[Closed] Classless Kids [Memory]

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Stack Book Exchange, the Stacks
Yaris 35, 2717 - Midday

Too clocking hot. That was Cerise Vauquelin's very eloquent assessment of this particular day in Yaris, as well as the day previous. And the one before that. In fact, it was a fair assessment for most of the season. Especially when stuffed into an itchy wool uniform that no cotton under layer could make more comfortable. The heat was getting to her, making her liable to snap and snarl more than usual. Just that morning she had told a classmate who she was otherwise quite content with where they could put their request to see her notes; their professor had been less than amused, and she'd had to stand in the hall for the remainder of the lecture.

Which was why she had made the executive decision to simply not attend her next class. Or the one after that. It was a calculated gamble, this late in the year. Midterms were approaching, and Cerise had studied for them not at all. She very rarely did, of course, until the week before. The idea of sitting and listening to another droning mathematics lecture made her want to break out into hives, however, so out she went. Slipping by those adults who should have been keeping ne'er-do-wells and troublemakers like herself safely contained behind red walls, Cerise disappeared into the maze of the Stacks with a practiced and perhaps troubling degree of ease.

The Stack Book Exchange hadn't been her intended destination when she left the campus proper and delved into the maze of cobbled streets and narrow alleys. She had at first thought to head to a bar, really, and see if she could cajole some poor bartender into giving her something cold and distinctly inappropriate for the hour of the day. The problem she encountered was in fact this: the hour of the day. Too early for most taverns, and anywhere else was entirely too respectable for the sort of mood she was in.

Instead her dark-booted feet had carried her, sweating and grumbling, to the Stack Book Exchange. Cerise had, of course, plenty of books to read in her room. She had just purchased three the week previous, and had yet to start any of them. But one of the chief appeals of the Stack Book Exchange, besides their rather generous trade-in policy for the gently-used book and their student discount, was that earlier than year they had become the proud owners of an electric fan.

One who was interested in such things would have to admit it was a rather handsome model, to boot. Newly-made and shiny, it boasted both concealed wires and a rather attractive cage for the fan blades. More important was that it worked. The soft whirring of the brass blades sent a soft breeze moving through the shop, ruffling the pages of the books closest. The door was propped open with a brick to keep the air moving through the whole of the shop; it also had the rather fortunate effect of disabling the bell. Cerise didn't relish having her arrival announced to the shopkeepers, a rather fussy married couple who sometimes had tried to shoo her out when she appeared in uniform during hours that were undoubtedly meant for classes. It was more difficult when she'd already been standing there without their notice; her rather dark glower didn't make them any more eager.

For a time after she arrived, Cerise had just languished idly in front of the fan itself, letting the breeze generated dry the sweat on her face. Her hair was pulled into what had begun life as a rather neat ponytail high on her head, so as to keep the bulk of it off the back of her neck. Not yet lunchtime and it had already begun to fail her; errant dark curls stuck to her face and throat.

Eventually, however, she did tire of standing passively in front of the fan and decided to look at the actual shelves. It was the least she could do, she thought, for how the wife of the couple kept glancing at her as if she very dearly wished Cerise would leave, but couldn't quite bring herself to say so. It was the field, Cerise thought; she never had quite gotten the trick of keeping it contained, and while it had something of the dasher about it, she was not too humble to think it was strong for someone her age. Or maybe it was the pointed sneer that rested perpetually on her mouth. Either was possible.

Cerise dragged a pale finger along the shelves, eyes skipping over titles. As the knot of her irritation started to loosen in her chest, she stopped on a title she'd not yet read. The author was one she knew, and she quite liked: he wrote exciting stories of fighting the restless undead in fantastical cities on a proposed hidden continent of Vita. They were strange and lyrical, for all that they were action stories. The book she grabbed off the shelf was not one of those, but rather a crime novel from earlier in his career. She wasn't sure if she liked his detective fiction, but resolved to skim and decide if this was one she wanted to try.

Skimming quickly turned into reading, and Cerise's attention was wholly absorbed. A kenser could have come barreling through the store, and the young woman was entirely likely not to notice.

[Emiel Emmerson]

that bookstore with the new fan

the 35th of yaris, 2717

It was so clocking hot today, and it wasn't as though there'd be any relief for weeks. The morning'd been burned away lugging casks up from the basement, and unloading a couple of fresh kegs and barrels from old man Watts and his blind-as-th'Everine kenser, Josie. That basement felt nice for a few minutes, cool and dark, but gods if the work wasn't heavy and the Yaris sun not a real hatcher, gnawing straight to the bone with fire instead of teeth. Once taps were set and counters cleaned, there wasn't much to do for another house or so until his shift at the bar started—students had trickled in and out all day already, staff on their lunch breaks, sneaking a beer. He knew 'em all.

The rusted awning outside the kitchen door squeaked and sighed in the breeze, and as often as Emiel'd heard his da remind him he needed to replace that whole damn thing, he hadn't done it. He wasn't about to do it in Yaris, neither. Hells no. Standing in that little stretch of shade, sweaty back pressed against the wooden post, the young wick carefully curled a fresh paper around the prettiest of pinches of fresh tobacco, match behind one ear, wisps of bright violet hair sticking to his forehead.

"I heard th' Book X'change's got a new fan." Ro grunted, watching his younger brother's steadier hands, licking parched lips as if he could already taste the smoke instead of just the salt of his own perspiration, "Ent gonna be too many students out at this hour. Might get the place almost to ourselves."

"You think?" Carefully licking the seam, there was a light of curiosity in the amber gaze that flicked up, "Maybe we can solve our little argument from earlier while we're there, eh? Is that why you wanna go?"

"Pft. Ne. Ye chen I'm right, ersehole."

"Ne, ne you're not." Snorted Emiel, delicately placing the new cigarette between his lips and using his thumb as the friction for the match with a satisfied hiss, pausing to light it and take a long first drag. Exhaling through his nose, lingering smoke wafting from sneering lips, the younger wick taunted, "Vita ent flat, Rohan."

"Oes. It's gotta be." Insisted the elder Emmerson, standing from the barrel he'd been sitting on and leaving the empty bottle of now too-warm beer he'd been drinking right there next to it, "Just look anywhere outside 'f town, Em."

"We've read the same books, an' I don't see what you do. But, dze, c'mon. Let's go. You don't give a chroveserse 'bout that fan. You just wanna settle the score."

"Shut yer head." Shoving his brother with a shoulder and snatching the cigarette right from his lips without shame, the dark-haired wick nearly a hand taller than his sibling turned and started off at a quick pace down the back alley behind their home and business, the Singing Badger, "B'sides, I've got another order t' pick up. I get paid today an' I promised you a meal for helpin' deliver."

"I thought you were done with that spitch." Hissed Emiel, wrestling for his smoke back and wincing at the elbow in his ribs for his prize.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Daoa thinks you're moony, helpin' them."

"Daoa doesn't understand. Y' do, right?"

"I don't know. I don't wanna talk 'bout it. It's too clockin' hot, Ro. Just—walk already."

The two wandered the blocks, sticking to the shade, passing only a handful of obvious Brunnholders in their thick green wool layers, scurrying about between classes. Em didn't pity them one bit, gods no, but also, he supposed he had to hand it to golly endurance. Here he was in a few light cotton layers, shirt half unbuttoned hatcher-may-care, a nice little hand-dyed scarf catching that sweat that must be trapped forever in those stupid, stuffy greens. Why those kids didn't get Yaris off instead of Roalis escaped him entirely—dry season was honestly the worst month of all year to be bundled like a corpse ready for burial in endless layers of wool.

"They'll all be thirsty tonight." He laughed between drags, flicking ashes without concern on the sidewalk, "I'll make more in tips than you get paid smuggling secret mail."

"Honestly, Em, fuck y—" Rohan clipped himself short, turning his head away from a pair of Collies on patrol across the street, proud on their chroven, riding high on their saddles with the gleam of sweat shining on their foreheads. They were in green, too. Once the brigkt were gone, he whispered angrily to his younger brother, "—fuck ye. I don't do it just for coin."

"Whatever." A toss of violet and the flash of amber. Emiel didn't believe a word. Cigarrette's last ends between his teeth, he glanced up at the sign to the Stack Exchange book shop and mocked a flourish, holding the door open for his brother,

"Havakda! Ne smoking in here, kov!" Crowed a gnarled voice from the register as if the old woman'd smelled them before they even stepped into the threshold (truth be told, she'd watched their sorry erses through the foggy glass of the front window, laden though it was with sun-faded old volumes on display).

"Oh, gods. Epa—sorry." Em was giggling, tossing the end of the thing down and grounding it under boot heel, making a show of the last lungful of smoke by blowing rings right there in the foyer, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. Rohan mumbled a few curses and shook his head as if he didn't want to even be associated with his flesh and blood,

"Go find us a definitive answer, y' kenser. I'll be right there."

"I got your definitive answer right here, ye laoso tsuter." The younger wick made some utterly crude hand motion right there in front of everyone and shoved Ro's broader, sweaty shoulder before he turned and went to saunter his way through the shelves, making a straight line toward the fan he heard whirring above the volume of his own voice.

Sweet Alioe, that felt nice.

Maybe he stood there too long, taking in the few other people gathered for probably the same damn reason while his brother disappeared behind the counter for whatever his godsbedamned private business with those underground ersehats was. Stupid, that's what it all was. Wouldn't make a difference in this old fortress city with walls of stone probably dyed red by the blood of the lower races, dug straight from the earth that color all those centuries ago.

Stupid.

Em huffed, smelling of sweat and that earthy spice that came with good quality Hessean tobacco. A dark brow arched at the students hovering in the shelves, clearly avoiding classes or cramming for some last-minute paper. He knew exams were coming. He knew the heavy drinking was just on the horizon and he didn't look forward to cleaning up post-finals vomit like he did every damn year.

It never changed.

Scowling at the thought, fingers dragged through his hair and scratched the back of his scalp, letting the cool air blow over his flushed, freckled skin one more time before he turned and headed with purpose toward the few geography titles he vaguely remembered were shoved in the non-fiction section. Only, there were a few bodies in the way. Glamour dampening beneath the weight of their fields despite how used to he was to 'em all—doetoed or sigiled, powerful or weak—he didn't bother saying excuse me as he brushed past a few gollies.

One, still in his professor robes, instinctually recoiled from the sensation of him, giving the young wick plenty of room to squeeze past with a noise of displeasure. The two young schoolboys stared at him, curious but not quite rude, almost challenging his reason to be there. The last obstacle was a young woman who, unlike everyone else he'd slipped past, was clocking reading. Right there in the aisle.

Attempting to slip by without having to excuse himself, his elbow nudged a little too close by accident and his free hand brushed over book spines, spilling a few,

"Ah, shit. C'mon. You've gotta be kidding me—" Emiel groaned, muttering under his breath while he bent to snatch at the volumes before they hit the floor with all the grace he displayed behind the bar, juggling bottles. Unthinking, unapologetic, and pure instinct, he couldn't help but add over his shoulder, "—listen, they've got seats to read in, miss."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Stack Exchange Bookstore, the Stacks
Yaris 35, 2717 - Midday

The book was not very good, Cerise decided, but it was rather engrossing. Clearly an earlier work, and without the freedom of imagination he allowed himself in his more fantastical works later in life. Dimly she heard the voice of the woman behind the counter snarl something; it didn't quite register, as she had made quick work of the beginning of the chapter and the intrepid hero had just gotten to the grisly murder. She only understood about half of it, anyway, even if she had been paying attention.

Voices kept floating in from the door, louder in the otherwise silent store. The droning of the fan muffled much of the noise from outside, and a bookstore was not traditionally the place one engaged in much overly loud discussion. Traditionally being the key word--Cerise looked towards the door with the corner of her light grey eyes to see two young men jostling for dominance at the frame. Wicks by the look of both of them. Absolutely by the look of one of them; they had rather the look of relations between them, so she could only assume. Loud, she decided, but that was all.

Her curiosity was accordingly satisfied, she went back to reading the book. Because she hadn't resolved to purchase it, she told herself. It still wasn't very good after all. Even if the murder description was fascinatingly lurid, even for someone who read as much of this sort of thing as Cerise did. Only to find herself rather quickly interrupted again, a sliver of her attention stolen first by the brush of a glamour and then, more pressingly, by the sound of several books sliding out of their place to go crashing to the floor. Followed, immediately, by some muttered vulgarity.

Cerise looked up from the book, a frown already pulling at the corners of her mouth and creasing that familiar space between her dark eyebrows. She was just in time to see one of the young men from the doorway--the flashier and shorter of the two--deftly catching the books. It was almost impressive, if one ignored that he'd knocked them off the shelf to begin with. And if one ignored that last little comment tossed over his shoulder.

Cerise Vauquelin had never ignored a challenge in her life.

She closed the book with a soft snap and turned around. Her arms crossed in front of her and she shifted her weight to one foot, at once casual and vaguely aggressive. Eyes scanned, rather slowly, up and down. Taking his measure. She didn't linger on any place particularly long, although he was not displeasing to look at, all strong-featured and golden-eyed. For a wick. A rude one, too. Flashy, certainly, but--well that didn't really matter. The important point was the rudeness.

That little knot of irritation from the heat and the itching that had started to unravel as she read--skimmed--the novel? That tightened right back up again. Her chin came up and her jaw set. There wasn't far to look--he was a few inches taller than her but no more, so she looked him in the eye as best she could.

"And you would know for what purpose?" The tilt of her eyebrows made her meaning explicitly clear. Every inch of her spoiled for a fight--tense, straight-set shoulders; sharp glower; physical field that got more solid every year. "Sir," she added, the address dripping with all the sarcasm she could put into it.

[Emiel Emmerson]

that bookstore with the new fan

the 35th of yaris, 2717

Deft hands were sliding books back into their places while his amber eyes flicked over spines, making sure they were all facing the right direction even if he wasn't quite sure he was putting them back in the same order they'd been arranged in. Was it alphabetical by title? Ne. By author? Maybe? He couldn't remember. Emiel was quite convinced the proprietor changed their mind about how to order their books all the time anyway, convinced that the used volumes didn't move off the shelves as fast as they seemed to shift around the store. Maybe other dumberses like him kept fucking up the organization and it left the poor owner in a lurch.

Ne. Surely not.

Em felt the dark-haired young galdor's field shift. It was a weighty thing with its own sort of gravity, tugging and shoving at his light and glittery glamour, threatening to devour it like a crocodile waiting beneath the dark waters of the Turga. It expressed her displeasure far more clearly to the wick than most of his kind bothered to interpret—his youth spent reading their spoken and unspoken language at the Singing Badger having paid off in spades when it came to aurology.

The snap caused a flutter in his pulse, teeth digging into his bottom lip, catching on the gold ring there in surprise. He straightened, turning to catch but a brief glimpse of grey eyes drifting over his person. It was a sort of glance he knew, or thought he knew, almost turning his lack of an expression lilting into a grin, but then he took in her whole face—sharp but graceful, pretty but not just in the way all galdori were idolized as prettier than the lower races. It was a genuine attractiveness if you were into those sharp golly lines, those petite, well-bred features, but whatever could have been pleasing about her face, in particular, was carved away with that chisel of a scowl.

Any hint of admiration hardened into pointy steel in those eyes and he knew the tone before he even heard the words. Reacting to the cut like someone'd poured whiskey into the bloodied flesh, Emiel riposted without thinking, far too comfortable bantering with drunk students to remind himself this angry golly in sweltering layers of green wool was very, very sober,

"Oes, I got a writ. I know how to read, mujo ma, an' if I came here to do so, I'd take a clockin' seat, miss. Keeps ye outta the way of the riff-raff, ye see." The purple-haired wick smirked, clearly meaning himself, glancing down at the book in her hands with judgmental curiosity.

Oh, she was one of those, eh? He'd read a few, last winter or the winter before, bored out of his clocking mind during winter break when practically all of Brunnhold was a frozen phasmonia. It'd snowed so clocking much that year that Da was nearly convinced they'd not be able to make rent, but Cas had the idea to serve hot chocolate and offer what handful of board games they had on hand during the day and they ended up pullin' through just fine.

He didn't find that particular crime novel any good. The plot was so laoso—he knew a thing or two about pickin' locks and fencing stolen goods and—well—and damn gollies obviously didn't—

"B'sides, you're just holdin' trash—"

Not quite as sharp a cut, but a shove back nonetheless, Em snickered at his own jent humor and took a step back, intention to be on his way and leave the younger student to do what she pleased clear in the way he lightly shifted on his feet. She was all tension and energy, coiled like a serpent ready to strike. He felt it in the electric hum of her field and it felt like the hairs on his arms were standing up against the rolled up cotton sleeves that smelled like the tavern floor and the basement and too much spilled stout mingled with tobacco,

"—I can't say his early works 're worth spendin' money on. I mean—it ent like ye can't afford to waste it, I guess, right?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Stack Exchange Bookstore, the Stacks
Yaris 35, 2717 - Midday

How dare he! As if he could not have merely asked her to step aside, if her physical presence was such a bother. But no, he had tried to shove past and knocked books off the shelf, and somehow this was her fault. The line about reading was low, but she didn't regret it.

The problem with wicks, Cerise decided, was that she didn't know what they were saying half the time. Mostly she understood from context if not in specificity, but it irritated her when she didn't. Not understanding made her feel stupid and raised a snarl from somewhere in her spirit. The smirk did something similar, although she wasn't entirely certain it was the same sort of feeling.

"My mistake, sir, clearly a refined gentleman like yourself is extremely literate." He glanced down to the book she held; Cerise had meant to put it back before she turned, but she'd been so irritated she couldn't stop herself. It was not, she decided, good enough to purchase. If she had thought so before, it was somewhat spoiled now. The spell of her skimming--she had absolutely not been reading the book in the aisle--had broken, and she was free to evaluate the story properly.

So of course, the moment the word "trash" left that gold-ringed mouth, Cerise's fingers clutched around it protectively. It was, in fact, trash. But what business did this--this purple-haired hooligan (probably, she assumed) have saying anything one way or the other about Murder Beneath Vienda? She very strongly doubted he'd even read it. She was somewhat suspicious he read anything at all, and even then it was probably just non-fiction or something dreadfully useful.

He had taken a step back, and Cerise knew she could just let it go. Her mood was foul, spoiled by the heat and having to stand out in the hallway while any faculty that passed tutted and tsked at her. (She had, of course, made some very rude gestures at them as soon as their backs were to her. She had been caught on one of them and given a demerit, which did not help matters.) She was prepared to do so, except-- then--

"You say that like you've read his later works, which I highly doubt." Nobody had read his later works, at least not that Cerise had met. Fahren was not, precisely, a popular author. Which was part of her delight in finding any book by him at all on the shelves, even this one that was not particularly good at all. "And it's none of your business what I do and do not do with my money; I'd thank you to--to mind your business, respected sir."

That last had not been a particularly good rejoinder. Said with conviction, but she had swung and knew that she'd missed. Cerise could feel some heat rise to her sharp face that had nothing to do with the sun outside or the absolutely criminal number of layers involved in her uniform. Some of it almost certainly leaked out into her field. It was rather fortunate that she knew most of the lower races were not particularly adept at picking up on the subtleties of such things, or so she'd been told. She supposed she'd never tested the theory, but it seemed solid enough.

Cerise would buy Murder Beneath Vienda, she decided. She hadn't intended to before, but she would now. She would be damned if she let some gaudy, freckled wick make her feel any shame for her literary purchases. Especially not ones that smelled like beer and good tobacco, the latter of which was actually not unpleasant, although irrelevant. The fact that she didn't actually want the book didn't make any difference. It was the principle of the matter.

[Emiel Emmerson]

that bookstore with the new fan

the 35th of yaris, 2717

Just like every clockin' jent in Anaxas, this girl took over the whole aisle between shelves of musty, used books like she owned the place, like it was her gods'given right to just stand there and take up space 'cause she'd been born. Gripping that book in her hand with some expression that could've been disapproval, could've been pouting, could've been anger, the dark-haired student rubbed her privilege in his freckled, pierced face like it was so much salt in a wound. She played at civil with a forked tongue and Emiel hated the game with a passion—he was a person, too.

Evers' sure not a gentleman, but, dammit.

"Literate enough." The purple-haired wick snorted, subdued for a heartbeat or two like a cornered moa, ready to kick instead of run.

She didn't let him go then, ne—oh, Hells ne—even though he'd made room for them both to untangle their fields and go about their separate, different, unreconcilable sorts of lives. But, ne, the gravity of her existence held him there greedily when her pretty, thin lips curled around the words highly and doubt before almost becoming more of a taunting grin than a sneer when she taunted him with the word respected.

Like she knew—

The Emmersons had plenty of respectability!

He should've left well enough alone, but gods if the sober ones weren't worse than the drunk ones! There was something about her tone of voice that egged him on when it shouldn't have—he could've walked away right here, he really could've. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, flash of amber toward the counter, looking for Rohan who'd been gone too long for his liking before he leveled his stare back at the golly girl and her pointed chin and rebellious tilt of a face that was curiously interesting when so indignant.

"I ent read 'em all, ne, miss, but I've gotta cousin who worked th' sewers in Vienda an' he says it ent anything like that one—ah, shit, I forget th' title. So, not everything's as accurate as advertised, I'd say. Anyways, like I said, it's your money an' I chen. I ent telling you what to do with it, 'cause y'ent spendin' it at my place of business."

Em thumbed his nose for emphasis, well-hewn angles of his face becoming a wicked sort of grin. He could read. He had a job. And this sweaty student with her lofty opinions and aisle-hogging attitude could clock off.

"Still garbage, though, even if you waste your pocket change on it—"

The wick almost let that hang there, swaying on his feet, wondering if the bait was sweet enough. He tilted his head, skimming spines beyond the heat-riled darkness of her hair, leaning just a little before reaching up and running fingers over a couple of spines just past her shoulder. His fingernails were dirty from the cellar, from dusty casks, but he dug into one of the books anyway, tugging it free to waggle it near his face just slow enough that she could read the gilded title,

"—th' book, that is."

Holding it still right next to his high cheekbone before huffing a few stray, dyed strands of hair from his face, he added with undisguised snideness in the depths of his tone of voice,

"Just in case you're really wantin' something decent an' early by that there Fahren, this one's at least got a few interestin' side characters. Ne much better, but, eh—" Emiel shrugged, aware of the futileness of his efforts somewhere in the back of his Yaris-sweltered brain. As if any golly girl would ever take a word from his lips as anything but a joke, but some crass imitation of intelligence where she'd long ago decided he couldn't have a spark of it between his pierced ears.

"—if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, 'f course. Miss."

He purred that all like some violet-tinted tomcat, smile still as mischievous as ever. Kids asked him all the time what they should be drinkin' at the bar—here he was making literary offers to schoolgirls. Totally not the same.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Stack Book Exchange, the Stacks
Yaris 35, 2717 - Midday

He was perfectly vulgar--nevermind that Cerise had a mouth on her that could peel paint off a barn, if she so chose. As many, many a tutor, governess and professor had lamented in letters to her parents. Something about his tone of voice made her want to pull out that extremely tired line about how vulgar language was a sign of a poor vocabulary--an often-repeated bit of trite nonsense she didn't believe in the least. Cerise just thought it might make the wick angry, and that suited her mood just fine right now.

Her eyebrows raised as he started in on how the sewers beneath Vienda, according to some unknown cousin, were nothing like what was portrayed in the book she held in her hand. She hadn't gotten that far, although one could surely assume that sewers were involved from the title, so it wasn't quite enough to really indicate that he'd actually read it.

"I suppose, sir, your place of business is a rival bookseller, then?" There was no doubt from her tone and the tilt of her sneer--and it was definitely that, and not a smile at all--that she supposed no such thing. Somehow, she could not picture that wicked smile and flashy sense of style quietly selling used paperbacks to Brunnhold students. What she thought he did do for a living, she wasn't quite decided on. Making a spectacle of himself? Haranguing young women who had the gall to physically exist in bookstore aisles about their choices in reading material wasn't a job, so that couldn't be his primary occupation.

"Besides, the appeal isn't in the verisimilitude of the--"

Cerise's protests about the rather dubious appeal of Murder Beneath Vienda were cut off. He had the nerve to stick his arm rather perilously close to her face, reaching over her shoulder to pull another book off the shelf. Not close enough to touch her, not even close enough for that to be an immediate possibility. Cerise, sweaty still and wrapped up in her sour mood, just might have bit him if he had. Even given the rather deplorable state of his fingernails, which he was close enough for her inspect out of the corner of her eye.

He held the book he had pulled off of the shelf in front of his face, forcing her to look at both simultaneously. Perhaps the worst part about him was that he really did have a very handsome face, marred mostly by everything that came out of it. He had pulled another of Fahren's earlier works, one she hadn't yet seen or read either. And snidely informed her that if she was going to get anything, it should be that one.

Cerise Vauquelin was not the angry, violent thing she had been in her early teenage years. Mostly. Truthfully, it was only the prospect of getting kicked off the team that dragged her to class or stayed her hand most days. Even then, to say she had much self-control was a dubious statement to make. But she did try, truly she did. Something about this amethyst-colored delinquent set her on edge. (Again, probably, although in a more sensible moment Cerise might have acknowledged that sniping at her hardly qualified one for such a title.) She couldn't tell if his suggestion was a joke or sincere, although she was starting to think that he actually had read more Fahren than she gave him credit for. Possibly more than she had.

It was just the heat, she thought. The heat and her general mood to start with, and some irritation that she thought the violet was actually rather nice, and that she was slightly curious if he'd read any of the ones she actually liked. A stupid thing to think about, like she was some easily-distracted nitwit. Count backwards from ten--maybe make that fifty. Deep breaths. She did not need to lash out just because she felt all riled up and ready to spring.

It was the "miss" that did it.

The book was near his face, with that smug self-satisfied look. Like some kind of osta that had stolen a fish from your plate. Cerise didn't think, her actions getting ahead of her consideration as always. She just reached out to that book on some aggravated instinct, intending to smash it right into the side of those pretty freckled cheekbones. Hard, if she could manage it.

[Emiel Emmerson]

that bookstore with the new fan

the 35th of yaris, 2717

"Ne. I tend a bar, actually. The Singin' Badger, an' I only masquerade as a book critic when th' need arises." Needless to say, he was talking far bigger than he really should've. He shouldn't have been talking at all. Not to her, not to any young girl in Brunnhold's stuffy green, no matter how pleasing the too-thick well-tailored lines drew on just about any uniformed golly—

Verisimilitude.

W-what?

Now, that was a word that Emiel wasn't sure he knew, and even if he'd read it somewhere, he was clockin' sure he'd skimmed over it and pretended he understood enough of its meaning in context. He was damn sure he hadn't, but that was beside the point now. Everything felt beside the point now, if only because the willful pina rosh in front of him was far sharper than he'd anticipated. While he couldn't be completely transparent in this moment, with anyone else, with anyone but a golly, he would've willingly admitted that there were plenty of words he'd treated similarly in what he'd managed to get his rough hands on to read.

Amber eyes narrowed at the flicker of an expression shift, at the setting of an aquiline jaw and the tensing of shoulders. He knew that movement, that body language. He'd gotten in enough fights, he'd broken up enough bar brawls, he'd had his knuckles bruised just enough times too many to understand that the sudden ozone sensation in her well-honed, stronger field meant something.

Gollies didn't react that way. Gollies were frail things that didn't swing their fists so much as sling their wealth, toss their spells, drag their power over everyone and everything without a care in the world for the carnage left behind them. They didn't get into physical altercations because they weren't strong enough—

Right?

That's what he'd heard, anyway, so that's what he knew.

Just as quickly as that instinct flared at the base of his skull, in that still very animal part of his brain, he snuffed it out. In the blink of an eye and the inhale of breath, he began to open his mouth to make some crass comment, to dismiss himself, to really, honestly, finally, this time back the clock off, but—

He didn't understand that his worldview was just as much about to change as much as his thoughts on Fahren's entire body of work.

Lips parted, tongue moved, and then, before his breath formed words, there was that book he'd waggled so tauntingly at some wealthy, powerful man's daughter shoved roughly into his face, forcefully into the oft' complimented cheekbones he wore dusted with freckles so proudly. It was enough to snap his mouth shut, teeth digging into the side of his cheek, nipping the edge of his tongue at the same time. He felt the trickle of warmth and tasted that familiar flavor of blood, bright eyes widening and entire body rushing to react—

It took everything, literally everything in Emiel Emmerson's rough-hewn, tavern-raised brain to put on the breaks to the series of familiar motions getting smashed in the face by someone else usually riled up in the purple-haired wick. Every fighting instinct burned in his chest, and yet, instead of snapping across the narrow space with a curled fist of his own, he laughed! He slowly uncurled his fingers and relaxed his stance, but it was with obvious effort.

He'd broken up a few golly fistfights, sure. Get a teenaged jent drunk enough, and he'd hit a friend like a spurned lover. He'd been threatened by the Seventen. He'd spent a night or two in jail, much to the displeasure of his folks, but it weren't ever really his fault. He'd never, however, as clear as he could remember, drunk or sober, been punched in the face by an upper form galdori girl.

He should have apologized, but all that something needed to go somewhere, escaping him in a sputter of amusement, deep and throaty. Em stepped back, once again knocking into some books, dropping the one he'd held, staring while he ran that bloodied tongue over the front of his teeth before settling it against his cheek,

"Th' fu—godsdamn, it's jus' a bo—"

"Emiel!" Rohan, ever-vigilant at all the wrong times, had obviously emerged at just one of those oh-so-not-right moments from his secret business behind the counter to see the tailend of the situation. Of course, the proprietor was screeching for them to get out, calling them all sorts of moony things. Of course, the younger boys were staring, shocked. The professor was clearly hoping to take names to the closest brigkt station.

His taller but admittedly no more graceful brother was cutting his way through the stacks of books like a knife through gristle and Em's name was there on the air,

"—it's jus' a book, miss. Ye swing's alright, though. For a jent. I mean—uh—for a girl." Smirking, gold ring through that taunting lip and all, heart in his throat because he really didn't need this kind of shit and it was just a bit of banter. Why couldn't gollies have any fun? Oh, wait, they were tied up so tight in those damn wool uniforms in the middle of clocking Yaris, that's why. It wasn't pity on his face, though. Nor was it anger. It was something else and he didn't have a name for it, but he mocked a sort of curtsey, fumbling with a few books to shove them back on the shelf before Ro's meaty fingers found his collar,

"I'm sorry, miss. So sorry. He didn't mean anythin' by it—"

But he did. That book was better.

"—day drinkin' and all. Listen, we don't want any trouble."

But he was sober. He felt a little intoxicated now, though.

But maybe Em did want that kind of trouble. Whatever it was.

The violet creature said nothing, however, deferring to the taller man who he knew had the respect of their Da where he didn't.

"Sorry. I was jus'—I don't know—" Em echoed, insincere even as Rohan twisted his grip tighter, tugging him away before the proprietor yelled any clockin' louder. He didn't even miss a beat, winking as he began to take a few steps away, "—listen, you read that, ye chen. An' if I'm wrong, well, you can hit me aga—ow!"

"We're very sorry." Ro growled and pulled, making a scene of attempting to leave an already ridiculous scene.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Stack Book Exchange, the Stacks
Yaris 35, 2717 - Afternoon

There was a clean sort of satisfaction when Cerise's hand connected with the book connected with the side of the purple wick's face. His mouth had opened, no doubt to say something else rude or otherwise unnecessary, but Cerise's hand was quicker than his tongue. Clearly, he'd not been expecting a physical outburst from a girl in Brunnhold green--nobody ever did, until it was too late. Unless they'd seen her do it already, which he could not possibly have done. No thought had entered into the movement, just pure instinct, and it felt glorious.

Only after she'd done it did Cerise think that there was a risk he would do something back. She was far more used to swinging her fists at other galdori girls, it had to be admitted--although a select number of young gentlemen had been on the receiving end of a slap or two, over the years. They were not the type to do much back, except maybe squeal. Cerise knew this and it entered in her instinctive calculation, when whatever tiny part of her that made decisions like this did so. For a moment she had tensed, expecting some reaction but not really sure what it would be.

Laughter was somewhere near the bottom of the list.

There was an obvious effort on his part to relax, and that was oddly troubling. It wasn't that she wanted him to hit her back, obviously--she didn't particularly relish the notion. It was, she thought, the self-control involved that she had not displayed herself. Heat rushed to her face. She didn't think he was laughing because it didn't hurt, at least, which was something of a soothing balm to her strange sense of pride. There was blood on his teeth, which she hadn't intended but was sort of satisfying.

"Emiel!"

Cerise turned as well, and suddenly realized just how many other people there were in the shop today. The younger students were staring, though at her or the wick--Emiel, she supposed--Cerise wasn't entirely certain. She glowered at the boys until they looked away, and attempted to do the same to the professor. He frowned and did not act, but wasn't as easily intimidated as a pair of boys. The other wick, the one who had come in with Emiel, was making his way over.

"It was not about the book," she clarified, although if he'd asked why she had done it she couldn't rightly answer him. "Because I am very irritable at this current juncture in time" didn't seem like a very good answer, or even a complete one. He was smirking at her, still. Perhaps, she thought with a slight increase to her frowning, he was a masochist. Certainly whatever it was that she could see on his face wasn't anger at having been smashed on the side of the head with her hand, aided and abetted by the Fahren he'd been holding. (It was, she noted, now on the floor, along with a few others.)

The other one, the one she had thought might be some kind of relative (although she wasn't sure) had made his way over to them by the time Emiel had completed that aggravating taunting of a curtsy. He hooked the flashier wick by the collar, and apologized to her. Cerise blinked. She frowned, shifted, and blinked again.

No, it wasn't right to apologize to her. She was irritated, certainly, and the purple one--Emiel, she reminded herself again, for no reason in particular--was rude. But she was the one who had struck out without thinking, and she thought that was certainly more of a problem than unwelcome comments about literature could ever be.

"No, I--" She what? She wasn't sorry, so she couldn't apologize. He was irritating, and she didn't think entirely undeserving of the slap. But Cerise looked around at the scene she'd caused, and something uncomfortable settled in the bottom of her stomach. It aggravated her, because she couldn't put her finger on it. Day drinking--maybe. She didn't think so. The proprietor clearly wanted Emiel and the other wick both to leave--likely herself as well, although she thought it would be best if she waited a moment to do so. No sense in following along after them.

He winked at her. He actually winked at her. Of all the absolute cheek! Cerise's frown didn't lighten in the slightest, but she thought her pulse might have fluttered a little. Out of irritation. That was a thing. It was absolutely a thing. If it wasn't she would make it one. Winked at her, and told her to read the book--and to hit him again if he was wrong.

Cerise looked down at the book on the floor. That discomfort that had settled in her stomach, shaped like the watchful gaze of every other one of her kind in the shop, drove her to bend forward and pick it up. She frowned at the cover. And in possibly what was the most absurd part of this entire ridiculous farce, she smiled. She might even have laughed, sharp and bright. Maybe.

"It's a deal." Her voice was just a touch amused, raised loud enough to be heard over the cacophony in the rest of the shop. Cerise hadn't intended to buy any books today at all. She was leaving with two, it seemed. Because she wanted to be able to tell him was wrong with confidence, she thought, and not because she had liked the way it sounded when Emiel laughed, face smashed up and unrepentant.

[Emiel Emmerson]

that bookstore with the new fan

the 35th of yaris, 2717

Typical clocking cgaldor—she 'd not even thought about the consequences of her actions, of punching a stranger—of whacking a male wick in the face with a damn book. He wasn't much taller, but he wasn't a willowy thing, either. He wasn't built like a galdor—he was sinew, muscle, and grit instead of academia, aura, and attitude. Ne, clock that. He had the attitude weighing him down, after all. It's what 'd kept him standing there, making light of everything instead of deferring to his so-called superior, even if she was a few years younger and a couple of inches shorter.

The surprise that widened her pupils and rippled beneath the surface of her annoyed, no less defiant expression revealed to Emiel that she’d not even considered the truth of the situation she'd just set into motion with her impulsive lashing out: she'd never even be seen as at fault. Eh, wait. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was used to getting away with all kinds of shit—some disgustingly cute golly couple's doted-on daughter who harassed the help and punched her classmates, apparently. She'd clearly gotten away with it.

Did she even know that regardless of how it happened, this whole damn thing was immediately assumed to be his problem? His fault? Almost entirely without question.

She clockin' had to know and it soured that metallic flavor that tickled the back of his throat, stinging more than his none the worse for wear face.

No, she'd started to say—no what? What for? No to placing more blame? To announce he'd said something crude? To get him in more trouble? Certainly not to admit she'd hit him of her own volition instead of in some kind of clearly necessary self-defense. Just look at him! He exuded hooligan with his bright-dyed hair, his various rings and bangles, the cut of his clothes, and that anathema of a glamour. He was a wick, it was his half-blooded heritage to be some kind of bastard.

Em dragged his heels, wanting to hear every word, resisting Rohan's tug to the point of his own collar digging into the softer skin of his neck, pressing against his pulse.

The fiesty beast of a Brunnhold student didn't toss another insult at him, didn't accuse him of touching her inappropriately (wouldn't've been the first time, honestly) or of speaking out of turn (though he knew he had been), but instead she let down her guard and bent for the book he'd taunted her with. She might have smiled—was that a smile? A grimace? A threatening grin?

His golden gaze followed the motion of her hands, smooth like honey, dripping over the cover of that damn book he'd only read half of last winter, sealing over his half truth with her unexpected promise. He blinked and his brother yanked, staring for just long enough to smirk at the challenge.

He'd have to finish the thing. Just in case.

Once he was barely through the threshold, the pair of wicks assaulted by the wall of heat, the first thing Emiel did as he kneed his older, taller brother away was punch him, hard, right in the gut.

Someone needed to feel the retaliation he'd desperately managed to contain. Ro grunted, growled, and released him,

"Godsdamnit, Em, what'd ye do?" As soon as he let go, the purple-haired wick shoved him again, angry, before spitting on the sidewalk right there in front of the store.

"Nothin'. I ent done a thing but tell her that book she had weren't as good as another one." He clearly didn't care who in all th'Circle heard him, neither, loud and obnoxious as he began to walk quickly away from the Stack Exchange lest folks on the street begin to wonder. He finally rubbed a calloused palm over his cheek, feeling the flap of flesh where he'd bit his tongue.

"Oh, c'mon. Did ye hit on 'er? She's jus' a pina—"

"Ne, Ro. She's no drunk schoolgirl at th' bar. I ent dumb. I jus'—shit, she punched me. What kinda golly does that spitch?"

"I don't clockin' know, but yer face was priceless, brunno."

"Shut yer head, ersehole. N'any jent rosh I've met just ups an' whacks strange kov—"

"Did ye like that, eh?"

"I said shut your head."

The pair grumbled their way down the street, the purple-haired one already digging in his clothes to roll another cigarette, aware that he wasn't even mad at her but quite reminded about why he clockin' hated gollies, especially here in this godsforsaken schoolin' fortress he called home.