[Closed] Just a Game [Memory]

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, the Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - After Dinner

Cerise Vauquelin was not nervous. She was not nervous, because there was nothing to be nervous about. The tight coil of energy in her every step as she approached The Golden Beetle was not nerves; it was anticipation of having wasted her time. She would show up at the Beetle, and Emiel would not be there. Earlier that day, she had resolved herself to only waiting thirty minutes. If even that long. After that, she would leave, and she would wash her hands of all of this foolishness.

The days between that promise in the alley and now had passed too quick and too slow at once. As if the hours stretched out when she thought about the nine, and contracted when she managed to stop. She had not gone to class the next day, as had been her plan all along, and instead devoted her time and attention to seeing what she could do about the damage done to the book she had taken back with her. The bag she had indeed thrown out; a replacement would have to be purchased later. She had other bags, if none of them quite so nice for carrying books. The next one would be leather, she thought. Something sturdier and more difficult to tear, if pulled on. If grabbed--not, of course, that she planned to be in such a situation ever again.

What she should do was throw away The City of Restless Ghosts. At least, this copy--many of the pages were too scuffed for reading. More to the point, she had read it several times over and there was no purpose to keeping it on her shelf. She enjoyed it, to be sure. It was a strange tale of horror and adventure, the first set in a city of perpetual darkness inhabited by malevolent undead; Cerise did dearly love the way he had brought the grim detail of his crime novels to lend terrible weight to the fantastical narrative. But she could replace the copy easily enough--Fahren was unpopular, but if she was patient she knew she could find another. If not in one of the many stores around Brunnhold, then surely when she returned home to Vienda for the break. Something in her held back, lingering on the copy that had been so sorely abused.

In the end, she had done what she could to repair the volume and slid it back into its place on her shelf, with two gaps beside it. She would have to fill them with something else, she thought. After all, even if Emiel did show up on the nine there was no way he would have read the books she had given him so quickly--even she would have found that a struggle. And there would be no more after this one evening. She had called it lending, but she'd never get them back--so they were a gift, she supposed. To make up for having lashed out at him in the store, perhaps. (Thought still, still she didn't feel sorry for that.)

The day had arrived at last. Cerise had dueling practice in the afternoon, and found herself unaccountably distracted. To the point that even her teammates had noticed, and she had gotten into a fight with one of the boys who chose to point out her sloppiness to her. Her choice of language had been overheard by their faculty advisor, and earned her yet another demerit. Her mood should have been foul. It wasn't. She had breezed through the admonishments, ate her dinner at a respectable pace, and returned to her room before the hour was up.

Cerise had never been so glad to have a room to herself in all of her life. Being alone meant there was no one to bear witness to the absolute absurdity of her fretting over what to wear. Not that it mattered, not that she cared what he thought of the way she looked. She hadn't cared the other day, and she didn't care now. Maybe she had been flirting, a little--but that didn't mean she had to dress nicely for this. Yet still had had gone through five outfits before choosing one at last, the most fashionable she had. Just to prove to herself, and not at all to anyone else, that she could clean up nicely if she chose. The dark grey silk was cut into strong, sharp lines that Diana had always despaired of being far too harsh on a young lady, hardly softened by the red underskirt. The bodice was, frankly, perhaps a bit low for propriety without a blouse underneath. A necklace might have balanced it out, but Cerise had none that suited. Her neckline was hardly the most scandalous choice of the evening, she reasoned, and left it as it was.

Standing before her mirror, she gave herself a critical eye. She looked every inch what she was. There was, she decided, no avoiding it. She could do very little about that fact, even if she had wanted to. At least the whole getup was easy enough to move in. Her hair she could also do very little about, though she had tried. Just a simple tail held it back, aided by a series of pins she knew would be gone by the end of the house. She wore no cosmetics at all; she didn't own any to have put on, in any case.

And so she had left, a strange mix of giddiness and what she would rather have died than admit was anticipation swirling in her head. Much as she tried to tamp it down, it grew stronger the closer she drew to the Beetle. He wouldn't be there, Cerise reminded herself. Emiel had asked but there was no way he'd show. Why would he expect her to do so herself? He probably wasn't even interested. In talking about the books, she reminded herself. Just that.

The Golden Beetle was smaller than the Badger, and quieter. As she pushed open the door, Cerise felt immediately conspicuous. She squared her shoulders off and brushed the feeling away, as she always did. None of it mattered, it was just a game. And it would be fine. To her surprise, Emiel had not only shown up, but he was already there. Now was her only chance to turn back, before he'd seen her. Before she'd committed to this ridiculous course of action that all sense, common and otherwise, told her was a bad idea.

"You came after all, Just Emiel," Cerise said with no little surprise as she drew close enough to do so. She hovered a moment, looking at him. Circle but it was unfair, that face. Playing at casual, Cerise looked away and to the drink in front of him, already partially gone. How long had he been here? She had come as fast as--she had come at a reasonable time, at a reasonable pace, that in no way reflected any eagerness on her part. Cerise knew she should sit and was only drawing attention to herself, but she remained standing--close, but not too close. He could still tell her to leave, if he had changed his mind.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

Emiel Emmerson 'd never been nervous about a godsbedamned thing his whole life. He'd grown up in public view, surrounded by crowds of all kinds, scrutinized under the watchful gaze of his betters, of galdorkind, and proud of the hard work of his fami in establishin' themselves a successful business in the middle of Brunnhold, Anaxas. There wasn't a thing to be flustered about, meeting some jent's young rosh in the evening for a toast to his victory, for a drink that declared he wasn't a dumbersed halfbreed but a literate, legitimate man who'd not only read a book (oh, you bet the Circle he'd read one of those two books from cover to clocking cover) and (mostly) understood it, despite the odds stacked against him to do so.

He'd said one drink to Miss Cerise Vauquelin, sure, but the hard truth was he hadn't meant the first drink. Just one. Of many.

Em 'd had the whole day to himself, which most bodies would've surely thought a treat, but the purple-haired wick had found meant he'd had too much idle time to fuss an' be fussed at. It wasn't as though Da and Ro'd not had strong opinions that day, Paolo pissed 'cause of the condition of his face when he had to work the bar, pissed 'cause he'd been talkin' with a galdor like she'd ever want to be his friend, and pissed 'cause he'd smashed his brother's already smashed face. Sure, he'd been pissed at Rohan, too, for skippin' work and gettin' into trouble doin' gods knew what with that rotten anti-golly business he went on about when he thought no one was listenin', but, honestly.

Ent any galdor want much to do with tekaa, not even a tsat, and 'specially not some dumbersed bartender. That much his da tried to make clear—the only thing he'd stand to get out of even a few minutes of cheap-tumbled thrill (his words, mind ye, not Emiel's) would be jail time at best an' gettin' disowned on account 'f a hangin' at worst.

He'd brushed it off as best he could, really, because, well, his da weren't wrong. He'd heard plenty of scandalous stories, tending the bar at the Singing Badger, and he knew what happened when galdori tired of their lower race paramours, got tired of their bored, curious carnal games. Not that Miss Cerise Vauquelin wanted anything of the sort from his attention. Gods, she'd brought him books! Anyone could see this was a different sort of interest.

Couldn't they?

Couldn't he?

It'd still end badly.

In fact, it'd probably already ended that day in the alley, Em told himself while he did his damnedest not to cut himself shaving, while he stared at his meager wardrobe to find the best combination of colors and patchwork hand-me-downs that weren't stained with grease or sweat or too much Hessean stout. She wasn't going to show and he'd spent the morning hiding in bed finishing one of those somewhat steep-for-his-literacy level novels of Faren's before evening just to gloat to nobody. He'd not understood all of Lost Following Me at all, that was for damn sure, but he'd scribbled his questions on whatever paper he could scrounge from around his little flat, tucking the folded thing in the dust cover.

She wasn't going to show and everyone'd told him for days how stupid he was even wanting to meet that golly again. Even his daoa'd made sure to attempt to dissuade him from getting in over his head with someone who'd never see him as anything more than a pretty, dumb plaything. That wasn't a real helpful conversation even if it'd been delivered far more gracefully than anything out of Rohan's mouth, than anything out of Paolo's mouth, too, and it'd still ended poorly. Em'd spent the rest of that evening (last night, that was, to be fair) desperate not to break any glasses, dropping a whole bottle of something expensive and Mugrobi, and not smiling enough for decent tips.

She wasn't going to show and he'd arrived early—too early—to pick out some table in the small little pub that wasn't in direct view of every damned customer who walked in, that gave them some semblance of not bein' on display. He'd set the book on the floor, tucked against the wall, so's not to attract strange attention. He'd ran fingers through his hair too many times and ordered some good, strong, reliable Brayde County whiskey. Because, if he was going to act like this one drink was nothin' but a one-drink book club, then, well, then he needed something to calm the clocking hells down with.

The half left in there? It wasn't his first.

So, there was the middle Emmerson, picking at a nick in the table, knee bouncing, gold ring through his lip caught on his impressively decent teeth (inherited on his daoa's side, that's for sure), pretending he'd be spending the evening alone. He promised himself just this drink—then he'd be out. There wouldn't be much point in waiting long. If the dark-haired young woman didn't show up on time, given the lives of those uniformed students were ruled down to the minute with scheduled things and classes and whatever else they did on that campus, well, she wasn't going to show up at—

Oh.

He knew the weight of her field already. Emiel had taught himself over the years (he'd been working the bar since he was fifteen, after all) to recognize jent auras for what they were—individual extensions of who that golly was, expressive an' sometimes oppressive, too. It got easy with the regulars, of course, but every once an' a while, Em paid particular attention and was able to learn the feel of 'em right from the start.

Maybe he'd paid too much attention to Cerise Vauquelin.

Did gollies notice? Did gollies even pay attention to the glamours beneath their feet? Did they know every one was just as different, though often not used to the same depth of communication? Had she noticed, he thought to ask. But he didn't.

Maybe he was paying too much again attention now, staring a bit before speaking.

Too late now.

The middle Emmerson looked up, honeyed gaze bright and clear in his surprise. He couldn't hide it, palms flattening against the table, nails clean, "Clockin' right I did—I mean, of course. You did, too, I see." Unfaltering, unapologetic, and mostly undaunted, Emiel shifted, using one foot to scoot out the chair opposite himself in some fluid, coy mockery of propriety. He admitted without admitting that he, too, assumed she'd stand him up in the same breath he admitted his excitement that she hadn't, all without trying to give too much of that jittery, strange, totally rebellious excitement away. Calm and casual, he alllllmost purred above the few other voices in the room, "Have a seat, Miss Vau—Cerise. I, uh, came a lil' early—"

A lot early, but he weren't tellin'.

"—to make sure we'd have a good spot. It'll pick up soon, after your fancy school dinner, ye chen." He grinned then, taunting her already, before reaching for the book on the floor to set it between them, debating whether to get up and scoot her in proper-like or to just give her chair a surprising tug to get her settled. He chose neither, leaning a little, watching her while he let his fingers brush the condensation on his glass, quite aware it announced he'd already been drinking, even if it didn't reveal entirely how much,

"Finished this one. It weren't bad."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, the Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - After Dinner

The table Emiel had sat himself at was out of the way, as out of the way as any table in any bar ever was at least. It was a funny mix of irritation and gratitude thinking about how the location would ensure that they would attract as little attention as possible. Cerise didn't want attention, of course, and she knew... Well. It was mostly gratitude, anyway, and she didn't need to think on the rest of it. That wouldn't do either of them any good.

But oh Lady, why had that been the first thing she had said? Not "hello" or anything remotely friendly, just "you came after all". Surprised and honest. There was a strained silence after she spoke, hovering just out on the edge of nearness. Cerise resisted the urge to fidget; he was staring. Her hair couldn't have escaped already, could it have? She kept her hands resolutely by her side, not lifting a single finger to check. Even if it had, there was nothing she could do for it. He stared and he looked... surprised, also. And nice. Irrelevantly so. Still, that made her feel absurdly a little bit better. At least she wasn't the only one who had put, perhaps, a little more care into this than she would admit.

Emiel didn't stand to get her chair, which she almost preferred to be honest. She had perfectly functional hands and certainly the strength in her limbs to move a single chair away from the table. What he did do was more ridiculous, and Cerise laughed. The sound had a nervous edge that made her wince.

"I said I wouldn't, didn't I? And I keep my promises." Her eyebrows arched. Did that mean he hadn't thought she would come, like she'd suspected--but wanted her to? Because this was just about discussing the book, the thought didn't make her pulse flutter in the least. Cerise smiled again when he'd started to call her "Miss Vauquelin" and corrected himself to just "Cerise". Casual as could be, so maybe she had misread, or maybe this was just normal for him. He was, she thought, older than her--by how much? It was hard to tell. Not too much, she thought, but boys her own age did tend to have more of the look of childhood still on them.

How old did he think she was, anyway, come to think of it? And what did age have anything to do with getting one single drink or talking about books? Nothing, that's what. Cerise sat, the motion slightly jerky in her impatience to burn off some of that nervous energy--and, she had to admit, to removing herself from immediate line of sight.

"It's not fancy," Cerise muttered, frowning against an inexplicable rush of embarrassment. Maybe it was, by some standards. She certainly didn't think so--there was, to her, very little "fancy" about being crammed elbow-to-elbow with the great mass of her peers. If one considered the formal dinner, maybe--even then. "Unless somehow being seated next to your least favorite professor for an evening sounds fancy. Then, yes, exceedingly so."

Cerise hadn't quite thought about it before, in the bookstore or at the Badger, but sitting across the table from Emiel she suddenly felt herself more aware of that strange, fluttery field of his. Normally Cerise had to admit she barely registered wick glamours at all--they were so easily drowned out under a galdori field, she thought. She supposed she was just paying attention now; she had never paid quite so much individual attention to a wick before, either.

It was nothing like a galdori field, not even like the younger students'--Cerise almost reached out from sheer force of habit, but stopped herself. There was nothing there to read, none of the structure or order she was so used to. What was hers like to him, she wondered? Cerise put the thought aside, too embarrassed at the absurdity of it to ask. Likely he thought nothing at all about it one way or the other.

After she sat he didn't get up either; indeed, Emiel leaned away from her. She ended up slightly awkwardly dragging the chair forward, trying to do so with as little fanfare as possible. This was the primary advantage of young men feeling obligated to make a show of propriety even to her; at least she didn't have to scrape chair legs across the floor. She hadn't quite settled when he announced he had finished one of the two books she had given him--Lost Following Me was set between them.

"Already?" The question flew out of her mouth before she could stop it, surprise and some small amount of disbelief clear in her voice. She didn't think he was lying, although it might have sounded so. It would have been a transparent and odd sort of lie. It was just--it had only been a few days. Even Cerise didn't think she would have managed. Either he had an excessive amount of free time, or was a much faster reader than she gave him credit for.

Cerise looked at the book and not his hand on his glass. Started without her--trying to get this out of the way as quickly as possible? That did make a certain degree of sense. He clearly hadn't thought she would show (and neither had she); he had read one of the two books at a speed she would not have expected in a thousand years. Likely in the intervening days since claiming his dubious victory and now, Emiel had thought better of it and wanted to get this out of the way as quickly as possible. That had to be it. The only other explanations were excitement or nerves, which Cerise found deeply unlikely.

"What, uhm--what did you think of it?" Cerise kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, but she leaned forward as she fixed her attention on his face. To better hear his answer, and for no other reason. She had to admit, she was curious--would he even like it? Did he like the other one, the one he had already read even before today?

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

Gods—he caught himself staring, he did. Emiel'd noticed the dark-haired galdor was pretty back in the bookstore, it was true, but he'd not noticed until she stood there, dressed far nicer than he was (obviously, she was a clockin' golly, dumberse), just how macha she was when not tryin' to punch somebody. Miss Vauquelin was a delicate thing—most've her kind was, after all—but instead of lookin' soft an' delicate, there was a strong sharpness to her frame. She carried herself like one carried a knife when they knew they were gonna use it, an' even if it was now—of all moments—that Em noticed she was perhaps a bit younger than he remembered (those uniforms made everyone look the same), he couldn't help but linger on the view until he realized that was damn rude.

"Oes, I guess you do." He hummed, amber gaze flashing away, back toward the nick in the table, back toward his drink, smirking like a fool. Because that's what he was. The purple-haired wick didn't miss her suspicion, and he chuckled about it. He'd not expected her to show up any more than she'd expected his company. Good. They were both on unstable ground, even if they'd never ever be equals,

"Me too, then." Emiel murmured, coy or shy or both. She was frowning already, making ridiculous excuses for a dinner that probably cost more than the sum total of every bottle and keg in the Singing Badger's cellar—served every night! He'd never sat next to a professor, but he'd served more than his fair share across the bar. He'd watched them get guttered, wiped their vomit from the floor. Maybe seeing them sober for too long would've been worse, but the wick wasn't convinced.

He laughed, smiling in defiance of her scowl while he set her scuffed up book on the table between them. Her field washed over his glamour and just to prove he was capable, he returned the hesitant caprise, though all it must've felt like was the flutter of a gnat's wings against the palm of a giant. Not to say he couldn't cast a damn thing—he was pretty good, mujo ma.

"Already. Amazin', but I've got a writ, alright? Stayed up a bit too late, though, every night, ent gonna lie 'bout that." He thumbed his nose, still smiling, before he reached for what was left of his drink, glancing about the room for a moment until his warm honeyed gaze poured over one of the servers—benny, he knew Huck pretty well by now an' hoped the teen was as eager to keep his crush on Maur a secret as Em was 'bout keepin' this not-date from gettin' gossiped over. The boy grinned at the purple-haired barkeep, nodding to let him know he'd be back over.

Looking back toward the dark-haired golly, he noticed her pale, cutting gaze on his hand,

"This one doesn't count, Cerise. I had t' look like I weren't jus' here for book club, ye chen." Emiel spoke with honesty, veiled only thinly with that gold-glittered smirk of his. Settling more into his chair and letting his other hand trace a pair of fingers over the cover, he shrugged,

"I, uh, there were a few parts I ent sure I understood. Some words, mostly—" He paused, tongue against the ring through his lower lip, aware of his admission before he could even stop himself. He thumbed the pages, revealing a folded sheet of paper tucked in there with a few notes scratched on the page. Chuckling, he shifted in his seat, leaning forward, waggling the near-empty glass between them while he changed the subject away from the stupidity she surely knew he was doomed to be mired in no matter how hard he tried to climb out of it. Summoning a bit more honesty, he added with all the pretend academia he could muster,

"—but overall, this one's definitely a middle book. Still good, though. I can't help but inform you that jent authors ent usually real believable writin' a decent fistfight, but, this one in that one chapter? Oes, it could happen like that—"

"Junta, Em." Huck's faint flutter of a glamour and his broad youthful smile announced his presence, the lanky blond wick unable to help but doing a double-take in Cerise's direction. Bushy eyebrows shot up and his voice wavered in obvious suspicion and a hint of confusion, "Uhhh, thirsty, miss? What can I get for ye both?"

"—junta, Huck. I'll let th' young lady choose first. It's on me."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

She hadn't expected--the beginning of her caprise as she sat was out of habit, and she had stopped as soon as she had caught herself doing it. That she had done it at all was embarrassing; she didn't know that it was done, among wicks, and she certainly didn't think... Surprise rippled all through her and she only barely kept it off her face when Emiel reached back. It was so strange--not at all the same, and not as different as it might have been in the end. The brush of a butterfly's wing, delicate compared to what she was used to--but there, undeniably so. She was a little disappointed in herself when she pulled away.

"I know you're literate," Cerise rolled her eyes at the defensiveness there, but she smiled too. She found she didn't know what to do with her face or her hands, thinking about him staying up late just to finish it before today. Her mouth was stranded somewhere between a pleased smile and a flustered frown, unable to decide which was the lesser evil. Fingers threaded together on her lap under the table.

She hadn't meant for him to notice her looking at the glass, and felt her face grow slightly warm when he caught her. Thank the Circle he couldn't read her mind. The only thing worse than being caught staring was if he were to somehow know that she'd been concerned he wanted to leave sooner than later. Or knowing that part of the look on her face was just that she liked hearing him say her name, not polite in the least. She was "Vauquelin" even to her peers, for the most part, unless Eleanor was around and the distinction needed to be made. Even then, half the time it was the younger sister who was named; Cerise couldn't escape the name any more than she could escape the face that looked back at her in the mirror.

"If you say so," she agreed, doing her best not to seem like she thought anything of it in the least. What did it matter to her? He had just sat there with a smirk, and Cerise still wasn't entirely certain she knew why he was here. He shouldn't be, by all rights--he shouldn't have even asked. She shouldn't be here either; they had, at least, that much in common between the two of them. Cerise didn't think it was at all the same, the reason and the risk, but the ground they were on was tenuous for them both. So she leaned forward and asked what he'd thought of the book instead, trying to stay on what was, ostensibly, the topic of this whole little outing.

Books, just keep it to books. No particular attention needed to be paid to the way the light glinted off the gold ring in his face as he pushed it around. Privately, Cerise thought it was incredibly rude the way the sparkle of it made her look, in turn, at his mouth--and that is as far as that thought went. Absolutely. A little effort and she looked away to the book and the paper tucked in between the pages.

"You took notes." That not all of it had made sense didn't surprise her at all; she hadn't entirely believed him when he'd claimed to have read any of the author's work at all back at the bookstore. But it was one thing to not have understood, and another to have come here wanting to ask about it. All that puffed up, swaggering pride and defensiveness over his literacy, and still he had come with questions. Emiel changed the subject quick enough, back to the plausibility of the book's events, but something sparked and caught in her she couldn't place. It made her want to laugh, but not necessarily at him. Delighted, she supposed. Something of the feeling pulled at her mouth.

"Now, you said that before, about the sewers, and I feel obligated to reiterate that the plausibility isn't..." Cerise had cut in before he had quite finished, her pleasure at talking about the book getting the best of her patience, only to trail off at the approach of a tow-headed wick. She had forgotten, somehow, that they were in a public establishment for a purpose--not just a set of chairs to talk about books in, and light to look at him by.

Cerise felt her spine go stiff all over, the way the blond's voice wavered. As if she had needed the reminder of what a strange arrangement this was. Her hands curled together, still out of sight. Cerise didn't care whit what his suspicions were, but she didn't like it all the same. That they seemed to know each other, Emiel and the blond who was evidently named Huck, didn't help much.

She kept her face very carefully neutral, the stern line of her eyebrows only lifting when Emiel said he was buying her drink. Of course, gentlemen usually did, taking a young lady out... but that wasn't what this was. Couldn't be what this was. Cerise did not fidget or shift about in her seat, but she felt unaccountably flustered.

"You don't have to--you won the..." She frowned and looked away, then shrugged her thin shoulders to dismiss her statement and accept his both. That, of course, left the matter of an order. Cerise looked at Emiel for a moment, grey eyes taking in his face and trying to decide if there was a challenge in there somewhere. Frankly, she hadn't the faintest idea what to get. She drank, but only rarely, and usually just another of whatever everyone else was having. With students, that mostly meant a Clever Fellow. She looked down to his empty glass, then back up to his face. Her hands came to rest on top of the table, neat and sharp.

"You know this place better than I do--" in that she knew it not at all, obviously "--so you'll have to recommend something." She didn't add that she had too little experience with drinking at all to know where to start, but she had the strange realization that she might have if it weren't for Huck standing there looking at her like he'd never seen a girl before. Or a golly one, at least.

"I bow to your professional expertise," she added for good measure. Her voice was teasing and the edge of her smile was sharp, for all that the sentiment was genuine enough.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

Dry season light was just right this time of day—pleasing, even—filtering through the Golden Beetle in just that color, casting sharp-edged shadows and catching all the well-bred angles of the young woman's face across from him. Young. Galdor. Woman. Em reminded himself silently, as if the gravity of her field, like a firm hand, wasn't enough of a reminder,

"They ent notes. That'd be generous. They're, well, questions, mostly?" Emiel licked lips that were suddenly dry, looking back to the spine of Fahren's Lost Following Me and finding all sorts of metaphors in the title in this moment, for this moment. Cerise's expression softened or grew, warmed or blossomed—he wasn't sure what to call it but it was pretty, at least, even if he knew how wrong that admiration was that fluttered beneath freckled skin and tickled through so-called half-blooded veins. She leaned, he leaned, there with the book in the middle, and he would have tugged out his glorified notes (usually, gods forgive his ignorance, but he'd have shamelessly written in the book itself, but it wasn't his so he couldn't) had Huck not made his young self known.

There was a rebellious thrill that dared to crawl its way down his spine from that animal part of his brain at the base of his skull, some instinctual excitement that picked up in his pulse at the subtle tilt of eyebrows when he said the drinks were on him. He liked it. He liked it because it was wrong, because it wasn't what wicks did for gollies, considering they owed 'em rent and taxes, considering they owed 'em their very right to live safe in the red stone walls of this damn place.

"I'll do with my winnin' what I want, Cerise. It's jus' for fun eh?" Em taunted, watching her watching him. He'd served gollies drinks for six years now, give or take, and he'd watched plenty more. He fancied himself pretty decent at figuring out what a body liked when they sat down at his bar without a clue, and he saw that look of confusion in the steely glint of the young woman's gaze.

Most students weren't adventurous—they came to get buzzed or guttered, not to be connoisseurs of the brewmasters of Anaxas and beyond. Some students discovered after a few shitty hangovers that they didn't like Clever Fellow, that they didn't like cheap beer with all that hops. Some students branched out, refined their palates, and discovered some of the better craftsmanship when it came to the flowing paths to inebriation. Getting wasted wasn't always a necessary goal—some alcohol out there could taste plumb delicious.

"Professional? I'll take 't, mujo ma." Emiel snorted, hiding any flattered feeling such a shy, begrudged compliment gave him behind that damn smirk. The purple-haired wick studied the galdor student for a moment, taking all of her in as if he hadn't (down to those buttons on her blouse) stared enough already, and rapped his calloused fingers on the table,

"This one—" He practically purred again, quite sure his barkeep terms weren't going to be interpreted as the blatantly flirtatious compliments they were meant to be, quite sure this would be a quiet bit of humor between two wicks. Maybe it was a warning to the boch, too, a hint that this was just a game. It's all it could ever be, anyway,

"—she ent the Three Hearts type, Huck. Ye chen? Sure's the hells ent a Starfly sorta rosh, neither. Let's jus' get two 'f them nice Hessean Drake's Milk stouts, hmm. In the bottles, though. I know your da won't tell me who makes 'em jus' so we won't carry 'em at the Badger."

"Th-that ent a lie, Em." The blond boy attempted a surprised recovery, grinning now but not looking back to Cerise right away for her affirmation. He glanced at the book instead, trying not to be confused by it, and reached for Emiel's empty glass, before he finally offered a tamer smile to the dark-haired young galdor, "Would you like a glass to pour your drink into, miss?"

"This ent gonna be St Grumble's gutter trash, I promise. Givin' you a lil' tour of th' benny stuff, Cerise." The purple-haired wick preened, letting her answer and watching Huck scramble away, confused and flustered. Not skipping a beat now, full of a rush of bravado, he opened the scuffed up novel and turned it toward her, fingers on his notes, letting her see them with only a hint of chagrin dampening his glamour, dampening that sly grin,

"Did you like the book? You keep askin' 'bout me. You were gonna say somethin' 'bout obligation an' realism, which—oes, probability ent a big deal in fiction, I get it, but at th' same time, don't you sometimes get hung up on stuff you read that jus' doesn't feel right? Those sewers—spitch like that."

Gods, he an' Rohan would get into it about such things, it was true, but Em always suspected it was 'cause Ro claimed to simply understand whatever they'd both read better than his younger brother. The middle Emmerson knew that was chroveshit, every damn time. It's why he eventually branched out, picked his own books, and just stopped comparing. Once he didn't have anyone to argue with about what he did manage to scrape coins together and make time to read, well, he found the reading experience a lot more relaxing and interesting.

Then again, not having anyone to even talk to about the shit he read wasn't much fun, either. The problem was, talking about anything with a galdor, with a galdori woman so easily at that, was hardly his brightest idea.

His foot bumped hers under the table as he shifted in his seat, leaning over his notes. The purple-haired wick didn't apologize and he didn't move it. If he was going to see this victory through, he was going to enjoy every last drop, especially with just enough liquid bravery in his system already,

"I ent had a dictionary in a while. Th' last one I, uh, borrowed—" Emiel didn't want to admit he'd stolen it from some ersehole ninth form's bag after the petulant boy refused to pay for a drink his friends told him to try that he didn't like, "—well, it's holdin' up a few kegs in the basement for another month 'r two. Would it bother you if I partook of your professional student expertise while we're here?"

Em couldn't help it, that coy grin with that warm amber gaze. He could play the game, sure, even when he knew he'd lose.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Cerise felt a prickle of embarrassment on the back of her neck when she admitted she didn't know what she wanted. She hadn't said it, couldn't say it, but she thought it was probably obvious enough that she didn't know because she had too little experience to base any preference on. Her hands remained in place on the table, palms down, and she thought she kept it out of her expression just fine, but Cerise couldn't help but feel like perhaps she should have known something she didn't.

However much her pride was stung by not knowing what she was about, she had meant what she said: getting students drunk was his job, and if he knew the young man who'd come over to them he likely knew what the Beetle had well enough. Also, she was sort of curious to know what he thought of her now. What kind of picture had he formed of Cerise Vauquelin, she wanted to know, between the bookstore and the alley and sitting here together now? She wasn't sure what it mattered; it didn't, ultimately. He had said it and she had thought to herself it was true: this was just for fun, and just for today. Cerise leaned forward to put her chin onto her fist and waited.

None of what he said to the blond made any sense to her; the names of drinks, she supposed. She knew what a stout was, at least, although she couldn't have said she'd had this one in particular. Which part wasn't the lie, she wanted to know? The bit about the business rivalry, or whatever that assessment had meant? The latter, she decided. The galdor caught the glance at the book, and the confusion there; she just smiled that knife-edged smile of hers.

"Please," she said and the pleasantry sounded more like a threat than a bit of politeness. Her smile was a bit more genuine when she released Huck from under her steel-edged stare and turned back to Emiel. The younger wick scrambled away fast enough, like he didn't know what to make of their table and didn't care to think about it too long. That was fine. Cerise didn't know what to make of any of this either, and she was sitting here.

"I'm holding you to that then," she allowed with an incline of her head. One of her pins was sliding out of place, she could feel the loosening of strands towards the back of her head. Already, somehow. She had rather hoped they'd last the house, at least. Cerise's fingers itched to either undo or fix it, but she thought it was better to let it escape by attrition rather than rip them all out in a fit of frustration like she normally did. Once or twice the maids at home had managed to do a braid for her that had stayed pleasingly in place all day; Cerise had never learned the trick of doing it for herself, and there was nobody here to do it for her. Maybe she would ask when she went home on the break.

Cerise followed Emiel's hands with her eyes now, taking her chin off her fist and leaning back in to see if she could read the questions he had written from her seat. They were upside-down at first; he turned them towards her, but she thought--literate was not the same as having neat penmanship. Or readable penmanship, either. It was a little difficult to puzzle out the questions he had in the slanting golden light of the early Yaris evening. Cerise squinted down at the scrap of paper that had been tucked into the book, but looked up again just as quickly.

"I do like it. That's why I brought it with me, the other day," she admitted. That was why she cared at all if he did. She hadn't thought about it, at least not much, but now that she was sitting across from him and looking at that freckled, strong-featured face with him all wanting to ask her questions she realized she was just trying to figure out what his taste was at all. This one--he'd liked it, she thought he'd started to say he liked it well enough. Fisticuffs aside, apparently.

"Yes, Just Emiel, those things can be distracting but--oh, but that's not the point, see? I suppose sometimes--if it's so strange or wrong that it feels like an error and not a choice..." Cerise frowned in contemplation; she wasn't used to being asked this sort of thing, to be honest. Nobody much cared about her taste in fiction beyond what was required of her for a literature class. "It's the... the atmosphere of the thing that matters. The overall impression. Details can lend weight, but they can also distract from the flow of the narrative, sometimes." Cerise caught herself; none of that probably made much sense.

"But what did you want to... ask about?" Cerise started to lean forward, dark curls tumbling along after her because the tail could only hold back so much. Cerise paused when she felt his foot bump into hers underneath the table and stay there. She could have moved, of course; instead she nudged him back slightly, deliberately, trying to bite back a smile and acting like those questions he'd written out had all of her considerable attentions.

Her brows lifted at the hesitation before the word "borrowed", and stayed there in confusion for a heartbeat. She did at least catch herself before she asked why he didn't simply replace it; the idea of only having the one dictionary available was uncomfortably strange to her. A laugh fell out of her, warm and a little loud considering how close together they were now.

"I shall do my utmost to live up to your expectations," she said solemnly. One of her hands came to rest on the scrap he had written all over and she pushed it gently across the table. Her hand stayed where it was, resting just so, across the center line of the table. "But I can't read your handwriting, Emiel--you'll have to read it to me." If that was insulting, coming from her, she hadn't considered the possibility.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"I'm a pina manna benny at my job, mujo ma." The purple-haired wick drawled, slow and easy, in far more Tek than he was sure the dark-haired young woman could possibly understand. He smiled, just as smooth and mischievous, bright eyes flashing toward the retreating Huck for a moment before Emiel attempted to bring the focus back on the so-called reason that he was here in the first place: books. Totally books. Definitely books. Galdori students could look however they liked—macha 'r ne—and it was jus' nice to have someone to talk about interestin' books with and not be ashamed he'd read them.

That were all.

Ne. It weren't.

Em knew himself, and even if he'd even stared at his own face in the faded, cracked old mirror upstairs in their shared bathroom while he shaved, he just couldn't deny that he'd felt a lil' spark of something else. Pain, maybe. Probably. Considerin' that damn first book in his face. Eh. Nah. It weren't pain, neither. It was th' kind of somethin' that jent didn't reciprocate toward wicks like him, 'least not that he'd heard. This kind of curiosity that fluttered in his chest and trickled in his veins was a delicious sort of danger, and here he was salting the rim of the glass and preparing to swallow it all in one go.

Cerise was talking. Serious-like. She didn't exactly brush off his question, but, instead, she had an actual answer. The purple-haired bartender made a genuine effort to listen, the abstract thoughts in her response not ones he was used to hearing. He was't sure he'd ever had a conversation beyond whether or not he merely liked a book at all, really,

"An error. Or a choice." Emiel repeated, quieter, contemplating that perspective, turning it over because somewhere inside he felt as though those words held meanings that neither of them could openly discuss out loud. This, whatever this was, was both: an error and a choice, "I s'pose it's easy to get hung up on the stuff I know, ye chen, 'specially when there's parts I don't understand, but, oes. I get what you're sayin', I think. Atmosphere—ent details the parts that make that?" He countered, teeth toying with his lower lip, processing deeper concepts, and feeling a little out of his comfortable depth.

Really, he was out of his entire ocean, and he knew it. Still, he was treadin' water, barely. This dark-haired jent's daughter was worth not bein' able to see the shore for a bit. At least, he thought so, aware that he could jus' drown at any time.

"Oh, it's jus'—" Em didn't really want to ask, didn't really want to reveal the words he didn't know or the turns of phrases he wasn't sure he understood. Looking up, his amber eyes followed the gentle cascade of curls, the shifting tide of dark water. His foot slipped, shifting, but instead of pulling away, Cerise leaned in response. He remembered he was talking, blinking awkwardly. He remembered how to breathe, inhaling and exhaling a huff of a chuckle, "—I wasn't sure 'bout—ah, well—"

If there'd been any magic to the moment, if the illusion 'd felt real at all that they were just two ordinary folks havin' a drink and talkin' 'bout books as though society didn't give a damn what they were, there was something about Cerise's quiet, honest admission that ended the upkeep. The spell dissolved, and while Em knew—or, at least, he hoped—she'd not meant it as a slight against him, the runoff tasted jus' a lil' bitter.

He swallowed, pausing again, not letting the sting of it show on his face. Instead, he forced a cautious smile, reminding himself that this was still his win and he'd better keep acting like it. He'd not let golly superiority chroveshit hold him down his whole life, an' this one that came with a pretty face and gentle words didn't seem to say things in the same way he was used to. Shoving that rebellious pride back down, feeling it burn like the last of that whiskey had, he reached for the paper she returned to him with one hand and the book with the other.

Her fingers lingered, there in the middle of the table like a dare, and Emiel didn't shy away from a bit of vroo of his own—not vodundun, neither, but real magic—letting his palm brush over her hand, trailing down to his notes with a scandalously flirtatious slowness, daring her right back,

"Ent had any penmanship classes, so, it ent always easy for me to read my own, either. So, there's a couple 'f words, an' then this whole passage I jus' couldn't follow. What does—" With that same, measured slowness, that same mischievous tone, the purple-haired wick glanced down from Cerise's face to his notes, using his free hand to point and trace over the word a few times, doing his damnedest to pronounce it properly,

"Grand—grand—elo—ne—grand—alqua—ne. Grandiloquence. What's that mean?"

"It means y'ent guttered yet." Huck hummed, reappearing with only that light tickle of a glamour to announce his presence. The blond pretended not to notice the book or the notes, not to notice this was a serious conversation, not to notice this had all the trappings of something odd. He set down a pint glass in front of Cerise with a warm enough smile, not begrudging her gracing the Golden Beetle as her kind was wont to do so much as almost protective of her interest in his friend. He then set down another glass in front of Emiel, giving him a sterner look before he handed him one dark brown bottle, quite confident the man could open and pour his own drinks,

"I got 'em both, kov." The purple-haired wick grinned, reaching for the other.

"Suit yerself." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, relinquishing the second bottle before he slipped away, laden with other drinks.

"There's a couple 'f other words. Uh. Surrpestuous—ne. Surrepitition. Damnit—" He laughed at himself, shrugging before he shifted and used the edge of the table and his calloused palm to open the bottle's cap, quick and nimble with the pour into the young woman's glass, watching the foam with a grin. Clearly, there were things he did for a living, "Surreptitious. I got no clockin' clue what that's all about, but it ent gotta do with snakes, right?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Once again, Cerise found herself pleasantly surprised by his response. She thought she had perhaps rambled a bit too much in her answer, turned immediately too serious for a book she doubted he'd put much thought towards. Fahren wasn't exactly highbrow reading by most standards; that she found him interesting enough to really scrutinize the work was certainly not because he had earned any place in literary canon. What she had expected when she stopped talking was for Emiel to dismiss or ignore her answer. What he had done instead was to consider it there for a moment, and responded thoughtfully enough with another question.

And because she was, apparently, quite hopeless after all she had watched his teeth on his lip while he thought, and missed her window to continue the line of thought. Too busy thinking that it was a charming gesture to rally her thoughts. All her lofty talking of mistakes and decisions, and what was she doing right now? Book club, indeed. Easier to deflect again, to draw their mutual attention to the questions Emiel had wanted to ask about Lost Following Me--briefly, she was reminded that he had gone out of his way to finish it before today.

Cerise waited, pleased in no small amount that her action had derailed whatever train of thought he'd been about to follow. She didn't look up, but she heard the inhale and the chuckle where it fell in the middle of the sentence. There was something of her own kind of victory in that, an electric little thrill she was studiously ignoring. It had made her feel bold enough to slide the notes back towards him and leave her hand there, a challenge to one or both of them.

A challenge he rose to handily enough. She hadn't expected--maybe she needed to stop expecting things, because every time she did Emiel did something contrary to them that made her lose her footing. She resisted the urge to look anywhere but right at him, even though she could feel color warm her face. Books, she reminded herself, this was about books.

Which was obviously, blatantly, ridiculously untrue, and they both knew it. Cerise was of course genuinely delighted to talk about them with him, for all that she would never have expected to have this conversation (or any conversation at all) with someone like the flashy bartender across the table from her. But that was only part of it, a single piece of a bigger puzzle. What had brought color to her pale face should have been indignation; it was unmistakably not.

Cerise snorted to cover for herself as he continued to discuss the notes, responding to her comment about his handwriting with what felt like a dig. She hadn't considered there would be much sting in her mild teasing and continued to not think about it now. "I would like to know what the excuse is, then, for many of my classmates and a good number of professors." Cerise murmured the comment mostly to herself, watching his free hand move over the word.

Because her attention had been so strongly focused on things it shouldn't be, she hadn't noticed Huck's reappearance with their drinks until he spoke; she was too startled to make any movement to put a more appropriate sort of posture and distance between herself and Emiel. He didn't either, she noted. Well, she would pull back if he did--and not a single moment before. However far that took them.

"Thank you," she managed, remembering at least some of her manners and not wanting to be a complete monster in this moment. The glass was set in front of her with a smile that she very nearly returned; her own smiles were never fast or easy, and she was rather sure she failed in the task. The blond young man moved on quickly enough, giving Emiel a glass and bottle as well. Emiel asked for the second; both were given to the purple-haired wick's care, and then Huck was away again. Off with other drinks for other patrons, with not so much as a backward glance. Cerise didn't know quite what to make of it.

"Are you trying to impress me with that trick, Emiel Emmerson? Because it's working." Cerise smiled more easily now that there were fewer witnesses. It was a compliment, but her tone made it sound like she was teasing--something of both, she thought. It was a neat enough move, although she supposed she should be less pleased to watch him do it, all things considered. While he poured, she thought about what she wanted to say.

"You're right, by the way--about details, and atmosphere. I suppose it's easier for me to ignore mistakes in things I don't know much about." She shrugged again, a little flustered. "Believe it or not, they don't often take Brunnhold girls to the Viendan sewers--or encourage them to get into fist fights. I have been strictly warned on that account." The grin she flashed then was a firm reminder of their first meeting, all teeth and jagged edges.

"Now. Grandiloquence," she said, moving both her hands back to her own side of the table to draw her glass back towards her, "I believe would only be more likely if one were to be guttered, depending on one's character. A pompous, extravagant speech." Cerise turned the pint glass in front of her, inspecting it just to give herself something to look at that wasn't Emiel's freckled, well-formed face.

"And--no, 'surreptitious' has nothing to do with... that's serpents. Surreptitious is..." Cerise trailed off. What this should be, she thought a little bitterly. Whatever "this" was. Nothing, she told herself for the hundredth time that day, nothing at all. "...done by stealth. Implying skill applied to avoid detection." And as if some contrary spark in her had been lit just by the thought, Cerise leaned back in her chair and slid her foot up and forwards, a small but undeniable motion. Her fingers came to rest lightly on the outside of her yet-untouched glass.

"Was there anything else?" Cerise raised her eyebrows and smiled, looking as casual as she could manage considering her actions.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

If Emiel'd ever read a highbrow book in his life, he'd never know it. Who'd tell him, anyway? He bought what he could afford, what looked interesting, what someone'd be willing to take his hard-earned coin for. He wasn't above borrowin' or stealin', either, and he'd been caught more than once glancing over notes left behind by his well-educated and well-inebriated customers at the Singing Badger. He preferred not to break any more laws than he couldn't help but step over every day, but there were some bookstores 'round this godsbedamned school who didn't even like him touching their books. Here at this table, though? There was far more touchin' than there should've been and ent either of them seemed to mind.

So, this was, indeed, a mutual interest beyond the literary and Em found himself scrambling to keep ahead of the game. Cerise didn't pull her hand away and didn't flash him a look of disgust. If anything, she'd more'n once looked away 'cause starin' at his face was perhaps getting too obvious, but he didn't have the presence of mind to really consider that she actually liked lookin' at it that much. It were alright if she did; the purple-haired wick didn't mind being admired by just about anyone, honestly.

"Whatever they are, I promise, they ent mine. Excuses, that is. Maybe some 'f your professors don't want you to know sometimes they're puttin' chroveshit up there as notes, hmm?"

Privilege, he wanted to say, though he teased insteead. He wanted to bark it loud here in the Golden Beetle as the little pub began to fill up after campus dinner on the nine—a weekend evening meant plenty of eager bodies ready to drink. Em took the nines off for a reason, and it wasn't just 'cause he worked every other night of the week. Instead, he held himself just barely in check, preferring the distraction of Huck's reappearance with their drinks,

"Impress you?" Amber eyes flashed up while he poured her drink. His smile was genuine, but mischievous. He paused to set her bottle down and smash open his own, this time with a little more flair, "I'm n'even behind the bar, Cerise."

The wick's laugh was just as real as his grin, forgetting for a moment the potential awkwardness of this sort of openly more-than-merely book-related exchange. He'd never let it bother him in the Badger, after all—he was there to serve his patrons, and here? Here for a bit of selfish time to himself, he was just havin' a pina manna fun. Clearly, the Brunnhold student was enjoying herself, too, what with the smiles and all, so what was the harm, really? There weren't even tips at stake here—it could almost feel like some kind of friendship, had Emiel not known better than to get his hopes up so high.

She spoke of the sewers and fist fights and he shook his head, pointing his empty bottle at the dark-haired galdor in mock accusation and not skipping a beat despite her suddenly warm, distracting grin,

"So, the fist fights jus' be your idea, then? A bit of trainin' on the side instead of somethin' in a class?" Em taunted her, tongue against the inside of his cheek before he let his honeyed gaze drift back down to his notes and his question, listening to her define one of the words he didn't know. It was nice to hear it spoken out loud, to hear the word properly, but he chuckled again at her way of explaining it to him, lifting his beer toward himself and choosing not to drink it right away but instead take a connoisseur's slow inhale of the fragrant foamy collar, enjoying the hints of vanilla and spices.

Perhaps it was an invitation for her to do the same, but the young woman 'd moved onto his next question. Surreptitious. He thought to make a comment, half-grinning into some coy remark, but her foot moved, shifting closer purposeful-like. A dark eyebrow rose, quirking just so in involuntary surprise, just enough of an expression to hide the trickle of reality that filtered through his not even yet inebriated senses:

This was the best it was gonna get.

Right here.

This. Whatever this was with a pint of Drake's Milk and a book and cute notes he wrote not just because he wanted to know but because he thought maybe, just maybe, it'd be interesting.

The galdor across from him was making an obviously flirtatious move now, and no matter how thrilling it might have been with that smile and this conversation, she was, apparently, simply operating under two very common jent assumptions: one, wicks were eager for a tumble, easily persuaded to be the instigator of physical encounters; and two, wicks were always at fault for this fact, leaving galdorkind completely blameless for whatever transgressions their superior society clearly declared such encounters with the lower races to be. Neither of those things was at all true and, honestly, they were hardly even very subjective, but Emiel Emmerson wasn't going to waste his victory dwelling on the truth, let alone the consequences.

Nothin' looked too bad from here, really.

"Stealth? Mmmthat makes a bit more sense for that whole chapter." The purple-haired wick purred, not shifting away from the contact under the table, allowing the indulgence. He did take a drink, though, finding the stout as satisfying as he'd expected it to be. Leaning back over his notes and setting his glass down, his amber eyes cast a challenging glance toward her own mug before making a show of scanning his sorry excuse for handwriting,

"Well, you mean 'bout the book—or—can I ask—" Em trailed off, aware he could've certainly asked a few more questions about Lost Following Me, but he wasn't sure they really mattered, increasingly finding himself more curious about this strange shared moment instead of any of Fahren's various works of fiction, "—oes, alright. So, this 's probably why my kind ent s'posed to read an' all, but there's a lil' bit about magic in there—"

Thumbing through the pages, he skimmed the words, chewing on his lower lip to keep from asking the actual questions that floated to the surface of his thoughts like so much thick foam on their dark beers,

"—I don't need details or nothin' 'cause I don't want to break too many laws—" Oh, the wicked grin that flickered over his features for that statement, complete with a waggle of eyebrows and a dropping of the volume of his voice to a quieter, more conspiratory tone. Leaning just a little more over his notes, he pointed to the paragraphs in question, "—but what's this sorta pro-prodigium bit? Is everyone holdin' hands or what? We have our own kinda spell circles, ye chen, but there's a mant manna assumptions made about the reader's understandin' here. Was I right? That's just a fancy group o' jent castin' in some special area?"