter. “Ne – ne o’ tha’ – ”

Niccolette focused on her homing, her gaze dropping to Marcellos’s vomit-covered feet -

Marcellos took a step forward –

Energy streamed from Niccolette through the hazy air and poured into his feet –

Marcellos let out a startled yelp and crashed to the ground, both feet completely numb, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The bottle broke further beneath him, his blood mixing freely with the vomit Rhys had left behind.

“Take that,” Niccolette spat, shaking, the hem of her dress ripped and stained with vomit, her arms clenched across her chest, one sleeve disgusting with sweat from Marcellos's hand, the other ripped, her hair a frizzing, rumpled mess from the heat and the crackling fields in the air, the make-up she’d carefully applied to her eyes that evening smudged and smeared, her lipstick no better, and vicious fury glittering in her face. “You pompous – clocking – ersehole!”

Niccolette straightened her back as best as she could, looked at Rhys and nodded once, and – stepping once on Marcellos’s hand as she passed – shoved her way through the gawking crowd and heading to the door. For a few moments her dignity held – and then the small Bastian was running in her awkward shoes, stumbling on the sticky floor, desperate to get outside. The rush of warm evening air hit her face at the door – the surge of adrenaline faded – and Niccolette dropped to her knees on the cobblestones, the fall sending a painful jolt through her, and vomited up whatever remained of her dinner and quite a bit of alcohol as well, shuddering and sobbing besides, long dark hair a tangled, sweaty mass against her head.

[Rhys Valentin]

the Stacks

late evening on the 78th of Roalis, 2707

"I'd sure like t' see you try." The young Valentin grinned back at Marcellos' bloodied threat with a recklessness only begotten of a singular lack of care for his own self-preservation, totally guttered and so cavalier about what he felt was an empty future at just sixteen that his response made it clear he totally welcomed a return in violence. What he got, however, was Frederick snatching at his sleeve, the shorter ginger sixth form full of panic as he glanced toward the bar where the witch behind it was looking none too pleased with the drunk-ersed rich boys and their equally wasted female prize,

"Godsdamnit, Val. You can't just—"

He felt it. They both did. The shifting of mona in the room, the gentle tug on their own fields as Niccolette gathered her own. Rhys' eyes widened, his grin faltering as he glanced over Fred's curls and toward the loud girl in her dirtied dress as she recited Monite he knew from the Lawn about as well as he knew from the Infirmary these days.

"—fuck off, I can—" He grunted in return, whipping his attention back to the broken bottle waved in the air, toss of his head that hatcher-may-care invitation for the other student to totally bring his worst.

At that, Samantha Givens had honestly seen e-clocking-nough. She tried to shout no, but the clocking children were really just dangerously entitled brats and this was her hard-earned establishment after all. The entire clocking pub full of laughing, cat-calling students began to cheer and clap only for them all to collectively gasp in horror, surprise, and approval when the Anesthesia spell took a hole of poor, drunk Marcellos' feet and he stumbled ridiculously, too inebriated to remember to drop the broken glass. Slipping on numb feet and legs like some circus clown in far too fancy clothes, the broad ginger fell right onto the sticky, vomit-slushed floor, howling in pain when the edges of the bottle he'd broken dug hungrily into his flailing palm.

"Alright, lads and ladies!" A loud voice roared above the various sounds from other guttered patrons in various states of shock and entertainment, a tall, well-muscled wick wading his way from his table by the door where he'd nursed a cup of coffee half the evening. The bouncer, hardly younger than Samantha herself, one Georgie Givens, was clearly very pissed off. He'd let the children who kept him and his rosh in business have their fun, but now it was over, "That's enough o' that, ye chen—"

The young Valentin was staring at the boy on the floor, his wild grin having faltered for one sober breath at the sight of blood pooling on the floor while the ersehole struggled to sit up, whimpering and fussing. His blue eyes washed over to the girl he'd stepped into defend at her words and he saw the thrill of fury dance in the lantern light across her otherwise disheveled but not unattractive features. He wasn't at all sober enough to not find such a kindred expression to his own currently fiery state of mind unattractive, the twinge of guilt at what he'd just done to a fellow galdor burned away like so much chaff—

And then, just like that, her eyes widened and she turned and left.

Oh. Not even a fucking thank you—

He laughed, but it was quickly tugged away from him like his breath when he was forcibly grappled. Georgie's arms were nearly the size of Rhys' head and the blond teen was almost his height, Georgie snatching the boy roughly by his bicep, digging fingers deep into muscle before his other meaty hand grabbed not for Fred as the short redhead recoiled in horror from the brush of his glamour and the threat in his face but instead to wave the crowd away as he turned to drag the smirking boy toward the door.

"It's time t' leave. Th' Queen's Arms thank ye for yer patronage this evenin' but bloodyin' folks ent welcome an' ye know magic's saved for th' streets an' whatever th' hell ye call that place in yer fancy-ersed school. Lessgo."

"Yeah, yeah. I was just on my way out and—"

"Don't wanna hear 't." Too rough with the galdor than he should have been with anyone if he didn't want to spend a few nights in jail, the wick bouncer dragged him past a sea of staring faces—some clapping in admiration, others scowling in severe disapproval—to throw open the door of his establishment with his free hand. Slipping past the recovering Nicco and just barely managing to sidestep her vomit there in front of his fine pub with a scowl, Georgie made a point to shove the blond boy a little harder than was necessary, the sixth form staggering and hitting the cobblestones with another burst of totally inappropriate laughter and the flash of equally inappropriate hand gestures to the older man's back as he all but bowled Frederick over turning to go back inside.

The shorter ginger grumbled and weaseled his way out the door, staring first at the laughing, lanky, sorry-ersed thing on the road and then glaring at Niccolette and her make-up smeared visage,

"Ah, Good Lady, I clocking give up! You can find your own damn way home." Fred frowned deeply, perhaps more fed up with how Roalis had gone downhill for his friend than at all annoyed by just this particular evening. It had been a swift decline, Rhys' anger and frustration so clearly without an outlet, his sense of loss something that none of his equally teenaged peers were at all equipped to deal with, "If you can even remember what clocking dorm is yours this time."

Rolling his eyes and huffing, the other boy turned and sort of staggered his way as quickly as possible down the sidewalk, desperate to put distance between himself and the mess.

The young, guttered Valentin clapped his hands, humor fading in his burning chest, laying on the cool cobblestones that had bruised and stung him when he'd fallen for a few moments longer than any sober person would have needed to,

"Fuck you, too, Fred-oh! Don't be beggin' me t' do your damned quantitative homework in a week, either!" He slurred as if suddenly this was some lovers' tiff, forgetting for a moment that there on the sidewalk stood the dark-haired girl in all her disheveled glory, silhouetted by the lanterns flickering outside of the Queen's Arms now very closed-to-him doors,

"Oh. Hey. You're fuckin' welcome, by the way." Rhys smiled stupidly as if she'd always been there and began the rather clumsy, laborious-looking process of finding himself back on his feet, "Listen—you're alright, yeah? How'd you get stuck with Marcellos for a whole even-evenin-eveninnnggg?" Swaying a little, he tossed hair from his flushed face and made some attempt to wipe grime and dirt from himself, talking as if nothing bloody had just transpired, fluidly flowing without question between one moment and the next because he was lubricated by pure adrenaline and way too much hard liquor,

"You need better godsbedamned friends if they left you alone with that perverted ersehole."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 78th Roalis, 2707
Regrets Way, The Stacks

Niccolette felt very much as if everything she had ever eaten or drank was emerging in a sticky mess on the cobblestones. It wasn’t the first time she’d vomited that summer, and it wasn’t the second or third time either, but it was her first time on the street, her first time out in the open, and she felt hideously exposed.

As she’d drank them, the drinks had been a glittering array of colors - turquoise, emerald, tourmaline, ruby, a few she wasn’t sure she remembered, and gold at the end. Coming back up, mixed together, it was all a horrific tan brown sludge, and Niccolette sobbed a little harder at the sight of it, doubled over on the ground.

The door slammed open behind her and Niccolette rose as swiftly as she could manage. She wobbled – nearly stumbled, and caught herself, arms wrapping across her front again. She felt cold and clammy despite the heat, and tears were still trickling steadily down her cheeks. She wiped them with an unsteady hand. She looked down at the sleeves of her dress – crushed and ripped – looked at the hem dragging against the ground, smeared with Marcellos’s vomit, at the filthy smear across her knees from falling to the ground. Niccolette remembered, with a faint fluttering sorrow, how much she’d liked the dress when she had bought it – how beautiful she’d felt even an hour ago. Her sorrow was as much for the loss of that feeling as the loss of the dress – and it was lost, Niccolette thought, fiercely. She would never, ever wear it again. She would cut it to shreds – rip it apart with her hands, if she could. She rubbed her wet eyes on her sleeve, smearing traces of smudged black eyeliner against it, and then, flinching only once, wiped her mouth off as well, on the underside of it.

Rhys was cursing, something funny; his friend didn’t seem to find it so. Niccolette glanced up at him, jaw clenched tight. There was, she noticed, a little track of blood that she had left behind on the ground – not whole footprints, just traces that started at the door, already scuffed, and faded into nothingness behind her. There was a faint smear of blood on the hem dress too, she noticed, where it must have brushed against Marcellos. The sight brought a little courage back into her, and Niccolette glared back at the red-headed Anaxi, crossing her arms over her chest and turning slightly away as he stumbled off.

There was a clapping noise from the ground behind her, another burst of slurred yelling.

Niccolette glanced back over her shoulder and down at the words addressed to her. She smiled, faintly, at the other boy’s ‘you’re welcome’ and the accompanying smile, taking a deep, unsteady breath.

All right?

Niccolette watched Rhys attempt to wipe himself clean, and smiled a little more. He was only making it worse, really, but the gesture made her feel less disgusting. She ran her fingers through her hair, making a little grimace at the feel of it, and at least attempted to push it off her face, shoving the strands back over her head with as much force as it took, even if it made the whole tangle of it worse. She turned towards him, a little more, looking up at him, aware of just how tall he was. Perhaps it ought to have scared her; instead, Niccolette, thinking of the bottle in his hand, the heavy crunch of Marcellos's nose, felt that same faint thrill.

“I am – all right,” Niccolette said with as much conviction as she could muster, ignoring the pool of vomit inches away, the smell mixing into the thick swampy summer night. She was drunk; it was obvious in the slur of her words, especially now without so much adrenaline to sharpen them. There was something different there, now, behind them. Still, she enunciated carefully, always with the heavy curl of a bastian accent in her voice.

Niccolette shrugged slim shoulders at Rhys’s question, arms crossing over her chest again. “They are erseholes too,” Niccolette agreed, nodding. They were erseholes. Sy’rien Niccolette had never liked, but – she had almost thought Francoise a friend. She should have gone with them, Niccolette thought for a moment, bitterly, and then rebelled against it. No. She had been right. They should have stayed out! How could they have been tired, all of them? How could anyone want to go from this to the oblivion of sleep one moment before they had to?

And like a pendulum, the emotions seething in her chest swung right back to anger. How dare Francoise leave her alone with Marcellos? She knew what he was. They all did. Niccolette had too, even if she had thought she could handle it.

“I do not give a fuck what they think,” Nicolette swallowed, hard, shaking a little now, the curse word somehow even more profane wrapped in her smooth accent. “Any of them,” she said, as firmly as she could manage. “And, now, your friend has left you too,” she thought of the look the Anaxi student had given her, the glare that had made her feel so small. “So – fuck him too.” Niccolette lifted her chin, looking up at Rhys without the faintest hesitation, proud and angry and utterly defiant, every inch of her slight frame drawn up, held quivering together with the sheer force of her will. “Fuck them all.”

[Rhys Valentin]

the Stacks

late evening on the 78th of Roalis, 2707

The acrid smell of vomit lingered in his nostrils over the thick waft of far too much alcohol and just a bit more sweat than he'd have preferred. The cobblestones, however, were cool and comforting against his back despite how they'd dug into his lanky frame, most likely leaving bruises behind that he'd feel in the morning, especially by his knee and his hip. He laid there and stared up at the street lights, squinted blearily at the stars, and yelled his curses at Frederick who left him alone.

But there was Niccolette—a hot mess—who looked like how he felt on the inside only far prettier. Well. Was she pretty? It was alright to think that. His mind felt like soda water in a bottle that had been shaken too much, bubbling and tumultuous and ready to overflow.

He could think anyone he wanted was pretty, godsdamnit—anyone but Charity D'Arthe!—and despite the dark-haired Bastian's disheveled, just as drunk appearance, she smiled at his lame and useless question while she answered him nonetheless. Her Estuan was almost more musical and he mocked a scoff,

"I mean, you're not hurt. Right? Anyone whose gotten that close to Marcellos probably isn't entirely alright. Disgusting ersehole." Rhys was staggering to his feet, chuckling at his own joke in a throaty sound that might have been more a giggle than anything else. He felt wobbly, poured out, and he ignored the way his hands shook as adrenaline drained too soon, too fast from his inebriated bloodstream. His chest burned with an eager fire—a few seconds of satisfying violence had simply not been enough to quench it—but it burned so hot and so fast that he was quite sure it would snuff itself out again soon.

"Fred will come back. He always comes back when assignments are due." Snorted the tall blond, waving a palm in calloused dismissal toward the direction the red-headed student had fled on the street. He opened his mouth to make some other remark about how her friends weren't worth their salt, about how friends in general were such a fucking waste of time when they didn't even worry about leaving you with the creeps, but her words caught him off-guard.

They were familiar and whether it was because of her height or his level of intoxication, her firm statement felt as though it struck him hard in the narrow chest.

He laughed.

It wasn't a mocking laugh or a disapproving laugh. It was warm and bitter and full of agreement. It was a laugh of affirmation. The grin he flashed her was one of solidarity, made perhaps to have more meaning than it really did because he felt as though he shared everything about her brief, rebellious statement, because he felt as if she understood him and spoke to his aches, because he felt the flutter of admiration. Her words spoke to him in a way he wasn't capable of processing, touching exposed nerves not with anything soothing and calming so much as fiery and explosive. Dangerous. Needful. Some glorious invitation to the kind of self-destruction his shattered, guttered self longed for instead of healing.

"Yeah! Fuck 'em all!"

The young Valentin growled in agreement like it was some chorus to an anthem, grin wicked, wavering on his feet, looking down at the shorter young woman about as stupidly as possible when this full of alcohol. He licked his lips in thought. Niccolette Villamarzana—did he share any classes with her? He'd never noticed, and it'd been his own damn fault for the blond pianist-shaped blinders he'd worn foolishly for all of his childhood. Here he was a sixth form and there was something that stirred in him with her simple, defiant words that made him realize he'd not noticed any other girls even existed in his entire life until now.

"It's fiiiinnnne." He waved a hand in a very loose, overly dramatic style, "Fuck the rest—I'll be your friend."

Rhys Valentin nodded sagely. Clearly no wiser words had ever been spoken in a moment such as this.

"Maybe we should get outta here before Marcellos gets outside, though, 'cause I don't think I want to see that bouncer again for ... I don't know ... a few days? Ever. Definitely ever." He laughed, mostly some amused noise through loose lips, and hooked a thumb in some general direction that might have been toward campus or that might have been toward some other pub, "Can I, uh, can I walk you somewhere ... else? Your dress, though—"

Making motions as if he was wearing a jacket as he would be on days requiring a uniform, he realized he wasn't when fingers caught on already loosened buttons around his collar and dragged over the pocket of his waistcoat, smirking like an idiot,

"—shit. I'm just a little guttered."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 78th Roalis, 2707
Regrets Way, The Stacks

Rhys’s laughter caught Niccolette off guard. Her first reaction was a flash of hot fury – how dare he laugh at her? How dare he? But – it didn’t feel as if he were mocking her. Instead, there was something inviting in it, something that felt as if it reached into the smoldering fire inside Niccolette’s chest and – didn’t seek to suffocate it, as most seemed to want to. Rhys’s laughter didn’t quench her fire; it fed it, instead, until it throbbed and blazed, flaring into bright flames that licked up and down inside her.

Niccolette grinned too, as wicked as Rhys’s own, looking up at the much taller student through black-smudged eyelashes, something that she thought must have been her heart throbbing to some mysterious beat inside her.

Niccolette laughed again at Rhys’s promise of friendship. “Yes!” she agreed, bright energy replacing the anger in her voice, sharp and glimmering in the dark street. “And I will be yours. You will see – we will have more fun than all the rest combined.” She was still as fierce as ever, determined, as if saying would make it so.

Niccolette shuddered visibly at the thought of Marcellos coming outside, glancing at the door. If he did, she thought – if he had the audacity to even look at her again – Niccolette was not sure what she would do to Marcellos, nor how, but she knew that he wouldn’t like it. Her field flexed, faintly, but it was hot against her, too hot to hold, and she let it go, the mona flitting away from her grasp.

“Me too,” Niccolette confessed, wrinkling her nose, as if Rhys might possibly not be aware that she, also, was perhaps more than a little guttered. Not so drunk as Rhys, perhaps, but nothing like that cold, boring state of sobriety. Niccolette giggled, more than a little aware of a flutter of excitement at the image of Rhys’s hands at his buttons, at the attention it drew to the little glimmer of pale skin beneath.

“But fine,” Niccolette said. “Come, let us go now, and we will see to the rest later,” she marched off in the direction Rhys had pointed, wobbling once or twice, but staying mostly upright. She didn’t quite wait for him to follow, but between her slow (if determined) pace and his definite height advantage, the taller student wouldn’t have any trouble following her.

“And yes!” Niccolette cried out, her enthusiasm catching back up to her as easily as Rhys had. “My poor dress!” She stopped, turning, looking plaintively up at Rhys. They had made it a little way, and at least they were no longer directly in front of the Queen’s Arms, standing instead on some slightly darker corner of the street, presumably in front of a house where some unfortunate souls who had made the mistake of living on Regrets Way were trying to sleep. “Look! Do you see?” She looked down at the dark yellow thing, one small hand lifting to touch the part of the sleeve that had ripped. With a grimace, she turned it this way and that, parting the sleeve to reveal a slim white arm, marred now with a darkening bruise, visible even in the dim light. “It was lovely, you know,” Niccolette said, more than a little sadly.

“But!” Niccolette frowned in thought. “We cannot go back yet,” she said, firmly. “Going back is to – to give up! I will not give up because of any – any perverted ersehole!” Niccolette wrinkled her nose, then stamped her foot, and thrust a small hand towards Rhys. “Give me your pocket knife,” she told him, firmly. Niccolette waited – not exactly patiently, but she did wait – as Rhys fished through his pockets, and accepted the knife when he gave it to her.

“So,” Niccolette looked down at her once-beautiful yellow silk dress, at the ripped, dirty, vomit-splattered skirt. She ran one hand over the waistband of it, fingers tracing the seam that went over her hips, rounded her body, that connected the bodice to the skirt. With a deep breath, Niccolette gathered up a handful of the dress, and cut the lovely silken top layer away, twisting it carefully to keep from cutting too deeply, twisting herself as well to reach the back of it. The underskirt was a paler yellow – not the glimmering, lovely dark silk of the overskirt, but pretty and expensive enough fabric in its own right. If the ragged bits of silk at the top would keep anyone from thinking the look remotely intentional, at least the layer beneath seemed to have escaped the vomit and blood, had not been ripped by stomping flailing feet. It was, perhaps, just a little short, revealing the tops of Niccolette’s boots, but ankles and all the rest remained safely covered.

“So!” Niccolette said, closing the knife and offering it back to Rhys. She fished a bobby pin from her hair, and pinched the sleeve closed with it, securing it as best as she could given her general inebriation. The other one was still crushed, but Niccolette did not see what she could do for it, short of cutting the sleeves off, and – her courage didn’t extend quite that far.

“What do you think?” Niccolette asked Rhys, spreading her arms wide. She looked up at him, liquid courage pumping through her veins, mixed with some entirely different awareness. “May I still be seen in public?” She had thought she would grin, but what emerged had an entirely different feel to it, a soft and almost nervous sort of smile. Niccolette swallowed, hard, lowering her arms slowly, her bravery faltering.

[Rhys Valentin]

the Stacks

late evening on the 78th of Roalis, 2707

It took him a moment, standing there on swaying feet in the dark, Niccolette's purposeful and Bastian accent flowing off pretty lips, interrupted by giggles and smiles, to realize that she was asking him for anything in particular—

Your pocket knife.

"My wha—yeah. Hang on."

—How did she know he had one? His amused expression seemed to elongate, grow slack, the well-lubricated and somewhat sloshy gears inside his guttered skull churning against the question until he smirked, scoffed, and then chuckled in return. Making a very clumsy show of himself, patting down his trouser pockets and pulling out a pencil, several scraps of crumpled paper, a few coins, too much lint, and not one but two very different knives. The first one was larger, the handle thicker, with a sturdy wooden handle and brass ends, the knife folded in the middle surely of more than simply decent size.

A hunter's knife—Brayde County boys were always over-prepared.

The second was smaller with two different blades—one on each side—with a mother of pearl handle. It was that one he passed to her with an awkward, lopsided grin, allowing her to open it herself to suit her needs while he shoved everything else back into his pockets.

"Just—oh." Rhys couldn't help it, really, blue eyes following her purposeful motions, attempting to figure out what her intentions were, distracted by the rustling of fabric and the movements of hands over a body that was not his. It would have been far more polite to look away, to glance around the darkened street at gods only knew what house it was, to watch the flicker of lantern light instead of watch the girl make an impromptu change of fashion with one sharp pocketknife and far too much alcohol as her only tools.

He grew up around fabric—the Valentin family farm producing the indigo plants used in Anaxas' most iconic uniforms, both for the Seventen and for Brunnhold student uniforms. His father could even sew, as could most of his staff, though their jobs were certainly more about perfecting the genetics of their cash crop of dye, not actually designing new clothing lines. Artisans sometimes came to visit, textile producers, too. While as a boy he may have spent more time in the woods and he fields than in the production facilities, he hadn't grown up unaware of things. If anything, his childhood had been full of domestic tasks, raised without his mother and with a very minimal staff for reasons his distant, difficult-to-relate-to father never really chose to disclose, he'd cooked and cleaned and patched his own pants because, as Ol' Theo used to chide him: "The best way to take care of your Kingdom is to learn to take care of yourself."

Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

Regardless, the tall blond boy was unabashedly staring by the time Niccolette snapped his pearl-handled pocket knife back and held it out to his narrow chest. He blinked again, eyes traveling from her boots, upward slowly, and coming back into focus on her face before reaching for it as if he'd never seen another girl in his entire youth—had he, though? had he ever? He might have even chuckled sheepishly when his fingers brushed hers and he shoved the weapon back into his wrinkled, dirty trouser pockets, only to keep his hands in there for the moment she spread her arms and asked his opinion. He didn't have the courage to assist her in removing her sleeves, either, but only because the thought of that much skin in view elevated the sound of his own pulse in his too-hot temples to a volume he had to speak above if he wanted to hear his own words.

His smile widened but was no less awkward, as if he suddenly had some reason to be nervous but couldn't at all comprehend why, as if the weight of her question held some kind of meaning he was too drunk and too young to at all grasp at the depths of. Affirmation wasn't really something he understood as a teenaged boy, but he'd given plenty of compliments before. He'd just never been so directly asked for something so important,

"You, uh, well, um—yeah. I'd totally look at you in public—no—wait—I'd see you in public—no—I'd—I mean, you look great—no—yes—but—errrrrr. Shit. You cleaned all of that up just right, Niccolette." Was his smile too big? Could one blush when their face was already flushed with far too many shots already? He rocked on his heels and regretted the motion, stomach fluttering strangely, and nodded his head as if that made it at all that much better, "You look nice. With less ... puke. Sorry 'bout that and all. Oh, and here—"

One hand withdrew from his pocket, fishing fingers into his waistcoat behind buttons and against his chest where his palm felt the rapid beat of his heart for no reason, tugging out a handkerchief that had obviously never been used by just how wrinkled it was,

"—you've got a little smudge—there." Hovering close to her face but not touching it, he offered her the square of fabric with instructions given, stopping himself from more words or actually cleaning her face by drawing his lower lip between his teeth with a breathless sort of chuckle.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 78th Roalis, 2707
Regrets Way, The Stacks

Niccolette had examined the first knife curiously, eyes settling on it when it emerged from Rhys’s pocket, but she hadn’t made any move to reach for it, letting Rhys take the lead in this. She liked the look of it even if she couldn’t have exactly said why, but she wasn’t disappointed either by the delicate little thing with its mother of pearl.

Niccolette had been initially pleased by Rhys’s faint, sheepish chuckle. His fingers brushing against hers sent a trace of electricity through her, a sharp static shock, and she’d felt confident enough to ask his opinion. There was, in the way he had slowly looked her over, his gaze drawing steadily up from her boots to her face, a sense of something like power, an entirely different kind of spell than the ones Niccolette usually cast.

There was a pause, though, and some kind of change to Rhys’s smile that Niccolette didn’t quite understand, and she had felt something of the rush fade, had felt herself sink back towards toward the hard ground below. For a moment, Niccolette contemplated going home; she had tried, she told herself, fiercely. It was not her fault if – if –

It wasn’t, initially, much better when Rhys began to talk, fumbling and awkward, shifting on his heels, finally managing to offer two weak if enthusiastic compliments. Niccolette stared up at him, her face settling into a faint frown. Then, finally, she nodded slightly, lips pursing delicately. She wasn’t sure what about Rhys’s response disappointed her; she wasn’t sorry that he had been flustered, not in the slightest, but she wished he had said something –

Niccolette didn’t want to look nice, she realized. She didn’t want to look nice at all.

“Thank you,” Niccolette said, a little coolly. She plucked the handkerchief from Rhys’s hand, and stopped, looking down at the square of fabric, then back up at the taller student, eyes catching for just a moment on his lips.

Then, with an enormous effort of will, Niccolette pulled her gaze away from Rhys’s face. She might have been said to be looking at his chest, but Niccolette attempted to pretend she wasn’t seeing it, that the disheveled shirt and waist coast, the open buttons and the glimmer of pale skin beneath, were only some backdrop, perhaps for some play that she was in the audience of. She did her best to act as if she wasn’t even sure whether Rhys was really there at all, for all that he seemed to be occupying an enormous part of her attention. He had moved closer when he offered her the handkerchief, and it was very nearly all that she could think about. But, Niccolette thought, she could not let him get away with such behavior.

Niccolette held Rhys’s handkerchief in one hand, his long, lovely, awkward fingers still hovering close to her face. She lifted her own hand to her lips, Rhys’s handkerchief peeking between her fingers. Almost as slowly as she could manage, Niccolette ran her thumb over her lips, sliding her tongue over her skin, as if she were in the privacy of her own room, sitting in front of a mirror. With a careful, delicate motion, Niccolette wiped her damp thumb over the spot he’d indicated, then used the handkerchief to finish the cleaning, wiping the caked black make-up from her cheek.

“Is that – nice?” Niccolette asked, looking up at Rhys again. She lowered the handkerchief, all kinds of awareness thrumming through her.

Abruptly Niccolette was aware of pushing too hard, of reaching for something she didn’t entirely understand. She swallowed, hard, and turned her head away again, fixing her gaze on some distant point down the street – she couldn’t have said what she saw there, only that it wasn’t Rhys.

“Where shall we go now?” Niccolette asked, eyes sliding back to Rhys; she kept her chin pointed away at least, her body oriented faintly away from his, as if it made any difference to her awareness of him. “You may lead.”