[Closed] Just a Game [Memory]

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, the Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening

For all that he seemed keen to tell her he wasn't trying to impress her, Cerise didn't miss that extra flash when he moved to open his own bottle. Cerise didn't know what to say to that, remembering the trick with the fire she'd seen him do when she came to the Badger the other day. What would actually trying to impress her look like? She laughed, feeling a little ridiculous. Too willing to consider letting him try, because she liked the way he smiled.

What was wrong with her? This was fun, sure, but she kept having to remind herself that it shouldn't be, and that it was just this one time. He wasn't behind the bar now, so she'd have to see him again for that. He hadn't finished the second book, so if she wanted to know what he thought of it she'd have to seek him out again. No matter how nice he was to look at, she should have taken her hand away. Should have moved her foot, shouldn't have come here at all. Maybe she just liked that he didn't know who she was, and likely had never heard of Incumbent Vauquelin in his life. She tried to convince herself of that, and it rang hollow.

It was just that the voice in her head telling her these things sounded more like her father's deep politician's tones or Diana's polished smoothness than it sounded like her own. When she tried to find her own voice, her own feelings on the matter, she found only a warm electric thrill and something else that was too unusual for her to even have a name for it. Hopeless, just like everyone always told her. That wasn't so bad, right now.

The comment about Brunnhold girls and what they did and did not do was a joke, and she couldn't help but grin at the response, happy to amuse. Really "idea" made it sound like she put more thought into it than she ever did, but the way he didn't seem in the least put off was strangely gratifying. The training is the dueling, she wanted to say, and that was to keep me from the fist fights, not enhance them. But she didn't know if he knew what the dueling team even was, or that he would have cared if she explained, so she kept that to herself and drifted back to vocabulary.

That contrary little thrill, that thing she couldn't or wouldn't put a name to? That was rewarded when he laughed again, put something bold in her blood she was probably better off without. The way she moved her foot in closer wasn't an answer to a challenge, but a challenge itself. Because she didn't know what the boundaries of this thing was, she decided to test them, curious and a little too unconcerned. Some part of her knew she would never have done something so forward with another green-uniformed Brunnhold boy; she would never have talked to them about Fahren or joked about getting into fights, either. There were a lot of things happening here she "would never".

If he didn't want her to, he would pull back. Wouldn't he? Cerise couldn't imagine that he wouldn't; he didn't seem shy about much else. His eyebrow rose, but he didn't shift away from her. So that was good then. She was fairly certain. She had leaned back in her chair like this was nothing to her, smiling and maybe taunting just a little, but her heart was in her throat. She hadn't even touched the beer in front of her yet.

Which, clearly, Emiel had noticed as well. Delaying it any further would just look like she was afraid, she thought, or... She didn't know, it just felt like a challenge. Cerise looked at the stout with only a little suspicion, not quite sure what it was he thought to choose for her. Sure, he did this every day, but not for her. Even overly-confident young men with nice hair could be wrong. She took a cautious sip while he answered her, looking back to his notes. Followed by a proper one, because she was pleasantly surprised that she liked it after all. Not that she would give him the satisfaction, she thought, of announcing such without being asked.

"Whatever you want," she offered. Curious. If it wasn't about the book, what else could he possibly want to know? Cerise wasn't even sure why he'd asked her here, not really. Considering how they'd first met, she was having trouble really believing it was for more time in her company.

That little "ent s'posed to" dug at her, although she didn't know why. She had nothing to do with that, and clearly he could anyway, so did it really matter? Sure, she had made assumptions at the Stack Exchange. But she'd already--well, not quite apologized, but admitted her error. There was just something about the way he said it, like he thought she'd make nothing of it at all, that bothered her.

Cerise had almost thought--it didn't matter what she'd thought he was going to ask about, because it was a question about magic. She had leaned in when he dropped his voice, far too close for anything approaching propriety now. From her new nearer vantage point, she studied his face while he asked. Not just to take note of each and every pleasing feature on it, but to weigh her answer. It was one thing to talk about fiction, she thought, which was strange but not explicitly disallowed. This seemed edging to something else, while still staying on the side of legal. Cerise wondered what made him ask, and if he really thought she would answer.

"More or less," she said after a pause. Clearly, she had made her decision. It wasn't illegal to answer such a simple question, anyway. She smiled, her voice just as quiet. "Holding hands is optional, but helpful--depending on what you're trying to do." Cerise had a little more of her stout, still looking at him, still too close. Then, after another moment of hesitation, "You do?"

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"I wouldn't ever give me that kinda permission if I were you." Emiel was nothin' if ne plumb honest, layin' it out on the table between them like the book and his hingle-scratch notes. Whatever he wanted to ask? Was she sure? His expression waxed more wicked than anything, grinning from over the rim of his pint glass, recklessly sifting through his options. Deciding he needed more to drink before actually being brave enough to ask the questions that drifted to the surface of his thoughts like little carbonated bubbles on the inside of his mug of stout, he leaned in to ask a little more about the topic at hand: Fahren's novel.

That wasn't why they were both here, though, and he knew that now. Well, ne. He'd known that since he'd asked, some whim of a mung idea jus' because she'd been pretty, jus' because she had a decent swing for a golly, and jus' because she'd had the guts to come apologize to a tsat when most gollies knew no ersehole like him deserved that much any day of the week, let alone over a book. His life in a pub 'round folks of all kinds 'd given him what he liked to fancy a bit of a decent ability to read people, and while he knew none of this could go anywhere, he wasn't sure he cared.

This was a pina manna nice so long as he didn't focus on their obvious differences.

He leaned. She leaned. There seemed to be no fear with this one—her forwardness both dangerously alluring and deliciously strange. She was sober, clear-headed, and not even propositioning him for anything yet, unlike any of his previous experiences with guttered jent at the bar, fawnin' over his pretty hair an' hopin' he'd sneak 'em a kiss their daddies didn't have to know 'bout.

This almost felt like real interest. Almost. Incomprehensible, really.

Emiel had to know.

To top it all off, Cerise didn't scoff at the question about magic. She didn't brush him off. She didn't tell him it was wrong of him to ask. Fahren's book, obviously meant for as large an audience as possible, was very sweeping and general when it came to magical description, but any wick who'd been in the Stacks long enough 'd been witness to a couple of gollies duelin' or castin' in some way. It wasn't like any of those damn bochi knew how to behave themselves, anyway. Em didn't want to know how it was done. He didn't have any interest in dabbling with jent power since it obviously went straight to their heads, but he did want to know what it was like, jus' a lil'.

He only somewhat heard her actual answer, honey-eyed gaze slowly taking in the aquiline features that were now, officially, rather scandalously close to his own freckled, gold-ringed face. A few dark curls had escaped, framing one side of her thoughtful expression, though the purple-haired wick realized that she wasn't necessarily forming a proper response so much as studying him right back.

"Thought so—"

It was too strange to be uncomfortable. Em wasn't sure if he was supposed to like how natural and normal this felt or if he was supposed to feel guilty for enjoying it,

"—holdin' hands, eh. I mean, hands 're good for lots of things, it's true. Magic's jus' one of 'em." He couldn't help it, tongue between his teeth for a moment in coyness, aware of the implications. He drummed his fingers on the table for emphasis, calloused knuckles and all, and attempted not to let any look of surprise creep into his grin at Cerise's riposte of a question,

"Er, sure. It all works a bit different, but at the same time, I suppose there's more similarities than you're taught in school. It doesn't matter, really, but I'm jus' glad that whole chapter weren't entirely over my head after all." Emiel did his best not to sound too crass when he talked about how alike they were, aware that there were social and racial boundaries they were prodding at with a strange eagerness, aware of the press of her leg against his. He didn't lean away, one thumb finding a divot in the table while he rest his other palm against his drink,

"Whatever I want, you said, Cerise. I've got a couple other questions, but—" He shifted the subject without subtlety or apology, meeting her grey eyes with his flashy confidence, the curiosity in their brightness genuine even if his words stuck to his tongue, suddenly hesitant in expressing actual interest. No one was lookin', not really, but still he felt exposed in taking the risk, this sober kind of bravado quite a different animal than he was used to, "So—two things, uh. One, what'd you enjoy about Lost Followin' Me? An', well, why do you fancy my opinion on it? Ent anyone ever talk to me about books like this, an' I don't mind. I jus'—ye chen we're— "

There were, admittedly, so many other things he could've asked. He could've asked what form she was in. He could've asked what her focus was—he knew about those. He could've asked what her fancy dinner was like.

The warmth of their contact, however, was just enough. This would either end the evening by forcing them to fold their hands, or this would up the ante. Either way. Whatever she wanted, he wasn't sure he'd object to any of it.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, The Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening

That had been a rather blanket statement she had made; Cerise didn't realize until it had left her mouth just how it sounded. Easy enough to clarify that she meant a rather limited sort of "anything", but the rakish turn to Emiel's expression left her too flustered to say anything on that front.

And if he wanted to ask her something that wasn't related to any sort of safe general topic? Cerise wasn't entirely certain that she wouldn't like that, too. Her prodding at the boundaries between them had been a mix of reckless and cautious. She was simply too impulsive for it to be true caution, and too nervous for full boldness. At least, so it felt to her--the dark-haired student was dimly aware that there was very little she was doing here this evening that counted as "caution" to a reasonable young lady in her position. That had been impossible the moment she had slammed that book into the side of Emiel's freckled face and he had laughed and challenged her back.

Besides, this was all safe enough. It wasn't like it could go anywhere. Maybe they could keep talking about books, if they really wanted, from time to time. That was all, though. There were worse things for her to be doing with her time. For instance, getting into fights. Cerise very deliberately decided not to dwell too deeply on what had happened in the alley the other day. That didn't count--she hadn't even done anything. Much. Neither of them could be doing anything more than messing around.

Cerise was a little sad about that for a heartbeat; she was, after all, having fun. And it seemed like maybe Emiel was too, despite how absolutely wrong that was.

She shouldn't have mentioned holding hands. The choice had been deliberate, just as deliberate as moving her foot in a little closer had been, but now she was thinking about it. What was she, a child? It was absolutely irritating how easily that smooth response had worked on her, the pale slate of her eyes looking down as he tapped on the table. His nails were clean today, she noticed, and it made a fluttery kind of feeling go all through her. He just cleaned up well, that was all.

"We're not really taught anything about the subject at all in school," she responded absently, before she looked back up. The admission made her pause; they really weren't. Not more than a few offhand, derisive comments here and there. Cerise had never really thought about the subject much, she had to admit. After all, what was the point? There was nothing wick magic, such as it was, could do that proper magic couldn't. Most of her professors would have said that it wasn't magic at all, only sacrilege. Contrary creature that she was, Cerise wasn't so sure. That still didn't mean she'd put much consideration into what it was, other than weaker.

One could become interested in anything with sufficient motivation. Cerise thought again of that strange feeling of the hesitant caprise from earlier. The seeming chaos of it, how much more delicate a thing it seemed than even the most clairvoyant of galdori fields. An uneasy realization came over her; she wanted to do it again, she wanted to push more deeply than she had. To know. Even she wasn't so out of her mind as to actually do something so... so... intimate with someone she had really just met, someone who she shouldn't be curious about in that way at all. The seed of it had planted in her mind all the same.

"I did say, it's true." An awkward, abrupt subject change; Cerise was happy to let him. They would go back to the book, questions she could answer, and she could stop thinking about the shape of her curiosity so godsdamn much. She took another drink of her stout, letting it linger in her mouth before she swallowed. The effervescence burst on her tongue, little popping feelings that seemed to be just as much on her skin as anything.

The first question he asked was easy enough to answer. The second... She would cross that bridge when she got that far. No use thinking about it now, when the first question alone uncurled something warm in her veins. That was a personal question, she thought--not too much so, but not the sort of thing you asked if you didn't want to know the person you were asking it of. At least she didn't think so.

"Well... The simple answer is that I like stories about the undead, monsters--that kind of thing." Cerise licked a lip that had become too dry, trying to answer the question and not think of how close they had both stayed. She frowned again in thought, dismissing the distraction of Emiel's proximity as best as she could.

"But--it's a strange book, isn't it? The narrative is all tangled up, but it's imaginative." Cerise shrugged her shoulders. "Whatever else you can say about it, you can't really say it's much like any other novel, can you? Not quite. The city of eternal darkness, the way it's grounded in all the grim details of his other works but applied to such unusual context... I think it's interesting." Cerise's answer came to a halt, and she flushed. She had been carrying on, again. That wasn't a complete answer, but it was as much of one as she thought she could articulate right now. And certainly it was more than she'd told many other people, driven on by that bright spark of interest she thought she'd seen.

That only left his second question. Cerise didn't let her gaze waver, didn't let her mind get so tangled up she gave in to absurd anxiety and didn't give him a proper answer. One hand still ran restlessly over the side of the pint glass, drawing a line in the condensation there.

"I don't really know," she confessed. Curiosity, she wanted to say, but that didn't seem a full enough response. Cerise felt her face warm; she tucked a stray curl behind her ear hopelessly. "I don't often meet anyone who has any opinion on Fahren at all, and I wanted to know if... if you would like the ones I did. I--" Cerise flinched at last, honest admission getting the best of her. "Just... interested, I guess. Haven't you ever--" Cerise cut herself off with another self-conscious shrug, feeling her face set into a sharp frown; defense against the flood of embarrassment she felt now. Haven't you ever just wanted to know someone? she stopped herself from saying, but only barely. Stupid.

"Why did you try so hard to finish it before today? If you didn't even think I'd show up." The question back put her on a steadier footing; it wasn't what she wanted to ask, not quite, but it would do. Enough for her to lift her eyes back up, to look unflinchingly and wait for the answer.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

There were things that just didn't need to be talked about, didn't need to be crossed into. Ne, kenserface, galdorkind didn't talk about the bastardization of magic in that fancy-ersed school 'cept to call it jus' that: a bastard. An abomination, he'd heard once on the lips of some puking professor as he dribbled Twemlaugh all over the Badger's lovely bar, but, well, Emiel wasn't entirely sure what that word meant. Except ugly or wrong. He wasn't sure when all those decisions were made—ugly magic versus beautiful magic, considerin' the mona was the godsbedamned same, but, he wasn't in a place to ask questions, bein' the lesser instead of the greater in terms of power and privilege.

He winced, brows drawing together for a brief moment, scrunching up all the nice angles of his pretty, freckled face as if he thought to apologize for the comment, for bringing up forbidden subjects. But, he didn't. He couldn't. There were too many boundaries crossed in just this one drink over books that what difference could such a topic make now? He drowned any such words in stout, however, making some satisfied noise of forgetfulness when he set his pint glass back down and settled a little more into his seat, given how much closer as they'd become across from each other on the wooden surface.

The talk of magic led to an unfortunate inability for Em to not notice the weight of Cerise's field in their proximity. He was literally around galdori and their auras all the time—all of them crammed together 'round the counter, a sixth sense, a second tongue. Far more communicative than wicks were with their lessor glamours, fields were a strange experience for someone not used to them, he supposed, but now he could tell them apart, now he'd learned how to read a bit from them—if only 'cause there were so many different ways to finagle a better tip outta some unsuspecting jent.

He smiled again, finally, at the dark-haired student's simple answer. It was obvious that this was their common starting point, that he not only agreed with her sentiment but also enjoyed similar topics. For galdori at the top of the social food chain, what else was there left to be afraid of but the unknown? But monsters? But their own imaginations? Who else did they have to prove themselves to but the gods alone? For someone like Emiel, growing up, it was the conquering of those very same powerful creatures by the most unlikely of characters that inspired him most—not because the creatures were mysterious or incredibly powerful at all, but because they were, in fact, conquerable.

His smile broadened as she went on. It had been obvious that he was about to agree, but he stifled his comments in another swig, pressing his pierced lip against the glass in thought while he listened, distracted briefly while he sifted through Cerise's rather passionate and thoughtful considerations about the book laying open between them.

He might have interrupted her then, but there was something smug and satisfied and impatient that crept into his expression, eager and waiting. He'd loaded two flintlocks, one at a time, and now as the smoke cleared, he wondered what would be the score of that second shot.

Haven't you ever—

She hesitated, cutting her own self off sharply because it was clear her entire existence was lived as if drawn along the blade of a very sharp knife by choice. His bright gaze had drifted from her face, following the motion of her fingers through dark curls, behind her ear, and back again to the table. He hummed some incomprehensible noise, a chesty sound of encouragement as if he wanted her to finish her sentence.

Just interested.

Should he be horrified that he understood? Em felt a flush of warmth that was most likely the mixing of alcohol in his bloodstream, the flush of a first lightening trickling through his system, though his fortunate (or unfortunate, really) level of tolerance meant that a buzz wasn't even worth his while, honestly, and there'd be no taking the edge off of anything other than the slippery slope toward drunk. One drink, though, so he was more than safe, regardless of what he'd had before she got here just to not feel like too much of a mung fool,

"You mean to tell me that there ent anyone else in that whole school that doesn't want to talk about Fahren with the likes of you? Why the hells not?" This was his evening. He'd asked for it, consequences be damned. Incredulous that not a single uniformed gollyboy (or girl or whoever) had not once thought the dark-haired Miss Vauquelin with her quick fist and her well-honed edges was worth talking about books with just about made him wonder how galdorkind was superior at all. Oes, he knew they thought physical conflict was somehow beneath them now that they stood on the backs of the conquered, but, honestly. Had she been a pretty tekaa rosh—

"You've got so many choices—an' yet—"

There was a flutter of something in his glamour. Not color, not real emotion, just some involuntary expression of surprise. His legs shifted, the gentle sliding into a more comfortable position purposefully making it known the contact was not only merely mutual, but, in this moment, more desirable than he felt like admitting out loud, in public, so soon. Too soon.

"I finished to prove I could, but also 'cause I liked it. I appreciate how he likes to flesh out th' same world in different ways without steppin' on his other works too much. Too many folks can't even write a second book in the same place, right? It was good an' Ro bet good money I'd ne make it halfway through before today. Ersehole. Joke's on him—an' these drinks." Honesty felt odd. It tickled the back of his throat while lifting some weight from his shoulders. He was used to lying, to pretending. He was used to the game. But there was something about that Haven't you ever—? that felt permissive, that changed the rules, that broke the racquet.

"It'd be right of me to say, 'course I didn't think you'd show up, ye chen. We can dance 'round that all you like, but it's fine. There ent many folks like me—" Here, he obviously meant tsats, perhaps even tsats with a writ, perhaps even handsome, gainfully employed tsats with a writ who liked works of fiction in their spare time, but he didn't go into detail, preferring to let the forbidden young woman he was being achingly clear with draw her own conclusions, as they'd both preferred to do since that moment in the bookstore, "—who wanna talk 'bout their thoughts on imaginary cities an' undead monsters an' plot twists an' secondary characters."

Because their lives were hard and works of fiction were for escaping into, not intellectually analyzing. Em couldn't help how his brain worked, he just couldn't share it with very many people, if anyone at all.

"Cerise, I ent ever talked to a Brunnhold student 'bout this sort of thing. Y'ent even askin' why I can read. It's like, it doesn't even matter. I, uh, I like that, too. N'anyone talks to you 'bout books, an' I've never had anyone think I'm allowed a clockin' opinion. 'Specially not anyone like you."

He almost said more than he should've—almost. His grin faltered and his amber gaze dropped to the dark lacing that clung to the sides of his pint glass, leftover foam that'd left a pleasing pattern against dark liquid. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be horrified and find an excuse to leave. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, The Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening

Something had drawn across Emiel's face that she had only caught the edge of when she looked up after her comment about what she did and did not learn in school. Cerise had brushed it off and moved on, but a little of it lingered.

At least he had smiled again when she'd started on the first answer about Lost Following Me, still open on the table between them. Almost forgotten, but not quite. Not when he asked her the question at least. That swept away the lingering misgiving she'd had, and she kept on, watching the smile grow. If he'd wanted to comment, Cerise didn't give him the chance--to eager to charge ahead with the effort to give as complete an answer as she could.

Nothing after that either, just some trace of something making its way into the smile. A taunt, a restlessness. He had been waiting, so she had been honest--charging forward without too much thought to consequences. She hadn't been able to finish the thought, feeling foolish at the end. Sliced it away, quick as she could. Emiel made a sound like he would have liked to know the end. Cerise wasn't sure he did, really. She wasn't sure she did.

Depending, perhaps, on how he answered the question she had asked. The response made her laugh, a jagged sound that traced the side of bitter. Why? Either he was being far more flattering than she knew what to do with, or he was stranger than most.

"Just what do you think 'the likes of me' is, Emiel?" She shook her dark head, eyebrows raised. "I don't know what sort of picture you have of me, but I'm not precisely the friendly type." She said it without much rancor or self-pity, laying it out like a fact. It was true, and she had no issue saying so.

It wasn't like she had never had anyone to talk to, she did. The girls on the team, a few classmates here and there. Another boy, even, briefly, some time ago, before she'd gotten bored of it. One or two had even shared her taste in books; this wasn't desperation, what had drawn her to him. To this conversation, to something warm and sweet creeping up through her at his seeming disbelief that Cerise Vauquelin was an unpopular type of young woman with the Brunnhold set.

"Not so many as you seem to think, but enough. And yet." A shift in his glamour and posture both. Cerise's heart skipped a beat. Cerise didn't know what to make of it; surprise, she thought, in the glamour, and a mutual interest in that slight contact she couldn't think about too clearly. She had pushed it forward, though, and she wouldn't take it back. Not unless he asked her to.

So he did like it, the book. Good. Cerise couldn't say that she wouldn't be enjoying herself now, if he hadn't--but she was glad he had, all the same. She nodded, encouragement and agreement both as he kept going. Laughed, even, at the idea of Ro--the brother from the alley, she guessed, although possibly someone else entirely--having paid for this time they were spending together, for his lack of faith. Privately, Cerise thought he'd earned it--she was still a little mad about the other day, in the end.

"Is that why you were so happy to pay for it?" Cerise teased, voice warm enough to ease what barb there might have been in it. She didn't want to break whatever spell had fallen over their little table; she thought maybe it was a similar world to the one that had fallen apart the other day. One that didn't come with the same rules as the regular one, because it only had the both of them in it. But all that honesty was a lot for her to bear, delivered to her so closely from a face like that. Glittering gold and well-cut, and nothing like what she knew she should want.

There weren't many like him--whatever he meant, she thought she agreed. Not many like him at all, at least that Cerise had met. Wicks who read fiction and wanted to talk about it, maybe. Handsome young men who laughed and looked at her like he did, even though he'd see the worst side of her right off. Seen, and had it come careening into him.

"Ah," she breathed, not sure what to say when his smile faltered and his eyes fell away from her, back to the beer in his glass. Cerise didn't know what to do with her face; she tried to fight the sudden rush of blood to her face but anything she kept out of her expression just spilled out around her into her field.

"I hadn't thought about why." That was the easy part to answer. She genuinely just hadn't. To her, she had always thought--well if you wanted to, you could. Cerise realized, talking now, that she didn't know how difficult it was to get a writ or... or anything at all. She had assumed a lot, maybe. More than she knew. Cerise fell silent, thoughtful and serious.

"Okay," she said at last. Cerise's smile cut across her narrow face, warm as fire, warm as blood. Warm as that feeling that glittered bright gold under her skin, remembering the touch of Emiel's hand. "That's two of us then. Although--what is a someone like me? Golly girls with a violent streak?"

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"Well, y'ent a—I mean, I can't say I know much 'bout golly student standards of friendship. You probably don't want my full opinion on that subject anyway, what lil' I've gathered. Right now. This evenin'. Maybe never." Emiel reminded the young woman across from him, close to him, but he was still smiling, "Th' only picture I've got is this one—goin' on here, Cerise—"

The purple-haired wick waggled the fingers of his free hand in the space between them while raising his drink back to his lips for another swig, amber eyes searching her face in the brief reprise he took from speaking. Sighing, setting his mug on the table to dig an elbow into the wood and his knuckles into a freckled cheek, leaning still, he shrugged,

"—ent everyone worth bein' friends with anyway." His grin began to approach the wicked, revealing he at least appreciated the sentiment. He made a living being friendly, appearing friendly, working the crowds who came to eat and drink at the Singing Badger, purposefully escaping campus. Where the galdor across from him perhaps had the choice to decide how she acted in front of her galdori peers, Em didn't. Being personable around those in power meant survival, even if some of them were erseholes.

She shifted the subject with him easily enough, but it was impossible to miss the color that bloomed across her cheeks or seemed to filter through the unique sensation of her field like crocus blossoming in the desert, unfurling from between sharp rocks and creating something beautiful where the land had seemed so barren. He'd never been to Mugroba, of course, but he'd read about it, and it'd ever been a metaphor he'd not grasped before, he did now. She taunted him and he huffed, mocking indignation before dragging the palm he'd leaned on upwards, raking fingers through bright violet hair,

"Ne. I'd be happy to pay anyway. Seems like a made a benny choice, too." It was with imperceptible reluctance that his attention drifted from the dark-haired young woman's face to the stout near her hands, implying she didn't hate it.

If Emiel was surprised she'd not thought too deeply about what he was and wasn't allowed to do, well, it didn't show. Why should she? Was this as much a whim for her as it was for the wick? He'd not thought as cautiously as he should've either and he knew it: how old was this student in front of him, anyway? If she'd not thought about this drink, had she thought about what might come after? Had she expectations?

What is a someone like me?

Cerise's words were a purposeful echo, and while he chuckled again at her implication that she really was so violent even if she'd watched a handful of kov in the street just the other day—fami, even—settle their differences with their bare hands, he found that it took him a moment to answer. Maybe he'd been staring at the smile, brighter than he'd thought it could be, real and unashamed.

He didn't know what she was. He didn't know what this was. He only had past experiences to draw on—all the times other gollies had tried to pick him up at the bar, to ply their way through social convention and perhaps find their way into his pants. He'd not kept the best of records when it came to resisting those efforts, ne, an' his resolve when it came to bad choices could be said to be hit or miss, but clearly he didn't have much of an issue with hittin', period.

His jaw clenched, sifting through what he could possibly say. Was she some golly's only daughter lookin' for an easy tumble before she meets the ersehole her parents intended her to marry? Was she some distraught, dumped rosh lookin' for physical comfort from a wick she was sure'd be willin' to give it? Was she just a bored student, pushin' boundaries 'cause she had nothin' better to do?

Ne. None of those things felt like they fit—her lines were too sharp for the smooth shapes made when worn away by mere convention. If anyone knew convention, Emiel Emmerson, barkeep of the Singing Badger, had a pretty clear clockin' picture alright. Godsdamn.

That was, perhaps, why he was here at all.

Why he was still here, honestly.

"Oes, you're a golly. Violent or ne, I'd bet another drink that you don't want that to define you, even if everyone else does. Folks don't see past that, but that ent all y'are. I—uh—we—listen, we jus' met an', gods, I don't know—ent many jent like you that want to see tsat as people. We're talkin' like people."

Flustered now, Em's amber gaze softened and he laughed, chagrined because he didn't have the words for this shit, no matter how many of them he'd read on the pages written by strangers.

"Shit—I can't answer much better yet. Not unless you're willin' to let me get to know you more. More than jus' this book here, anyway."

Teeth found his lower lip, catching that gold ring through it in an expression of nervousness. If this had ever been just book club before, just idleness, Emiel was attempting to define boundaries. If this was something else entirely, some strange, rebellious, scandalous interest that crept beyond what was at all acceptable, he wasn't raising any barriers, either.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, The Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening

The thing was, Cerise did want his opinion. Wasn't that what she was saying, in ways both roundabout and direct? She wanted his opinion--on the book, on her, on other subjects she'd yet to think of. She couldn't put her finger on why, and she suspected she had no better reason than some instinct that told her this was worth her time. An accumulation of little signs and signals that added up to this singular desire. In spite of everything, all the reasons why she shouldn't see any of it.

"No, they're certainly not." It was different for him, she supposed. Cerise had never been what one might describe as "approachable", and she'd never had to be. None of that came naturally to her--no smiles, no easy words or friendly gestures. Even in repose Cerise bristled with spikes and edges she'd never tried very hard to shave down. Emiel seemed like a different sort, but she hadn't seen much of him. Just the picture now, here in front of her, same as he had. A picture she thought she liked.

She had asked her question like a joke, but her attention was sincere as she waited. Cerise's heart wasn't where it should be; it seemed mostly to bounce back and forth between her throat and her stomach, never settling into its proper place. Her shoulders were relaxed, but her grip on her glass tightened almost imperceptibly.

It didn't matter what he thought she was, she told herself. She hadn't come here expecting anything, and it wasn't like... She didn't know. Maybe he thought she was bored; it wouldn't be completely inaccurate. She just didn't know what she was bored of. Cerise hardly had to go out of her way to court scandal, with how naturally things she shouldn't do seemed to come to her. If that was all he thought--no, there was no point in worrying about that. She held, ready as she could be.

She was not ready. Not ready at all for that evaluation, delivered so hesitantly. Cerise's smile widened; she hid it behind more of her drink. They were talking--like people, like people who could be friends. And the terrible part was that she liked it, all her efforts to convince herself that this was nothing and would always be nothing easily swept aside. Emiel's laugh seemed embarrassed, and Cerise's heart turned over in the most pleasant way. Friends--sure. And she wanted to keep this a book club, too.

"Yet, huh." Cerise's head spun. Like maybe she was drunk, except her glass was only half-gone and she knew that wasn't it at all. He hadn't said so explicitly, but this put the decision fully with her--she could allow this to continue past the limits that should be drawn, or she could contain it to this and nothing more. Cerise looked at him and the way he caught his teeth on the ring through his lip (gently shoving aside any thoughts that attention brought up as irrelevant).

Emiel was right, and she hadn't known quite how to put it until he said so for her. There were so many things that wanted to define her. She was violent, she was galdori, she was a Vauquelin. A headache and a problem. Not a square peg for a round hole--a railroad spike instead of a peg of any kind.

What were the boundaries here? Boundaries made by other people, for other people. Cerise was young and she was headstrong and she couldn't, quite, picture the full shape of what the consequences might be. All she could see was what was in front of her.

"Maybe," Cerise said at last, a tilt to her smile and her voice that made the maybe sound like "yes". Unable to resist putting just that much of a challenge in it. "I can't make any promises, Just Emiel. But if... After tonight, that is, you--" Cerise shrugged spare, sharp shoulders, bit a thin lip.

"I could allow that." Could. Should? Almost assuredly not. But why? What was the harm? "You have at least one more book to read, after all. I'm glad, ah, you liked this one."

Cerise was flustered herself now, looking away and back to the book between them. Shyness settled uneasily over her angular face. She felt vulnerable and strange, even though she'd not said much. Just said that she wanted to see him again, and know him better. Cerise paused, thinking again. And then she reached out for another careful brush of her field, more delicate but less accidental than the first had been.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"Maybe." The purple-haired wick echoed, watching the young woman watch him, sharing far more of the table than was socially acceptable in this moment. Her smile was nice—a glint of sunlight on a sharpened blade—and sincere (in the way you knew a cut would hurt you but you risked it anyway). Emiel smiled back, easy and comfortable, distracted and rebellious, far more aware of the consequences (he assumed) than the galdor across from him (because, really, weren't the consequences mostly his to bear, in the end?).

Just she added to his name again as if reminding herself that she was looking at him through a lens that wasn't forged by the hands of her own kind, though Em imagined that was a nice fantasy. It was surely impossible to separate any golly from what had shaped them, from the power that sustained them just like how the mona flowed so much more obediently along their ley lines. He liked the challenge in her voice, having suffered most of his life from an inability to back down from such things, freckled skin littered with the hints of scars and callouses to prove it.

Could. Cerise offered a quiet, scandalous agreement. Shouldn't, her expression read plainly. Would anyway, her tone of voice affirmed.

What did he want, anyway? What was she expecting here?

He found it so hard to know—any other galdor and the propositioning had been so clear. N'anyone else 'd just asked to talk about books, n'anyone else had just wanted conversation at all. Sure, there was touching here, unexpected but not undesired after all, but, while her pretty face was flushed with color in a way that wasn't displeasing, it wasn't because she was drunk. Not yet, he hoped.

"One more book—oes, I do. I could maybe use a bit more time to finish it, though. This time. More 'n a few days, ye chen." He taunted her back, not refusing, not wanting to tread on the tentative interest that was bared between them, despite the fire they both poked at with even thoughts of friendship, let alone whatever it was that tilt of her head and the gentle motion of dark curls stirred in his chest could even be called.

In the pause between one riposte and what might have been another question, perhaps even something once again focused on Fahren's Lost Following Me, Emiel felt the shifting of monic gravity, the gentle wash of an invisible, magical tide far more powerful than his own. It was golly culture to use their fields as another form of expression, and while wicks had their own ways of communicating with their glamours, Brunnhold students especially seemed to need to extend their emotions into their fields. The barkeep's experiences with such expression weren't usually positive—gollies loved to posture, to threaten, to display their power with flexes and pulses and grating, glaring bright strength. He had no frame of reference for something soft and reaching, something more like the brush of their hands on the table, accidentally on purpose, and it was the most curious of sensations—

Like petting a chrove, honestly. He'd touched one once, as a boch, when the collies were by the aqueduct, watching a gathering of children splash and enjoy themselves some Yaris afternoon to keep cool. One of them had gotten down from his mount, welcoming even the wicks closer with a smile, inviting them to offer both chroven water and sprinkle its dark rough fur with a bit of moisture while the officer sweat in his green uniform. Em remembered the muscle moving beneath his palm, the way power felt beneath his fingertips, neatly contained in the hulking form of a tame animal.

Fields felt the same, sometimes—so much power, hidden from view.

He smiled, shy again, caught off guard, but didn't cower at the unseen touch. He didn't hesitate to reach back, either, but it was just like his memory—a child's hand small against the bulk of a beast—some weaker glamour allowing the weight of a galdor's field to mingle. It dragged a sigh from him, an unexpectedly wistful and soft sound of surprise that was quickly hidden behind his drink. Another swig and a chuckle followed, but Emiel was suddenly very aware of the level of interest being expressed without words. He decided—here, right now—that the rewards were worth the risks,

"So—" The purple-haired wick sniffed, not in a hurry to finish what was left in his mug, uncaring of how full the Golden Beetle had become, uncaring of who saw them together at their table with an open book between them and her legs against his. Fuck them all, really.

"—there, uh, there was one more bit I couldn't follow. If you wanna, you know, talk 'bout the story some more. Otherwise," There was that grin again, slowly creeping back over his freckled face, amber eyes unwilling to look back down to the pages, still warmly focused on Cerise's face, "otherwise, I'm jus' gonna ask more questions 'bout you. Unless—"

Comparing notes. That was something students were good at, right? He wouldn't know, after all.

"—uh, unless you've got somethin' you'd like to ask instead."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, The Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening

She had said maybe and she had meant yes, but Cerise didn't really know what she wanted in the end. Nothing in particular, except maybe more of Emiel's company. She thought she might find out, if he answered The student knew she was just building herself a pretty little fantasy, where this went beyond just today, or just after he finished that second book. There were worse fantasies to have.

Cerise laughed, a surprised and (to her ears) giddy sound. "I think I could allow that too." The implication, of course, being that she would have to know when he had finished it somehow. Plans with a date, ways of getting in contact--she could just stop by the bar, of course, but when? How long would it take him to finish this one when he wasn't on a deadline, trying to read the whole clocking thing before getting this drink with her? There was something too about just waltzing back in to the Badger that made her uneasy, more uneasy than it had the other day. Now there was this delicate thread of interest, real and known, and she felt oddly protective of it.

Maybe she could have spoken again, and maybe she should have. Asked about a next time, asked him more about how he felt about the book, anything. Instead she had reached out with her heavy physical field, wondering what he would make of it a second time. There was a balance to it, she thought, to mingle and not to overwhelm. She had never tried before, to be honest--a caprise from Cerise always felt more like a push or a flex, bearing down on the receiving party without a second thought. The sharp and sudden bursting of her fist, not the hesitant touch of a careful hand. For all her philosophizing about judgement, ways of deciding without knowing, Cerise did not often seek to know others herself. Besides, there was little need for care or caution, in the normal course of things. Cerise was still a student after all.

This was different. All of this, from start to finish, different. Just a whim, she thought, a little relieved that Emiel didn't pull back. The presence of Emiel's glamour would have been easy to lose, crushed under her own field even at such close range. If she weren't looking for it, paying careful attention. The physical conversation was about balance, in the end, wasn't that what they said?

What should she make of that sigh? For all that she had left their unbalanced-balanced auras intermingled, she couldn't read anything. She wasn't sure if it was even possible for her to do so--no matter her level of hypothetical and unlikely familiarity. Nothing, she wouldn't make anything of it. She did not pull away, leaving her field just where it was.

"So," Cerise echoed, because what else could she do? Drink more of her stout, she supposed, which she did. "This was a good choice by the way," Cerise added, because she wasn't sure there was any point in pretending otherwise at this point. Not after doing what she'd done. What she was still doing, really, even though the bar was full and anyone could see them. What they could see was scandal enough--what they couldn't was probably worse.

"I'm not opposed. To talking about the story," Cerise clarified quickly. "Or questions either, I suppose." Emiel was still looking at her, so she looked back, no more willing to back down from this than she was from anything else.

Something she'd like to ask--was there anything? Lots. When she tried to pick just one question out, she found she had dozens upon dozens. What did he do with his time, outside of dazzling drunks in green with neat bits of slight-of-hand and reading moderately obscure works of fiction? Was that his brother after all? Did he have other siblings besides? What was his favorite book, author? Would he read other things, if she lent them to him? Was it strange for him too, the mingling of mona between them--and was it bad? More and more, big and small, personal and broad.

"How old are you?" That came spilling out of her instead, and Cerise could have groaned. Of course, she was curious--although she wasn't sure she should invite the same question in return. If that was a problem, she supposed, better to know now. Cerise broke eye contact to look at the ceiling, overwhelmed by her own behavior. When she looked back, she laughed.

"Wait--before you answer, how about this: a trade. A question for a question--about anything you want. The story or... or me. I answer yours, you answer mine." Her eyes were bright, a dare in them. She meant what she offered--anything, anything he wanted to ask. But she would do the same, and expect answers in return.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

Havakda—the young woman didn't refuse, didn't even bat an eye, and didn't flinch at the idea of seeing the purple-haired wick again. Emiel couldn't tell if he should be thrilled or horrified, if he was making a mistake or just having a good time anymore. It all mixed together in some kind of stout-softened, adrenaline-filled feeling that probably should've left him nauseated but instead made the thrum of his pulse race a little faster, a little hotter than it usually did. Like that day in the bookstore when she'd smashed a book in his face: he should've—could've—been pissed off, been indignant about some damn jent assaulting him for no clockin' good reason, but, instead, some part of him found it unexpected—unexpectedly—

Charming.

"Ye could, huh? Boemo." Em smirked, the strange sensation of Cerise's field not used as a blunt force object was no less dizzying, honestly, and he did his best not to drown in the weight of it. His expression didn't falter, and once he got his bearings in the heavy, heady gravity of it, his glamour was more like the flicker of some distant star than the bright light of the sun in comparison.

Speakin'f lights—the purple-haired wick shifted in his seat, unashamedly challenging their invisible, magical sort of contact with a firmer, more assertive press of his legs against hers under the table. If that was visible to anyone else in the pub, well, who cared? He didn't. Sliding his hands away from his sweaty pint glass just as the dark-haired golly complimented it, his smirk became a broader grin while he fished in his vest for his beat up old cigarette case,

"Thought so. Not somethin' you're used to, eh? Another one of my cheap tricks 's pickin' the right drinks for the right folks, ye chen." He'd bought the tarnished silver thing he placed on the table at the little pawn shop down the street from the Singing Badger, laden as it was with galdori cast-offs. The case was supposedly Bastian, and engraved in its surface were delicate flowers and miraans in flight with both Benea and Osa in crescent shapes carved into the background as if the scene was somehow meant to be at night. Opening it, he began the careful process of rolling a smoke, amber gaze only briefly flicking down to check his pinched measurements before returning to Cerise's sharp, pretty face with more of that grin still all over his,

"We'll just see what questions happen then." Hummed the purple-haired creature before lifting the still-open paper to his mouth and doing his best not to make a show of himself even if he couldn't help dampening the edge a little slower than usual in her company, mischief in his bright eyes. Pressing the end between his lips and fumbling for a match, once again in his vest pocket, Emiel couldn't help the eyebrow that quirked just so at her question,

"Me? I—" He chuckled, striking the match with the calloused pad of his thumb, "—trade? Benny. Well, I'm old 'nough. I'll be twenty-one come Dentis–" He'd have been fresh out of school had he been born a galdor, had his kind been allowed on that godsbedamned campus, but he'd been old enough for a lot of things for a long time, in his opinion. If he answered with a coy tone of voice, if there was a purr in the way he drew out his answer, it was hidden behind a cloud of smoke as he lit the cigarette with his match and puffed a few breaths to bring it to life.

Pausing for a long drag while he shook out the match and flicked it to the floor, Em studied the face across from him with more awareness than he'd bothered with in all the time they'd been face to face since that day in the bookstore,

"—turnabout's fair play, Cerise, 'r so I hear. What form 're you, then?" It were the same as askin' age, after all, since most gollies started school at th' tender age of ten. He blew smoke out in lazy rings, brazenly showing off, before offering it to her without a care in the world who saw just for an excuse for their hands to be so close one more time, some ripple of rebellious curiosity tangible in their mingled fields and the pressure of his touch utterly unintimidated.