[Closed] Unrepentant [Memory]

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

The problem with bets, it turned out, was that one did not always win them. Cerise had said she would read both the Fahren, and if Emiel had been wrong, he'd given her permission to hit him again. There had been little interest on her part in doing that. He had not, however, specified what she was to do if he proved correct.

It was galling, utterly and completely, but... Well. He was right. Neither novel was very good, but the one she'd smashed into his pretty, gold-ringed face was the better of the two. She didn't much care for the main female character, she was rather typically written and had little to recommend her, but the other side characters were in turns thrilling and charming. Even if neither novel hung together very well, and she still thought Fahren's switch to fantasy fiction had been a good move, of the two options, Murder Beneath Vienda was the lesser.

Also, she couldn't stop thinking about him saying that all of the details about the sewers were wrong.

Cerise was not a great fan of debts. If there was a prize for the winning, she thought, there should be a punishment for the losing. Reluctantly, she concluded that she knew what seemed to fit best: she should apologize. Or at least admit she had been mistaken, which was the same, wasn't it? Surely it was.

The problem was, she wasn't quite sure how to go about accomplishing this goal. She had gone by the Stack Exchange, once or twice, but she hadn't seen Emiel or the other young man who had been with him. That would have been too much of a coincidence, really. Cerise would have to come up with a different plan, eventually.

The thought had gotten lost somewhere in the flurry of midterms, and studying for them the week before as she always did. The exams themselves had gone fine. Cerise had no doubt about that--this, too, was not unusual. As her final midterm finished, she thought that what she was probably going to do was go back to her room and read. The idea of going out had some appeal, but she hadn't anyone to go out with at the moment, and she didn't want to be in the Stacks alone. She had forgotten about her debt, until her ears caught the edge of a conversation in the hall.

"No, I'm telling you--we should go to the Badger. We always go where you want to go, Alejandro. It's not fair."

"It's not faaaair--listen to you!" The Alejandro in question put on a rather poor and nasal impression of his friend. "Fine. We'll go where you want to go this time, okay? We'll go to the Singing clocking Badger, you absolute prick."

From there the conversation, such as it was, had devolved into youthful friendly jostling and a lot of elbows to the ribs. Perhaps not so friendly. The name stuck out to her, and Cerise frowned, trying to remember--and then it slid rather abruptly into place. Emiel had said the name of the place--he tended bar, he said, at that very tavern.

There! That was perfect then. She would go, and she would tell him he had been right, and... And he could hit her, she supposed, if he wanted to. That seemed like a very unpleasant prospect, but it also seemed fair. Much more fair than her hitting him in the first place had been, although she couldn't find it in herself to regret the action. He had been very irritating.

Cerise returned to her room. To get a book, she thought, because as long as she was there, she might as well ask if he'd read any of the ones by Fahren that she thought were any good. And if he hadn't, perhaps she could give him one of her copies. There were three of them; he hadn't written many, before he retired. Cerise thought a moment, and put all three in the bag. That was also payment, of a kind. Better than hitting her in the face--at least she hoped so.

It also made sense to change out of her uniform. It was still Yaris, and though the heat was retreating the closer they edged to Dentis, it certainly wasn't gone entirely. There was a moment when Cerise had caught herself fussing over her choices--as if it mattered at all! As if the way she looked had anything to do with anything. In the end she chose her favorite walking skirt in a deep garnet, a plain cream-colored blouse she thought had always fit her particularly pleasingly, and no jacket at all. Which wasn't quite proper, but she didn't care--it was hot outside. All of these things were close at hand, well-loved favorites. Not in any way selected because they looked nice, as she didn't care if she did or not.

So that was how Cerise Vauquelin found herself arriving at The Singing Badger, absolutely packed to the gills with students happy to be freed from exams (for a time). Shoulders squared with her bag slung over them, and all three of Fahren's best works inside of it. Even in the utter chaos of a packed house after midterms, Cerise felt confident she could pick the purple-haired wick out fairly easily. He rather stood out, after all. Striding in with swift and unforgiving clicks of her heels, she hovered a moment towards the front, until--yes, there he was. Easy to find after all.

With no care at all for anything else he might have been doing, she crossed the tavern floor, hurtling like a comet towards an unsuspecting planet. Only to hesitate when she got close enough to feel the edge of his glamour. Perhaps this had not been such a well thought-out plan, after all. No--no. She had come all this way, and she would admit that she had been wrong, and that would be that.

"E-Emiel!" Gods she hoped she remembered his name correctly--the other one had shouted it loud enough. And besides, if she was wrong, it was too late now--she just had to commit, and see what happened. "I, uhm. Ahem. You were right. The other one is better, after all." She had something of a glower on her face while she said it, but she was pleased to note that she hadn't blushed. Much.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

It was a packed house tonight. Eri, his daoa, was on stage with her friends and their lively little band makin' the place sound like a proper caoja. Paolo, his da, and his sister Cas were in the kitchen, servin' yats to students who clearly hadn't eaten all week because of exams. Maur, his other sister, and lil' Lana, the neighbor girl, were bussin' tables and takin' orders, carryin' trays loaded with Anaxas' finest alcohol and fresh, hot food. Rohan, as expected, was nowhere to be seen. He'd not even left a godsbedamned note.

Emiel was in his element behind the bar, violet hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, brightly patched and creatively repaired vest unbuttoned and halfway tempted to tug the buttons of his near-untucked pale shirt to match. He didn't understand what in all of Vita an exam or a final really was in Brunnhold other than it required a bunch'f lookin' over shit those smart gollies should've already known beforehand, but he sure did know those same kids seemed eager to drink when they were through so they'd forget everything they'd just crammed in those privileged lil' skulls of theirs. It made zero sense but it paid the bills, so who was one wick to question the status quo?

He already knew how strange a curse and a blessing it was to live and work in the Stacks—he'd been to the Harbor and he'd been to Vienda and he'd been to a few small towns along the way, pickin' up crates of beer, cases of wine, new spices, experimental hops for an in-house brew. The red-walled fortress of academia had it's own culture, thriving and youth-led, that was abso-clockin'-lutely nothing like the rest of this godsforsaken kingdom. Em knew these things, and he'd learned to work the system like he'd learned to read: by the seat of his own low-slung, decently-tailored pants.

This evening, he was by himself for another whole hour, Karla havin' to wait for someone to watch her boch again leavin' him in a bind to tend the place alone during one of the busiest houses in the Singing Badger post-midterms. He didn't mind. If anything, Emiel lived for the challenge: flashing his admittedly very popular grin, making a show of himself there behind the bar. He was known for two tricks in particular: juggling beer bottles before opening their caps smooth as silk with a satisfying crack right there on the edge of the counter without spillin' a drop and the infamous Flaming Miraan, a powerful lil' mixed drink served in a shot glass that was, indeed, served on fire.

Rumor on campus was Emiel lit the alcohol with that gross wick magic, which was ridiculous, of course, but the truth was all he did was hide a match between two fingers when he snapped. No one had to know the difference, really. Not that he couldn't use vroo if he wanted—damn right he could've.

The purple-haired tsat hadn't been looking at the door, hadn't been watching bodies come and go, four aforementioned shot glasses lined up along the bar in front of him while four eager upper forms with flushed faces and already guttered grins watched the wick pour that last layer of alcohol on top, the Bastian liquor distilled with fragrant and interesting oil of anise immediately turning cloudy when it mixed with the rest of the liquid in the glasses, milky swirls a beautiful and important part of the appeal of those flaming miraans.

Lip caught between his teeth, he was about to wink and light them all with a sweep of his hand when he heard his name above the bustling music and rowdy crowd. The place was abuzz with fields of all kinds, heady and strong, currents of mona pulling and pushing in all directions. Some, he knew because they were regular, but most were alien, strange, and just background sensation in an already hot, sticky, sensation-filled environment. Amber eyes flicked up from the mixed drinks to the flush-faced students, to the dark-haired young woman cutting her sharp, determined way into whatever space she could find at the bar—

Oh.

To say he didn't recognize her out of her uniform would have been a gross underestimation of his social skills—he did—and to say he'd not had a single second thought about the avid Fahren-reading golly who'd smashed one of the author's less-loved books right in his face in full public view would have been a gross underestimation of the rather strange effect such a moment'd had on Em—he'd had a few thoughts since that day, but he'd not told a soul.

Her lips were moving and even though he couldn't hear all of her voice above the upbeat tunes of his daoa across the room, Emiel'd worked in a tavern his whole life.

You were right.

Of course, he was—

Ah, shit. She'd come here to—to what? Clockin' hell—why—

"Junta! Wait—I can't—" He tugged an ear for emphasis, fingers brushing a few gold rings while his other hand slipped a match from his vest pocket, "—hang on, you'll have to speak up, ye chen. Jus' lemme finish servin'—"

He was smirking, looking away as if he was brushing her off even if he'd not missed that hint of a chagrined blush. She'd not only read the books over the past few weeks, but she'd remembered the Singing Badger. She'd remembered his clocking name. It was a strange, unnamable feeling that sloshed around in his stomach for a heartbeat or two. What kind of galdor hit a man—a male wick, an obvious delinquent by anyone's standards around here in Anaxas—in public view? The same kind of galdor who was here to talk books on one of the busiest nights of the year before graduation, apparently. The same kind of galdor who'd just admitted out loud in a crowded bar that he, that same wick, was right.

This had to be some stupid ruse. She wasn't here to be nice. He'd been an ersehole. He was an ersehole.

Emiel wasn't sure if he should be flattered or terrified. This was out of his comfortable frame of reference, even if he was known for more than just flirting with his so-called betters. He knew how he felt, though, and as he snapped his fingers there over those four shot glasses, setting that thin final layer of alcohol alight in a flash of magenta flame and a sharp sting of his thumb, much to the loud thrill and surprise of the other students eagerly awaiting them, he realized he had no idea what to do about it all.

Passing the drinks to eager hands of wide-eyed, intoxicated young galdori with a last bit of roguish flair as the curling fires burned themselves out, leaving a caramelized but licorice-like scent in the air, Em tossed the match on the floor beneath his foot before anyone noticed, gave a coy little salute, and then leaned on the bar toward the dark-haired young woman who'd shown up with a bag that looked laden with books, smiling like a chrove,

"Now, miss, what'd you say? I ent sure I heard you right in all this noise." Emiel felt the chill of sweat between his shoulder blades and the weight of the last of his rolled cigarettes there behind his ear.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

Cerise was not, it had to be admitted, much of a bar person. It wasn't that she didn't drink, but drinking was an activity best enjoyed in groups. When you were what was kindly referred to as "a bit of a loner" (and less kindly as "an aggressive friendless oddball"), opportunities to share a social drink or two were few and far between. So she had never been to the Singing Badger to her recollection.

It was more popular than she'd expected, and rowdier too. That didn't deter her at all--Cerise cut through the crowd like a hot knife. Even packed to the rafters with students and faculty in varied stages of inebriation, she had found Emiel easily at his position behind the bar. She hadn't been able to see what he was doing, just that whatever it was he was making a show out of it--and that she didn't care, because she was on a mission.

Of course he couldn't hear her--it was incredibly loud in here. In retrospect, she should perhaps have picked a different night to come. Like not immediately after midterms, when all of her peers would be doing their best to forget they had ever learned anything. That tended to accumulate something of a volume, even on a five with classes the next day. It was a universally acknowledged truth that the seventy-sixth day of Yaris was a day for quiet independent study for upper-form students, half of them wincing at every sound and beam of light. Cerise usually didn't bother to go to class at all. She could read textbooks in her room, thank you very much.

There were a few gold rings in the ear he tugged on, she noticed. Not just one, but--more than one. A little fact she filed away, not sure why or in what circumstance this would ever prove important or useful. Cerise could be patient, and although she had come rocketing through the crowd to the bar, she had at least realized she was interrupting once she got there. The key word here was "could"--something about the dismissive smirk immediately raised her hackles. Her frown sharpened, doubly so when the blush did not fade. At least she thought she could be reasonably sure she'd remember his name right. If she hadn't she felt like he probably would not have hesitated to tell her so.

No, she reminded herself. She had come for a very specific purpose. Her moment was ill-chosen, but the purpose remained, and she would see it through. Even if he made her regret it almost immediately. It was a matter of principle. So she stood at the bar and waited, watching as he snapped his fingers over a line of shot glasses.

Well, that was actually very fancy a trick. She wasn't a child, she insisted to herself, nor was she drunk--but the snap and the magenta-colored flares were just as flashy and charming as the rest of him. Her eyes widened, but she kept any other expression off her face. For all the world she looked as if she hadn't noticed at all. Was it matches or magic? She hadn't felt anything--and she was close enough to do so, she thought--so matches seemed likely. But she couldn't be sure.

Out of obligation, she rolled her eyes at the salute. It wasn't directed at her, but she felt like she should demonstrate just how unimpressed she was all the same. At least with that bit of dazzle out of the way, she could finish what she had come here for. And then she could leave, and never see Emiel's smug face ever again. He leaned over the bar with a smile that set her teeth on edge and her pulse to speeding, and asked her to repeat herself with what was possibly the most self-satisfied manner she had ever seen.

"I said-- Oh clocking--" It really was tremendously loud in here. Cerise had no interest in repeating herself a third time. She stepped to the bar and leaned forward, putting her face reasonably close to his ear, then raised her voice.

"I said, you were right. About The Beast in the Picture. It is better than Murder Beneath Vienda--which is not to say it's actually good. Just better. I was wrong, to assume you hadn't read either." That was not an apology, and no trace of any such thing showed on her face. Cerise drew back a little, her expression sharp and focused. To not admit when one had been wrong was cowardice; doing so was not the same as apology.

"You said--you said I could hit you again, if you were wrong. But..." Cerise brushed an errant curl behind her ear. She had thought to pull it back, as it had slipped out of any confines she had tried to place it in earlier in the day, but in the end she had left it to do what it would. It was a wild tangle around her face and all over her shoulders. She wished, absurdly, she had at least tried. A braid, or even just a ponytail, might have lasted at least until she got to the bar. Maybe.

"You never specified what you got, if you were right." Cerise tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. "I don't like--I don't like feeling like I owe something. So, name it. It wasn't a proper wager, but fair is fair." Her fingers brushed over the strap of her bag. She didn't mention the books in it, not yet. She felt suddenly out of place, asking this gold-and-violet man about literature in a bar filled with more green uniforms than she could count. Her grey eyes were steady and sharp, waiting. She really hoped he didn't want to hit her back, but one never knew.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

One of the drunk upper forms was sipping his drink, wincing at the heat lingering on the rim of the glass, and shoving coins in the tip jar that was cleverly labeled "More Drinks" in inebriated appreciation. Emiel's attention was immediately divided, leaning as he was with that smug look on his freckled face. He chanced a glance over to smile at the youth, tilting his head to acknowledge their generosity while the dark-haired woman attempted to raise her voice above the din.

Amber eyes caught a hint of movement, suddenly aware that she'd pressed closer so as to make good on his request to actually hear her, and the purple-haired wick suddenly inhaled. Her breath tickled his neck, close to his ear, and she repeated quite loudly words he'd not expected to ever need to be said. More than he'd expected, really, for Emiel Emmerson was confident he'd never ever heard a galdor tell him to his face that they were wrong about anything in his whole life, from the weather to the color of their shoes, from their bill to the drink they'd ordered clear as day, and most certainly not about a damn book or his ability to read.

He forgot to exhale, fingers curling against the sticky, well-worn surface of the bar while his elbow reminded him sharply how hard he'd leaned on it.

Who said this shit?

Sputtering a chuckle—a snort—a laugh—some chagrined sound of shock and self-deprecating denial, Em straightened a little. The wick was grinning, though, and while his sharp features weren't graced by the same blush as the rosh's sharper, prettier face, there was a sudden shyness in his expression that he couldn't hide.

He slapped the bar, trying to shake the strangeness of it all, the ringing in his ears, the shivery, oozy, too-warm beer feeling that settled in his gut and flowed down to his knees.

Really, who said—

What he got. If he was right.

His tsat brain couldn't process that sentence from the well-bred, pleasantly-shaped lips of some powerful jent's daughter, dark brows raising, sweaty scalp itching, lungs burning.

"Well, I'll be damned—thank y' much—"

She was still talking, this curly-haired fist-fighting fiction-reading girl who was, by the looks of her, somewhere in the middle of upper form (Em never knew, all young golly women aged well, after all, didn't they?). His honey-warm gaze followed fingers behind her ear and he was suddenly reminded of what was tucked next to his, calloused fingers of his own reaching up to slide the rolled tobacco down and fiddle with it, feeling a suddenly strong need for fresh air not stuffed full of fields and gollybodies and stale alcohol and so much sweat.

"—I did, oes, an'—"

Name it.

Emiel realized he didn't even know her name, but she knew his 'cause Ro was a loud-mouthed bastard. Half the Stacks must've known his name now 'cause he shouted it so loud in that bookstore. He tapped one end of the cigarette on the bar, unable to entirely be still, looking out across the inebriated landscape and making a decision,

"—hey, uhhh, I didn't think—I had ne idea you'd—"

"Em! I'm here!" Karla's voice interrupted anything awkward he was trying to say, and he might have even startled like some boch caught with both hands in the candy store's penny bin without any intention of paying. He relaxed just as quickly, giving the dark-haired woman still standing there waiting to give him his prize another easy smile as if to tell her to wait one more moment,

"Good—I'm gonna have a smoke. It's been plumb moony in here. Be right back." He shouted back, waving, perhaps still looking some kind of guilty. Tilting his head, he leaned one more time over the bar just so the golly could hear him, not at all so he could get another perfect view of her face, so he could skim curiously over the strap of her bag or the buttons of her blouse because that was all right there unavoidably close, "Come outside with me—you can hear the terms better, eh? Name yerself first so you an' I can conclude our proper business, miss."

He stuck the paper between his lips and waggled fingers at the end of the bar he'd be exiting from, promptly slipping out and looking to make sure the young woman followed—

What the clocking hell was he doing? Winning, that's what.

—a hungry chrove grin plastered the purple-haired wick's freckled face, aware the Badger was busy enough that surely no one would notice he was holding the back door open for some golly girl, inviting a stranger to stand alone with him who shouldn't ever be seen alone with him anywhere, let alone in the sunset-golden alley behind his place of business (and residence) while he had a godsbedamned much-needed break.

"Ne, introducin' yerself ent my prize, neither. Jus' want to get that outta the way first." He found another match, closing the door behind them and stepping to one side to lean against one of the empty kegs stacked for pickup, murmuring around paper and tobacco while he lit the match, amber eyes watching her face through the flash of fire and the first wisps of smoke,

"Told you so."

He couldn't help it. He really couldn't. Or, at least, he didn't want to. Not one bit.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

The Badger was just loud, that's why she had leaned forward so close her mouth was inches away from the wick's gold-ringed ear. The distance was perilously small--much less than was proper. Cerise was close enough to smell tobacco and stale beer and something else underneath that she refused to think about. Much closer than a young lady should probably have put her face to any man's ear, let alone a peacock of a wick bartender in the Stacks. That was probably why it seemed like he froze up when she did it. The impropriety. Surely even wicks knew that this wasn't acceptable behavior.

That was probably also why he made that sound when she said that she had been wrong, something between a laugh and a snort that sounded equal parts shocked and maybe--annoyed? Something. He was grinning at her, so annoyed didn't seem quite right when she pulled back to put a more respectable distance between their faces. His expression was--Cerise didn't know what it was. If she didn't know better, she would have thought it was shy. But that was impossible. It still made something in her stomach do a little flip. Horrible.

He took a cigarette out from behind his ear while she kept talking, and she followed the motion out of the corner of her eye. She wasn't sure why; maybe just trying to determine if his fingernails were still as atrocious as they were when he had put his hand so close to her face, back at the store. That was likely it. While she waited for his answer, her posture tensed. She wasn't nervous, she thought, maybe just--she just wasn't sure what he'd ask for. Something unreasonable, probably.

It took a moment for her brain to process that somewhere in the middle of her speech, he'd thanked her. For what? For... being wrong? Cerise frowned and watched him tap the cigarette on the bar's surface, thinking it over. Likely, she realized slowly, it was not often that galdori said as much to him. Because he was probably not often right, she thought. Maybe. But she felt, very keenly, what she was for a moment. Some jagged-edged excuse for a politician's daughter, storming in through the bar to put her face in his ear and shout about books. A nuisance, most likely.

That couldn't be helped. She was already here--she wouldn't back down now. He could, if he wanted, name something trifling and send her on her way and that would count enough. At least she thought it would satisfy the unease in her spirit that had made her come here in the first place. She felt a little of that unease now, coiling in her muscles and making her restless. She opened her mouth to say that he could take his time, but she was cut off by a woman's voice ringing out across the bar, making both of them startle. That she could leave was not a possibility she entertained--he had, after all, looked at her with a smile that asked her to wait. Cerise waited.

Cerise didn't pull back when Emiel leaned over the bar again--so she could hear him, of course. The same way she didn't take the opportunity to skim her eyes over his face again, noticing all kinds of little things she hadn't noticed the other week. He was looking at her and she couldn't read the intentions in it. Come outside, he suggested, and Cerise nodded before she'd had any chance to think first.

"As you like, sir." A casual incline of her head, imperiously gracious.

Cerise stood there at the bar a moment longer, watching him go. Outside. With a stranger, to--to do what? This wasn't smart, she thought. This wasn't something she should do. This wasn't something any young lady of breeding should do, follow a handsome stranger, a handsome wick stranger, into the alley just because he asked. But she wasn't any young lady, was she? And since when did she not do something just because it wasn't what she should? They had business, of a sort. And that business had to be settled. He looked back at her once, and she made a decision. She followed after him. The chips could fall later.

Cerise hadn't been so careless as to make it obvious where she was going, of course. She didn't stand out nearly as much as Emiel did, but this was his bar and she was still the daughter of an incumbent. There was a studied kind of casualness as she moved through the crowd, barely acknowledging that he'd held the door for her. The same kind of attitude she used when sneaking out of the dorms after curfew in her younger years, or sliding around professors when skipping class. It was guilt that got you noticed--Cerise didn't feel any.

"Thank you," she mumbled automatically as soon as she was outside. For holding the door. That was what one did, and it was a practical enough bit of manners Cerise saw no reason not to follow it. The sun was starting to dip behind the horizon, casting that pretty golden glow over everything. Her hands remained casually at her sides, but she did hitch a breath as he closed the door behind them.

What on Vita was she doing?

"Of course not--I wouldn't have accepted that." Cerise snorted. Her name was not a prize; her name was a fact. If he'd wanted that, he could have asked, regardless of whether or not he'd been right about the book. He lit his cigarette as he leaned against an empty keg, relaxed as can be. Cerise tried to look the same, but found it a little difficult. Maybe if she'd had a smoke, it would be easier. Too bad.

She opened her mouth to tell him her name, but what came out of it instead was a sharp laugh--told you so. Of all the nerve! She had come all this way, and he was standing there with smoke curling in front of his face gloating because he had been right about a book. Her frown was hard to keep, but keep it she did.

"Yes, well. I already said I was wrong, didn't I? It's tacky to gloat, you know." Her chin was raised, disapproving. A twitch at the corner of her mouth was too small to give her away, she thought. "And it's Cerise, sir. Vauquelin." There had been a slight pause, between "Cerise" and "Vauquelin". She wasn't sure he needed her last name--she didn't know why he needed her first. It just seemed like if she was going to introduce herself, she should do it all the way. No half-measures.

Cerise shifted. She had no barrel to lean against or cigarette to hide behind. There was nobody in the alley, and the back of the Badger faced only the back of another shop. The street seemed rather far away. So it was just the two of them. Her hand slid across the strap of her bag before she realized what she was doing and put it back down. She was not nervous. And even if she was, it was just that she didn't know what he'd want from her, and not that she was suddenly sharply aware of his presence without anyone else's around. She ran her tongue over lips that felt too dry, but she met his eyes.

"So now that this vital courtesy is dispensed with, Mister, ah. Emiel. You have to tell me what it is you want." The "mister" might have been too much. Or not quite enough--her mind felt a little sluggish, at present, easily distracted by other things, like the way the sun touched all the edges of his hair and picked out warmer highlights in it, glinting off gold rings in his face.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

She should've said ne, here was just as fine a place to settle this imaginary score as any, that they didn't need to go outside. He didn't need to leave the bar to smoke—plenty of folks were smoking inside, he'd smoked behind the counter before. He could read her lips and she'd done alright there leaning so close to hear him, considering he was loud any time of the day and knew how to get his voice to carry over a crowd.

He just—

He didn't want—

Emiel wasn't sure what he wanted or what he was doing, but that strange rush like uncorking some old vintage just to see what it tasted like trilled in his veins because she wasn't at all looking at him like she should've been, like most of the other golly patrons in the bar did, like most folks did in general. How did Fahren in common ever level a playing field between a Brunnhold student and a tsat? He didn't want to think about it.

So he didn't.

They'd thanked each other. They played at propriety like it was a game he could even afford to buy chips into. He couldn't. He never would. It wasn't a game he should ever be playing.

His glamour was unreadable, but she'd sauntered out the door with all the guile of someone who knew what they were doing when they needed to sneak. He recognized that body language. He was good at it.

Em cupped his hand when he lit the match. He'd washed. Recently. His nails were cleaner. Clean enough. He watched her watching him, exhaling a slow, long cloud of smoke through lips too tense for this meaningless entertainment of worthless engagement. What in Alioe's name could she really want? Emiel hadn't expected the laugh, but his smile widened around the cigarette when he took another drag, filling his lungs with smoke just so he didn't fill his mind with reading too much into whatever the hellish evers this business was.

"I'll gloat if I want. It ent ever tacky to win 'n m' opinion." Not when the odds were usually stacked against you, he decided not to add when he breathed another thick, almost spicy-fragrant cloud out between grit teeth,

"Pleased t' meet you, Miss Cerise Vauquelin." This time from a respectable distance where no book or fist could meet his face, too, "Jus' Emiel's fine. Emiel Emmerson—in case you were curious. Ne that it matters."

He gave her his full name but also, shifting to stop leaning, he casually offered his smoke between them like a peace offering and assumed without asking that she, like so many Brunnhold students before her, knew exactly what to do with it. Maybe it was an excuse to step closer again, to see if she'd take it, to test the unspoken boundaries and understand the shape of this weird conversation she'd trudged all the way to the Singing Badger to have,

"Well, I ent thought 'bout what I'd ever want over this book business. It weren't like The Beast in the Picture's at all much more enjoyable—right? It's jus', marginally more ... bearable. Let's be fair. An', b'sides, I didn't think I'd ever see yer face again, t' be honest." Blunt, suddenly a less brazen tone, Em felt the quiet of the alley settle on his shoulders when he stated the obvious that just needed to be clockin' said out loud. As he did so, some chirrup sounded from behind the barrel he'd leaned against and a scraggly stray osta—one of several various felines he and Maurine were known to leave food out for—sauntered out and immediately found it's way between the purple-haired wicks legs, weaving cautiously toward the young woman—toward Cerise Vauquelin, student, tail moving lazily like the smoke still hanging in the air.

Suddenly, Emiel understood how that old beast felt, standing here in the weighty proximity of the dark-haired galdor's field. Fed and pet but not welcome inside. Feral but tame enough to get attention when he wanted it. He lived that way, too, and he'd just never seen it as clearly as he did right now in the Yaris golden hour behind the Singing Badger under the steely-grey stare of some young woman he shouldn't ever have spoken to. His bright amber eyes followed the osta and trailed his gaze upward over the body before him that was pretty when not drowning in green wool, that was as out of his league as the book club she should be talkin' this shit over with,

"You showin' up here, sayin' that I were right. You didn't need to do that. I don't—"

What was he supposed to ask for? What did she want of him? What did he want from her? That moment, right there in the bar, had been plenty. To have just one galdor tell him he knew what the fuck he was talking about, to acknowledge he had half a clocking brain.

That was.

Enough.

That was.

Too much.

The thought soured like too much hops against the back of his tongue, but he didn't let it show on his cocky, freckled face. He held a hand out, wanting his cigarette back, wanting to drown out this taste and possibly die faster, embarrassed and unsure now about this whole thing. Still, somehow undaunted, filled with bravado, too curious for his own sense of self-preservation, he cleared his throat,

"—fine. I want you t' have a drink with me. Ne here, ne now. But on th'nine. I don't work on the nines. Do y' know the Golden Beetle? It's smaller than the Badger, outta th' way two streets from the Stack Exchange—"

Emiel didn't bat an eye or seem shy about the forwardness of such an invitation. What was the point? Who cared? She'd be horrified, say no, and hopefully storm down the alley and far away. As far as she should be from the likes of himself. He even taunted her with a wicked grin, pausing for another long drag and suddenly nervous, fluttery exhale,

"—or, you can jus' hit me again, if you'd rather. I'm benny, either way, Miss Vauquelin"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Behind the Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

Emmerson, Emiel Emmerson. Cerise didn't need to know that, and it didn't matter. But she kept it all the same, offered from a decent distance away. Something about the way he said her name settled in her ears and warmed up all her veins; it was just unusual to hear both parts from that accent, she thought. Usually it was just "Miss Vauquelin", never with the "Cerise" in it.

An impulse made her reach out and take the cigarette he held out between them. She didn't know why he assumed she smoked--he hadn't even asked, just held it out to her like she'd know what to do with it. Cerise stepped in a little closer and she took it, casual as can be, taking a drag and letting it back out through a corner of her mouth as if it was nothing. As if she didn't think a single thing about how it had been against his lips a moment before. She watched him from behind the shield of smoke, trying to divine what his intentions were.

Maybe she should have tried to read more of her own in that smoke. This would be a lot, even if they weren't what they both were--even if he had been another student, green-uniformed and reasonably suitable for her to spend her time with. Cerise felt a little dizzy, like she was drunk, but she'd not even had water since that morning.

"No, it's not enjoyable." Cerise agreed slowly, taking another drag from a cigarette he hadn't taken back from her yet just to give her hands something to do. He didn't think he'd ever see her face again--well that made sense. She didn't think she'd show it. Cerise still didn't know why she had, flimsy excuse of not wanting to owe a debt aside. And it was just that, an excuse. Poor as anything.

She couldn't help but be a little disappointed to hear he'd not even thought about it--he'd probably not thought about her at all, honestly. Brunnhold girls were a dime a dozen after all. Maybe not so many who were likely to hit him in the side of the head with a book, sure. But plenty of them all the same.

The osta's appearance was good timing, breaking into Cerise's thoughts before she could go too far down wondering what that disappointment really meant. She didn't want to be remembered by some strange wick with a bad attitude. Not at all. It was a scraggly little thing, likely a stray. But bold as you please, twining around Emiel's legs first before approaching her with a little more caution. Cerise bent to scratch behind those ears and smiled at it. A tough little thing, a fighter no doubt. There was a notch missing from one ear--definitely a fighter.

She only looked up from the osta when Emiel spoke again, and this time she frowned. No, she did need to, she wanted to insist. She needed to--it wasn't proper, to leave things like that. All the same, she shouldn't have, maybe. It occurred to Cerise then that perhaps that too had been a bother. Maybe he didn't want to hear it--maybe it wasn't a victory, coming from her. He held his hand out to take the cigarette back and she straightened from petting the osta to give it back to him, face still sharp and frowning.

You have to ask for something, she wanted to insist. Because there's a debt here and I need to pay it. That, surely, was why she kept thinking about his face. No matter how much she liked the angles of it, that was all she could possibly expect out of this. She was playing a strange sort of game that she didn't know how to win. It felt a little perilous--a little thrilling.

"A drink," she repeated, incredulous. Her hand fumbled, giving the cigarette back--her fingertips brushed against his hand and it was all she could do not to jerk her hand back.

A drink. Not now, and not at the bar--not some very strange ploy to get her to spend money here. Somewhere else, on the nine. Cerise didn't know what her face looked like--shocked, she thought. Because she was. She thought she frowned, but not in displeasure. No, she knew the answer had to be no. It was ridiculous and impossible and she couldn't imagine he was asking her with the expectation to agree.

Maybe that's why her eyebrows came up and her frown turned upwards. Following the line of her jaw as she tilted her face. There was a challenge in his grin, and an assumption that she wouldn't take it. Little golly miss, afraid to get a drink with a wick.

"Sure," she said breezily. Her heart was in her ears, but she kept it from her face and the weight of her field was solid as ever. Smooth and indectal as she could make it. "On the nine. There's room to hit you again then, if the need arises." Despite her best intentions, Cerise smiled. It might have had more the air of a smirk, more familiar lines taking over.

"And... You should call me Cerise then, Just Emiel," she said, another wild impulse. As if this game they were playing had a different set of rules from the rest of their day-to-day. Rules that allowed her to ask that he curve his voice into the part of her name that was most truly hers, and not at all her father's. She wasn't sure he'd do it. But she asked him to anyway.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

The pair stood in the breezeless alley. Alone. Sharing his cigarette. Talking about books and debts. Like no one gave a chrove's erse about the state of the world and all that was wrong about this moment.

Em didn't care. Not one bit.

Miss Cerise Vauquelin 'd never smoked before—it was clear by the awkward reach, the strange angles of her fingers, the shallow uncertainty in her inhale. Like the swing of her hand, the motion of her body when she'd smashed the book in his face and he'd bit his tongue, there was potential there because she played it off like she'd some experience. She didn't wheeze or cough or frown, but her brows might've drawn together and her lips were tight for a moment—not that Emiel was at all looking at her lips.

Ne. 'Course not.

She'd hit folks before—other gollies? Other wicks?—that much he'd guessed. Not too hard in his rather experienced opinion, but to another golly, it must've been hard enough. He wondered, idly, watching her smoke drift away, what she'd do with a knife.

He smirked at her admission, at that continued agreement, and reaching up to scratch at the shaved back of his head, he wanted to ask what, exactly, of Fahren's work she did like. What else outside of that particular author they'd discovered in common she enjoyed reading. What else she did besides read and punch wicks and pay meaningless wagers. What else there was to a galdori girl than just being a student? He'd served them all his life, but—he didn't know how to ask. He didn't know if he could ask. Not right now. Not here. When was a good time? Over a drink—that's when everyone else talked to him, wasn't it? Only, well, he wanted to drink, too. These were odd things to wonder about a Brunnhold student, about a young woman. These were odd things no one ever wondered about him.

His expression softened at the osta, watching the scraggly thing he'd fed for years now appreciate his guest and lean into head scratches like he'd never gotten any before his whole nine lives. Lucky lil' bastard. No social baggage as a stray animal, was there?

He heard the incredulity in her voice, amber gaze slipping from her face to the smoke that was being returned to him, to lithe golly hands and fingers that reached too far, brushing freckled skin. The purple-haired wick didn't drop it, though, that excuse to be out here, watching Cerise recover from the motion but not quite from the question. She didn't know how to answer right away, that shock on her face, that realization that he'd had the nerve to cross that line, to ask for more of her time when she didn't have to give it, when he had no right to expect it.

She was gonna say ne. She was gonna call him ridiculous. That's what he was waiting for. That was the safe bet to make. It was ridiculous. Impossible. How'd they sit together? Who wouldn't notice? What would happen after that one drink?

Cool as a fresh stout from the cellar, easy like Hessean honeyed mead, she said a single word: sure.

Why—? He fumbled, then, finally unsure.

"Alright, Cerise. Th' nine it be then. Jus' you know—at the bar, oes? Sometime after your—uh—I don't know—dinner, maybe?"

She should've said ne. She should've gotten angry, told him this was clockin' wrong. They couldn't have a book club or a drink. They shouldn't be alone. He liked the cheap thrill of couldn'ts and shouldn'ts ignored, though, so he kept ignoring them. She'd started it with that book and his face. This was her fault. He was still here 'cause she was, that was all.

The bartender chided himself behind a shallower drag, aware that when he was done, he'd need to go back to work. Karla'd notice. His daoa'd notice. Maur'd notice. He'd been outside long enough.

Emiel blinked at her tilted chin, angled just so, and the hint of a smile, warming her cheeks. His glamour seemed to ripple in surprise, muffled as it was beneath the heaviness of the young—gods, she was definitely younger than he was, but ne so far as to be what he'd call out of rea—

"Oi! Em!" The alley rang out with yet another timely interruption to this untimely moment: the voice of his brother, Rohan, two houses late. He wasn't alone, either. The taller, dark-haired wick with two others Emiel knew by face but not by name. He knew they were trouble, and as the trio drew closer, he saw the older man's face was bloodied and one of his companions was, in fact, limping.

This wasn't the Dives of Vienda. This was clockin' Brunnhold—what in th' Circle?

"Listen, I know I'm late an' all, but shit—who'ssat—" Ro's eyes weren't amber, but green, and they narrowed at Cerise with recognition, "—clockin' hell—th' bookstore jent? Emiel."

Someone snorted. They weren't close enough to feel her field, but when Ro called the galdor out, the other two wicks—one barely older than she was, maybe younger despite his lanky height and the limping one around the purple-haired wick's height but a broader build. He nearly glared at her, bloodied nostrils flaring, swollen lip curling when he looked to the middle Emmerson child,

"That book in yer face weren't enough, brunno?"

Em felt the heat of chagrin like the last of the sun's heat spread across the back of his neck, over his shoulders, down his spine. He clamped the end of his cigarette between his teeth, pierced lips suddenly taut, body coiling. He flashed a glance to the dark-haired young student—young woman—young galdor next to him, the osta that'd been content to lick a paw at her feet already gone.

"Maybe there were somethin' else 'e wanted in 'is face." The youngest wick snorted, making a crude gesture in emphasis, winking with all the false bravado Emiel knew too well.

The other one laughed, but Rohan didn't. He drew a little closer, reaching for that smoke in order to toss it to the ground, "Issat it?"

"Is what? N-ne. No. Books. We're talkin' books."

The broad-shouldered one sniggered, but the purple-haired wick's brother was about to say something else, something unnecessary, something more incriminating than this already looked,

"Books. Shut yer—" That was all Ro got out of his snide face before Emiel punched him right in that bruised face.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Behind the Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

She hadn't expected him to agree, or maybe she'd wanted to see if he would. As much a test as the cigarette he'd held out to her, and she'd taken even though she didn't smoke. Not much, anyway. Just a little bit, with other girls on the team.

She didn't know what to make of how pleasant the syllables of her own name were, coming from his mouth. That was ridiculous, and she shouldn't think so. She didn't think so, if anyone asked. But nobody asked, because there was nobody around. Some of the bravado she thought had been jostled--he hadn't expected her to agree. Cerise smiled, and then she laughed, quietly.

"It's over at about twenty-three," she said, further confirming a plan she knew she couldn't make. Absolutely shouldn't make. She wondered if he'd named the place expecting her to turn it down, and it would be--she wanted to think "unsuitable", but this was all unsuitable wasn't it? Cerise Vauquelin, eldest daughter of Incumbent Vauquelin, smiling a little flustered at plans made with some flashy young man--a wick, she reminded herself, although she couldn't quite bring herself to care--she had only met the other week. And had already hit in the face. Of all the many out-of-line things she had done already in her life, she thought this might be the most out of line of them all.

It was his fault, she thought, for challenging her. Cerise had never known when to back down from a challenge, not even one so clearly a bad idea as this one. She didn't even know where they'd sit. It wasn't a crime or anything, not really--but it wasn't done, either, was it? It was just a drink, anyway.

Cerise had gathered up her senses, thinking that she still hadn't asked him if he'd read any other of Fahren's works. Or anything else, for that matter--maybe their tastes were different after all. It was one thing to agree when a book was bad, after all, and another to agree when one was good. She tried to picture him reading Tales of Near and Far, and she almost could. Almost.

"I, er. Well I also was curious, you know, Emiel, if you've read--" The question died before she could finish it, a little half-smile still on her mouth. Stopped dead behind her teeth by a voice, calling out from the other end of the alley. Cerise turned around to see the other wick, the one who she'd thought had something of a look of relation to Emiel that day at the store. He was flanked by two others, and as the got closer she saw that someone had done a real number on his face.

She realized, very suddenly, what a terrible idea this was. Not being out here with Emiel--she didn't think, not really, that he was dangerous. If he'd want to, he could have hit her back at the bookstore. That wasn't quite enough to say she was safer with him alone than she felt now in this moment, but she thought, well. She just had felt so. Cerise swallowed, but her face set hard and haughty. A prickling reflex. All the same she took a step back, just a little closer to Emiel than she had been before.

Cerise was not embarrassed by the way the other wick had narrowed his eyes at her; clearly, he remembered the other week as well. But she was irritated, for a reason that took her a second to place: she felt rather interrupted. Her hand had been on the strap of her bag; it clenched now into a fist, pulling the bag a little closer to herself. She didn't think she should say anything, not yet. They weren't even in range of her field, and anything she could say would likely just make things worse. For once, she begged herself, exercise prudence.

Maybe she would have, if it weren't for the crude comment from the younger of the pair she didn't recognize, and the gesture to match. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl. "How dare you--" If her field had felt solid before, it was properly heavy now--braced for impact. Her shoulders set, even as some part of her was a little disappointed at so quick a denial. She would wait, she thought. No sense in casting here--she wouldn't do it. There was no glory here, or conquest even. Not really. But if one of them got too much closer--her hand curled into a fist.

She really hadn't expected Emiel to beat her to it.

"Emiel!" His name flew out of her mouth in surprise. Although not with disapproval--she was just startled to see him do it. For all that she'd been coiled to spring, he had struck first, and at the one she had thought almost certainly was a relative of some kind. Cerise, all at once, realized she had never been a proper fight before. This was different than swinging at another girl in green, and different from slapping some overly-bold young man across the face dressed the same. Cerise brought her bag up in surprised instinct, moving to hit whatever body turned out to be nearest her. No thought, just committment, clean and simple.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

Twenty-one years of bein' fami and this was definitely not the first time Emiel had punched his brother square in the face. Nor would it, most likely, be the last. He'd heard the hour, the start of a question. He'd heard Rohan's big mouth and taken in the sight of his ne'er-do-well ersehole friends. It was the purple-haired wick that got all the assumptions when they were out together—something about Ro's babyface always marked him as too innocent where something about Em's sardonic smile always pegged him as guilty. This was, unfortunately, only one of his issues with the current situation, deep-rooted and sparked to life by the realization that maybe, jus' maybe, those imaginative young kov weren't entirely wrong.

Ne, he'd said. It's just books.

But it wasn't. He'd thought about more than just words on a page for a handful of days, like an idiot. Maybe it wasn't just book-talk he'd be interested in, had Miss Cerise Vauquelin not been a golly 'cause even he knew that book-talk and a smile was all he could possibly get.

This, though? Shit. He'd not thought this through, obviously. He'd not thought at all. That younger wick's implied hand motion. The other one's grin. He didn't like that everyone knew before he did, that they'd all figured out the joke's punchline before it'd ever left his lips. It stung, like his tongue had drinking the night after Fahren's dismal early work had smashed into his cheek. He didn't like the way truth sometimes tasted more like blood than expensive, well-aged spirits.

The satisfaction of impact wasn't enough reward, not when Rohan groaned at hard knuckles hitting already bruised, tender flesh. Emiel heard his name in the dark-haired woman's voice, turned his head with wide eyes as if realizing for the first time that he had a witness, and then, smooth and easy, followed through with his bony elbow when his brother curled fingers into his vest to stay standing.

"Yer a whole house late an' ye think ye can jus' show up an' tell me what I'm doin'." Emiel hissed, attempting to disentangle himself from the taller, heavier man's grasp. They scuffled a bit, swinging and shoving, wrestling through more than just the surprise of the galdor's presence. There was so much not said between them, and it wasn't about to be spoken in this moment, either.

"Y'ent s'posed to be makin' nice with folks like that." Spat the other wick, blood on Emiel's pants and shoe.

"I can make nice with who I want." The purple-haired wick finally managed to squirm away, not entirely unscathed, by shoving an already unstable Rohan to the alley's cobblestones, ready to turn on his brother's companions.

Meanwhile, the moment the other wicks felt the full weight of Cerise's field, sigiled like a barrier, bristling for a fight, their demeanors shifted from taunting to frightened. The younger one, who clearly had no shame and even less life experience to draw from, turned on her when she began to retort, ready to grab for the bag as she swung it. He mostly missed, the books inside whacking him in the head before he scrambled and snatched for the strap.

"Watch yerself, jent."

He tugged—hard.

Material groaned and even though it was the youth's intention to pull the golly closer, all he got was a fistful of her bag, books spilling onto the dirty street and whatever else fluttering everywhere.

Did he flash a grin or a worried look? It was hard to tell, but he did swing the back of his hand toward her face in absolute defiance, aware he was too close for her to cast and confident he could get one good slap in—every golly deserved one!

"Don't!"

Emiel stepped between her and the wild young thing a little too slow, a little too late to stop what he saw coming, shoulder a bit rough against her as he staggered, grabbing for a willowy, still-growing wrist tight enough for the other wick to help in pain,

"That's enough." Growled the bartender at the boch, aware that the wick who'd been limping had taken this entire time to quietly hobble his way toward where he'd come—slowly, carefully hoping to leave everyone else to their trouble, one step at a time. He wiped under his nose, scowling at the smear of red before he shoved the youngest wick on the shoulder, releasing him and indicating he should be leaving also,

"Go on. Ye dust, too."

He was stepping on a book. Amber eyes, still bright with fiery fight instinct, flicked down and realized Miss Cerise Vauquelin had brought other works of Fahren. For him? For them both? For—

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't've—I didn't mean—" He mumbled, turning his back on his brother to make sure the dark-haired young woman was mostly unharmed, to make sure she wasn't about to make sure Collies crawled down the alley for every last one of their ersehole selves. He did mean to defend her. He'd meant every bit of it, even if he'd gone about it the wrong way. As usual. He was wiping his hands off on his shirt, unsure whether to reach for her or the books or to crawl away inside like a beaten dog, "—Havakda, 're you alright?"

"Godsdamnit." Ro groaned, not getting up from the ground.