[Closed] Just a Game [Memory]

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Cerise had swallowed something sharp that had stuck in her throat at the question. Did they like her? She certainly had no idea. They--loved her, she thought. At least, she assumed so. Somewhere, she thought, they did. Cerise loved them, as far as she understood the concept. In her own way, she supposed. Of dubious benefit to all of them, really, the shape of her affections. A look of hurt flashed across her face for the briefest of moments; she had, after all, said more or less this already. Over and over--it just sounded different, coming out of someone else's mouth. She couldn't even manage a shrug.

Well, maybe they loved her, maybe they didn't. She certainly didn't think they liked her very much. They wouldn't have liked this, either, so it was a good thing that Cerise Vauquelin lived very little of her life based on what her parents would or would not like her for.

Also on the list of "things Anatole and Diana Vauquelin would not like" was, more than likely, that preening grin that had fixed itself to Emiel's face at her acknowledgement that he had chosen well a second time. Working from the age of fifteen seemed so--she knew it wasn't uncommon, for wick and human families, and she supposed it wasn't impractical. After all, she thought uneasily, it wasn't like there was schooling to finish. Cerise simply couldn't picture it; to have such a concern at an age not so far off from her own was strange. Some part of it even struck her as unfair, although she couldn't have articulated what. That was what she had opened her mouth to ask about, when her hair had decided to take that moment to escape its confines.

At first, she hadn't quite known what to make of the attention paid to her as she took her hair down, throwing in the towel on the battle against her natural chaotic state. Then Emiel had smiled, in some distracted away, and thought she just might after all. Cerise smiled then too, as if her face couldn't help but answer the expression. When she realized how she must look--even though Emiel wasn't, actually, looking at her but rather at the bottle he set down--she tried to frown, or at least to stop smiling. She was caught between both, again.

"No? That's, ah. Good then. I think. I don't know what that means." Her hand took some time to untangle from her hair. Cerise then found she was focusing on the action so much she didn't know what else to do with her hands once she'd achieved that goal. Beer. She could drink her beer, that was something she could do. Cerise brought her glass to her mouth and let it stop her from doing anything too completely inane, like continuing that line of thought.

What she didn't do was look away, faintly disbelieving and pleased. Emiel swore; she bit her lip on a laugh. Swallowed it when he looked back up, all golden-eyed and handsome and looking at her so intently. Her pale face tinted, just a little. This was absolutely not book club, if it ever had been, and she wasn't drunk. Giddy maybe, but she didn't think she'd had enough for that. So what was she? Other that the obvious: reckless.

"We were also just going to have one drink," she said, running a finger over her glass, "and we aren't doing that either." Cerise leaned forward again, looking up.

"Which habit is that? This one?" Cerise tapped a slim finger on the book, something in her smile. "Or this one?" Bravado, maybe that was what was in her smile. Her leg pushed, gentle and deliberate pressure, against his where they touched under the table. "Or... do you mean this one?"

The last question, such as it was, she followed with a careful pulse of her field. As if to remind them both of each and every line crossed. Admonishment, or celebration? She wasn't sorry, so it had to be the latter. That delicate pulse swept some of the teasing bravery from her features; Cerise softened and looked down.

"It is a good book, which is why I wanted you to read it." Grey eyes lifted again. A breath while she hesitated, wanting to retreat from honesty--and feeling a coward for it. "I'm, ah, I like it too. The conversation. And the... rest."

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

He shouldn't have said that, that's what that meant. She was blushing now, trying to hide the persistent smile that refused to obey her attempts to tame it just like her thick, dark curls had refused to be tamed, either. Em didn't know what else to do, wishing he was more drunk instead of still this clockin' sober. A lil' lighter, sure, but n'even buzzed enough to be this clockin' mung.

"What what means? Macha?" As if he didn't know, tongue pressed just so against the back of the gold ring through his lip, coy now because it's all he had left to give, "It means pret—ne—it means beautiful. In Tek, 'f course."

There weren't any backing down from that. There weren't anywhere to go anyway, this bein' his request an' all, but he took another swig just to wash down all that honesty, eager to maybe drown it or maybe empower it, he wasn't sure which was better anymore. He needed a few more bottles of something, anything, to really figure that answer out, and he couldn't—he wouldn't do that right now. His honeyed gaze was warm and unflinching, unapologetic like the admission of what he thought of more than just Cerise Vauquelin's hair.

"N-ne, y'ent wrong." He chuckled, refusing to watch the way her delicate finger traced lightly over glass before he fumbled on without a filter, like some over-filled beer spilling fragrant foam all over the clocking counter, "I meant—"

Em stopped before he started, caught somewhere between the lilt of her smile and the revelation in her tone. He didn't blink. He didn't inhale. That purposeful press of her body against his, unseen, was more than just a tease. It was a prelude for that tangible but no less invisible touch—caress?—of her powerful field. He didn't shy away from it, unsure of whether or not she'd even notice his glamour, reaching back.

Galdori fields weren't strange, not to him, not anymore, and yet it wasn't as though he was at all intimately familiar with their more specific forms of expression, what with his meager, bastardized form of magic. He only knew what he'd picked up from life in the Stacks, from the mostly convivial but occasionally violent atmosphere of his bar. He'd heard talk of colors, of actual emotions, and if he recognized any of it, he'd never told, but he did know Cerise wasn't threatening him, no matter how that small, neglected self-protective part of his brain might have flared to life—briefly—at the heavy sensation only to be snuffed out by adrenaline, by the rush of curiosity, by a foolhardy interest in what, really, and all that aura was capable of expressing.

The purple-haired wick finally felt the heat of color, of genuine chagrin, burn his freckled cheeks and he made a noise, some sound halfway down the road toward embarrassment and halfway back from amusement. His dark eyelids fluttered, the glitter of gold following him as he looked down, looked away for a moment, trapped beneath the not unwelcome weight of her field and the sharp edge of his own stupidity, "—oes, all 'f 'em, I guess. I ent ever made a habit 'f readin' because it's hard to find the time. I ent gotta tell you how many folks I've touched, 'cause it ent polite to kiss an' tell, but I ent got anyone around I can compliment by callin' a habit, neither. An', ne, I've never—"

Not that he was at all sure he wanted to admit to any of this, not really, not when he wasn't drunk enough to deal with whatever the response was he might elicit could possibly be,

"I ent done anythin' like this with anyone like you Cerise." Emiel let all of those words hang there, boldly, 'cause there weren't nothin' to lose, and if they might've been ambiguous if they might've been about the book or the touching, they weren't. They just weren't. There wasn't a point in pretendin', anyway. She were still here, drinkin' an' talkin' an'—

Gods he just didn't understand a damn thing. He really didn't.

He'd thought 'bout her face in the damn bookstore every day like a real dumberse, but it weren't like it was gonna matter.

Right?

He cleared his throat, a slow sort of smile creasing its way into his face, wrinkling the edges of his bright eyes. He only met her grey gaze for a moment, warm like honey, before he looked back to the pages between them, "It's, uh, it's—oes—a benny book. I enjoyed it." He paused, finally, to drink again. Not that he was in a hurry, just that he needed something to do. If anything, he didn't care how long the night was, but at the same time, Em wasn't sure there was enough in one bottle after all that sayin' things he didn't need to say, gettin' in over his head. He might have glanced at it, hopin' the label had some answers. It didn't.

One more swig, and he just kept going,

"We really gonna talk about the last one? As in, you'd really do this again?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

If her face had been tinted with some pale wash of color before, it wasn't so delicate a blush now. Not after an answer and a compliment so straightforward as that. She could play at bravado and tease all she wanted, but the truth was that she had little experience here to fall back on. Some, but certainly less than she pretended at, and not at all like this. Nothing, she thought, could have really given her experience enough to know what to do with this.

"Ah, of... of course." How did one accept a statement like that with any grace? Grace was not chief among her qualities no matter what. Recklessness ranked much higher on that list, and it was that which pressed her forward. Maybe, she thought, the beer was hitting her harder than it seemed like. That would certainly have been a more rational explanation for this brazen behavior than what she thought was the truth; she just wasn't thinking very far ahead, and it all seemed like a good idea at the time.

Once again there was something fascinating, something that felt wrong enough to be thrilling but worth it for its own sake too, about the careful press of her field against the lighter flicker of Emiel's glamour. Forget book club, forget even the physical touch under the table--this was the least permissible of all that she'd decided to do here tonight. This was more than flirtatious, really, certainly more intimate an action than one drink warranted. And just kept doing it, because she hadn't seen any reason to stop. Honestly, what was she thinking?

She wasn't thinking at all, and that was the problem. Now, and always. But why think when she could act, and just see the results for herself?

Emiel made a sound she couldn't quite place--they knew each other not at all, honestly, and here she was, doing something like--and Cerise eased back on the press of it, but didn't draw away. It hadn't sounded like--it hadn't looked like--she didn't think it was so unpleasant. And she had been careful, hadn't she? She had tried, at least.

Cerise busied herself with her drink while he answered her with more honesty than she had expected. Than she really thought she deserved, coming on the way she was. She felt a complicated way about all of it, too much for her to process right now. The sharp citrus taste of this second drink gave her something else to latch on to; Cerise was torn between drinking it more and wanting to linger over it and extend the night. There couldn't be a third drink, not tonight. Instinct wanted there to be, but reason had at least that much sway on her still.

Not with anyone like her, he said. This time Cerise didn't ask what that meant; she had known before, really, and she knew now. She hadn't done anything like this with anyone like him, either. With anyone like anyone, much. None of it, from start to finish, was something she was familiar with. The thrill of transgression had been the spark that had guided her enough to find that it had caught something more genuine and out of place.

"This might beggar belief, given my actions," Cerise offered, biting her lip around all her pride and prickling protectiveness, "but this isn't exactly something I make much of a habit of either, Just Emiel. For the record." They were done pretending, it seemed. Had been done pretending, honestly, for a while.

Emiel smiled all the way to his eyes, gold and gold again set against strong-cut planes of freckles. Cerise had never thought herself the type of girl to lose her head because of a pretty face; maybe she was wrong, and she had just not seen one pretty enough. How irritating, especially because it wasn't that irritating at all. "I'm glad," was all she said out loud. In the pause that spun out between them, she drank and she smiled.

"I really would. I want to, anyway. If you do. You don't have to," she added with a frown, because she worried it might need saying. "It's not like--I didn't think--I have no expectations." Cerise shrugged then, pushing off the self-consciousness that came creeping over her. "Maybe not here, though. Necessarily. But again--yes. I would like that."

Was that what she should have said? No, absolutely not. None of this was. But Cerise had never lived by "should do" and she certainly wasn't about to start now. It was all of it true, which mattered more. Come what may, she could only be what she was and want what she wanted. All of this included.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"Drinkin' with wicks 'r talkin' books with 'em?" Emiel smiled, aware that she meant so much more than either of those things, especially with that warm awareness of her legs against his hidden from view. They were speaking so plainly now that it were almost disorientin'. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so direct with a galdor before, an' even if they'd not at all said exactly what this was, they'd said enough.

They both knew.

They both didn't seem to mind.

As far as Em could tell, Cerise Vauquelin wasn't just playin' him, either. Not because she seemed innocent or incapable so much as because she seemed jus' as strange 'bout this all as he did. It wasn't what either of them had expected, enjoyin' each other's company, lookin' at each other's faces they way they were even though they both knew they weren't supposed to.

"I figured." He conceded gently, shyly, drinking more, swallowing more direct words. His smile grew, though, into more of a grin, all freckles and that flash of gold. He held the bottle against his lips for a moment, thoughtful and coy at the same time, "Noted. For the record."

Emiel'd not entirely known what to expect, throwin' out that request to see each other again, quite sure this were a one time thing, that they'd both had their thrill an' knew to put the box 'f matches away before they burned the rug instead 'f just their fingers. But, ne.

No expectations, she said, and he felt the sentiment churn a little in his stomach, alcohol in his veins beginning to blur his perception, just a little. He knew she were freein' him of that pressure, that rhythm beatin' that he'd felt thrummin' alongside his pulse, that warnin' that she could jus' be playin' him for her own cheap entertainment. She wasn't. She really wasn't, an' while he knew he'd already sorta told himself he wouldn't 've minded, either way, there was this sort of relief that rippled through him. She jus' wanted what there was, here between them both, at this table with this book and their touching. Nothin' else. It wasn't like he could promise anythin' else, either.

This was the best it could be. Right?

What about himself? He'd clockin' asked her here. What had he been expectin', anyway? Ne the touch. Ne the way her field felt, tangled with his glamour. Ne all the smiles. Ne the blush on her cheeks beneath that cascade of dark curls.

"I ent got any, either. Expectations, that is. In case you needed to know. In case you think I'm—I don't know. I'm not. Whatever folks would think I'd be wantin' from this—I jus'—I—uh–oes, I'd like that, too."

Em fumbled over the right things to say, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly feeling that tickle of chagrin crawl up the back of his neck and settling into the base of his skull. He managed to nod in agreement when she spoke of meeting somewhere else, quite aware that for the pair of them to be a regular sight anywhere invited precisely the kind of attention neither of them really wanted from anyone, "There's plenty 'f pubs around the Stacks, lucky you, but there's a few I'm probably ne so welcome at. Have you been out 'f these walls in a while? Have you seen the ol' park by the eastern branch 'f the aqueduct? I don't know what you're allowed—"

He laughed then, raising a palm from the table and indicating them both as if to say like it clockin' mattered. It didn't, did it?

He'd heard the word curfew before when it came to Brunnhold students, but he didn't know there were age limits to any of it. He only knew what his customers complained about, aware that even though there were an afternoon younger crowd, some golly bochi didn't stay as late as others. Cerise was old enough—

"—but it ent but a bike ride away." Emiel knew she'd said she'd never ridden a bike, and there was an edge of promise, of challenge, to his invitation. He hid a suddenly wicked, conspiratory grin behind another swig of beer, but his amber eyes glittered with mischief anyway.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Golden Beetle, the Stacks
Yaris 79, 2720 - Evening

"Spending time with self-satisfied gentlemen with fancy hair," she shot back, her tone prim but her face split into a teasing grin. Her cheeks were still too warm, honesty and alcohol mixing together with teenaged inexperience. "But--good. I suppose. As long as the record is straight."

The bottom of her glass was rapidly approaching, and with it the end of the night. She felt a little less regretful about that now that she'd agreed to a second one, and it seemed like Emiel wanted to see her again. To discuss the last book--no, she couldn't keep up that lie anymore. Not even on the inside of her own head. She did want to talk about the last book with him, eventually. Whenever he finished it. That just wasn't her primary motivation. All her focus seemed to have scattered and spread, and now she didn't know what she wanted. Other than more of Emiel's company, it seemed. To continue whatever this was, as far as it would go.

No expectations, indeed. Cerise supposed that just meant that she'd take whatever this was as it came, and not think any further than that. Easy enough, she thought. She never thought very hard about what came after for anything else.

"That's, ah, good too. Our--mutual lack of expectations. Though I don't--I didn't... Nevermind. On the same page then." She's said it first, that she wasn't expecting anything out of this. And she wasn't, truly. It seemed pointless to try, because nothing seemed to be going the way she would have predicted. What came to her after that was the stupidest thought she'd had all night, wondering if expectations and hopes were the same. She had none of the former; she seemed to be developing more and more of the latter.

Cerise tried to remember if she'd been anywhere near the aqueduct lately, let alone to the park in particular. She might have, but she couldn't recall. She considered it, and then she shrugged. Shrugged, and quirked her mouth in a crooked smile when he laughed. They both knew that what she was allowed to do had very little bearing on what she actually did.

"Nevermind what I'm allowed," she agreed, leaning forward onto her elbows again. She had to admit, she was a little curious what he was offering, precisely. A park by the aqueduct--not another pub this time. No drinks, either. Nothing to soften the blow of her company.

"A bike ride away, huh?" Her head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised while she considered him. The act of turning her head told her that the bottom of her second drink had started to get to her, after all. Not too much so, but she was a bit pleasantly wobbly. Just a little. So it was good that she was going to stop here--and that she felt less pressure now to extend the evening too far. "Why do you ask?"

They both knew, now, that she had never actually ridden a bicycle before. She wasn't quite sure what the plan was here, other than Emiel looked very pleased with whatever it was. Grinning to himself from behind that beer. It was the kind of smile that looked like it invited trouble. Cerise found that she rather liked it.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"Boemo." He smirked from over the neck of his bottle, nearly to the end of the beer and quite sure he was disappointed this evening's unexpectedly enjoyable outing would eventually have to find an end, "We can agree on findin' the record as it stands."

Emiel smiled, warm and genuine even while something in his chest fluttered with something that felt like nervousness but tasted like bravado against the back of his tongue. Where could this possibly go, really? Other than nowhere? When he already knew where the path would lead, why did he want to see how it got there so much?

"Didn't—?" He echoed, arching a dark eyebrow, teeth brushing the ring through his lip at the unfinished statement, but Em didn't pursue. It didn't matter in th' end, what she didn't, since he already knew everyone else who'd seen them sittin' together 'd already made assumptions. Even Huck 'd obviously figured them out, given the boy's face earlier. Even if it were jus' books, jus' conversation, jus' some weird, not unwelcome kind of friendship, there weren't anyone else who were gonna like it. Ne one bit.

Allowed.

Havakda—she were right, really. Ne'ermindin' were for the best, really. Ne'ermindin' all that spitch.

He huffed.

They'd put clockin' allowed behind them already an' there weren't any point goin' back there. Some line that someone else—some jent—made an' Em didn't remember ever fuckin' agreein' to anyway. Other than bein' born a tsat, anyway. He didn't have to agree—he were jus' born this way, under golly scrutiny. Every golly save maybe this one.

"Oes. It ent far—d'you know how to ride a bike, Cerise?" Emiel watched her there across the table, legs touching, warmth of alcohol filtering through his veins, trickling through the back of his thoughts. He watched the way she looked at him with her grey eyes and sharp, more than casually interested kinda smile. Godsdamnit, though, she tilted her head with those dark curls ripplin' a pina manna an' Em lost his train 'f thought for a moment. He were starin', notin' the lil' flush in her cheeks, knowin' it were more than the drink,

"Eh—ask? Oh."

He chuckled, emptyin' his bottle an' settin' it down, fingers findin' somethin' to pick at on the tabletop, some nick in the wood, resistin' the urge to fiddle with the book, resistin' the urge to reach across jus' to see what would happen, "I were thinkin' that while there's some fine pubs here in the Stacks—ye chen 'cause I work in one—it's benny out there by aqueduct. It ent like I can't provide somethin' to drink an' a snack, an' we can talk all the books we want without a clockin' audience."

Emiel's smile were coy, curious to see her reaction, an' he finally reached to close the book an' slide it in her direction,

"Up to you, though. There's some other places here in town I like, too." The purple-haired wick taunted her, legs shiftin', ne longer shy 'bout the touchin' now that they'd sort of admitted to things they weren't gonna admit out loud. Ne here. Maybe ne anywhere. Jus' a kind of interest that might've been scandalous had they given it some real sorta words, "Listen, can I—uh—can I walk you toward campus? It ent far 'nough for a cab. N'any rush. It's nice—jus' talkin'."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Which did she like better, she wondered? The smug grin, irritating and appealing at once, or this smile? Warmer than the other, and unaccountably genuine. It made her heart stutter and fall out of rhythm to look at it. Nerves, she thought. Anticipation, she knew. Cerise knew, she reminded herself over and over, this wasn't going to go much of anywhere. But she could at least enjoy the journey to nowhere, and she was.

Even if she stuck on a simple statement like she hadn't really thought he'd want anything from her. That all of this was strange enough, unexpected enough, that any more prurient interest or expectations hadn't made their way into her line of thinking. Probably they should have. That was the way the usual line of thinking went, wasn't it? Maybe not for her, but she knew, had been told, that a wick like Emiel was likely after one thing.

Somehow Cerise had trouble putting that kind of frame on this evening, for all that they had made--were making--plenty of that kind of light, flirtatious contact that was indicative of wanting something more than conversation. But there was conversation, too, and she liked that just as much. And hadn't she been more forward, anyway?

"I already said I don't," she reminded him, only a hint of irritation around the edges. She couldn't find much in her; what was there was more habit than actual feeling. She smiled after, to try and soften it. Keeping herself annoyed was hard anyway, looking at his face. In the privacy of her own mind, she allowed herself to think how long she could do it, looking at him. Long enough to count every freckle, maybe. Even if they weren't just on his face--Cerise didn't let that go too far. The drink, that one was the drink.

She didn't know what he wanted with that half a suggestion. But--the park? With a drink, a snack, books to talk about. And nobody else around. That was the sort of pleasant outing one reserved for a real kind of interest. She let herself picture it. Pretended to think on the matter, taking the book back as he finally closed it and pushed it back towards her. Another little flutter of her pulse, thinking about it. What it sounded like was nothing short of a date. A real one, that was hard to wave off as anything else, because what else could you call it?

"An outdoor book club meeting?" For a moment there was no teasing, no taunt or challenge. Just a shy hopefulness, at home on the face of any other girl her age. She covered it with one of her more usual expressions, but not quickly enough for it not to have been seen. "Because--I mean that sounds, er. Yes, that would be, uh. Nice."

Nice? Cerise didn't often find herself so flustered, not in this way. It was mortifying, but not enough to stop. She did look away, covering for it by sliding Lost Following Me into her bag. The texture of the book cover was briefly fascinating. She ran slender fingers over it, hesitating before she put the book away. It was the shifting of Emiel's legs under the table that made her look up at last, face warm and smile warm, too.

"I wouldn't mind a little more time to, uh, talk. I'm--not in any rush either," she confessed, chewing on the corner of her smile. A little sorry he could only walk her to the edge of campus proper, and not any further. The intrusion of that piece of reality wasn't welcome, but reality rarely asked. "It isn't proper anyway, you know, for a young lady to be walking alone at this hour." Even less proper for her escort to be the purple-haired bartender across the table from her, but it was late. Who would even see them? She just wanted a little more time, that was all. Her glass was empty, but she wasn't ready to let this go. Not quite yet.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the golden beetle

evening of the 79th of yaris, 2717

"Dentis has some real benny weather, after all, an' I jus' figured it'd be somethin' different than hangin' around another table in a crowd." Ne like he cared, he thought to add, hatcher-may-care about it all despite the awareness that they'd been noticed, that spending any more time together in public would only garner further attention.

Was he concerned for himself? Not entirely.

Was he a bit worried for a golly seen with him? Oes, jus' a lil'.

"If you come by early enough, I'll teach you. It ent hard. Won't even take an hour, really." He grinned at her, almost mischievously, almost as if he wished he could have turned the offer to help Cerise ride a bike into some kind of innuendo. He couldn't. He wouldn't. That's not what this was and that wasn't a place this could go—he knew that, obviously. He sure did. He were jus' flirtin' 'cause it were fun, ne because he expected anythin'. He'd jus' said that, after all, an' surely he'd meant every word, right?

"Though I'll have to find you a bicycle by then—"

Em paused to consider, reaching a hand up to rake fingers roughly through his purple hair, tilting his head in some expression of thought,

"—in a week? The next nine should be enough time for me to finish that other book. Maybe. Two weeks 's fine, too, ye chen, dependin' on your schedule, not mine."

He didn't know anythin' 'bout her schedule, given that she'd admitted what form she was. He had no idea what her class load was like, how often she practiced for dueling league. He'd gleaned more than jus' bits an' pieces 'bout how Brunnhold were run over the years, and while he could come up with what most likely would have been a very close facsimile to the truth, he didn't want to make assumptions. He didn't want to seem any bolder than he'd already been, if that was even possible at this point.

Honestly? He wasn't sure he could tone it down anymore, anyway.

"Nice—oes, I agree." His amber gaze darted down to her hands for a moment, delicate and curious as they were, there on the stretched linen of the book's cover, traveling with a slowness that would most likely linger in his thoughts for far longer than was all proper for anyone to think on any near-stranger, than any golly. His attention snapped back up again, briefly slack-jawed, clearly surprised, when she didn't deny his offer of a walk.

Surely, if she'd ne denied him a thing thus far, she weren't going to deny him more of her time, but some part 'f him kept waitin' for the tables to turn, for what should've happened to actually happen. Only it didn't. A pina manna flustered, then, but he didn't even bother masking the expression with any coyness. He managed not to wince at her observation on propriety, however, covering that with a laugh when they both knew it were better for Cerise to be seen walkin' alone at night than walkin' next to a wick like him.

"Boemo—uh—good. I ent ready to walk back to the Badger, an' a lil' more time with you has its appeal, ye chen." Shameless, so shameless. Em chided himself, hands reaching for his vest, searching for his wallet, "I'ma settle our tab, then—ne. Stay here, Cerise. Jus' let me, mujo ma. My victory. My coin."

The purple-haired creature grinned genuinely then, totally without pretense other than a desire to be polite. Her coin hardly meant anything, anyway, he imagined—like breathing, it was just something she were used to havin' around when she needed it. He'd earned his, sweatin' an' servin' an' cleanin', and while it were impossible for him to show off such earnings to a galdor, it was, to him, the principle of the matter.

He winked, then, ne givin' the dark-haired galdor an' all her curls a chance to argue or object before he stood, reluctantly untangling himself from her, glamour an' all, from her presence to slip his way toward the bar, makin' his way ne toward Huck but toward the boy's da behind the counter. Standin' reminded him that he'd been drinkin' before the galdor arrived, reminded him he'd chosen two heavy beers instead of lighter stuff, an' that rush of a buzz settled like a warm blanket over his shoulders, trickling through his veins an' makin' everythin' pleasantly softer 'round the edges.

Clearly, he knew the other man, an' the two shared a bit of laughter once he leaned up against the bar, drowned out by the rumble of the crowd, before Emiel set money between them without any obvious signs of hesitation, though he did glance over his shoulder once while the older man weren't lookin', offerin' her a cheeky sort of expression before he shook the proprietor's hand an' made his way back to the table where she waited for him.

"Ent many folks as polite as that one, I tell you what." Em was sincere by his smile, though there was some ripple of nervousness that might've wavered on his voice. It was outshined by his smile, however, an' he waited for Cerise to gather her things, decidin' he didn't give a damn 'bout bein' seen walkin' out of the Golden Beetle at the same time, "You'll have to tell me what side of campus you live on, though. I only know the gates—ne where they lead."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Awfully confident in his ability to teach her, Cerise thought. The smile on his face was more wicked than one would reasonably have expected for something that followed offering to teach her to ride a bicycle. Like there was some kind of secret meaning to the action that she was unaware of. Cerise didn't think there was, but trying to puzzle out what it might be made her choke on a small laugh.

Well, she wasn't going to dissuade him. She'd like to seem him try, she thought. And if Emiel was wrong? If he'd over-estimated his abilities as a teacher? Cerise didn't know what would happen after that. Might be fun, though. She could certainly find out. Games, after all, were supposed to be fun, weren't they?

"I think a week--should be fine. I can, ah, make room on my schedule." It might not be fine, but she would make it fine. She had practice this week, and none the next. Homework, of course, could wait. Her professors may not agree, but they weren't the ones doing it, were they? "Better than the week after," she added. Just in case.

She didn't say anything about finding her a bicycle, either. Briefly the idea of getting one herself crossed her mind, but honestly? She didn't know the first thing about the subject. She'd never even considered it. A gleeful sort of look spread across her face as Cerise considered that she might, in fact, have to wear something rather close to trousers for the activity. She could imagine Diana's reaction. Yes, this whole venture appealed to her very much on so very many levels.

Cerise probably should have said no to his offer, no matter how appealing, and walked back to the gates on her own. Should have, but didn't, because she didn't want to. She'd said she wouldn't mind a little more time and she meant it. Surprise was writ large on Emiel's face when she agreed, and she shifted a little, unsure. Did he want her to have said no, after all? No, that couldn't be--she hadn't, at any rate, and if he hadn't meant it he shouldn't have asked. He looked flustered then, which made her feel the same. Cerise smiled and looked down.

Just fun, she reminded herself. It didn't matter. Maybe they made other plans, sure, but those didn't matter either. So, maybe she liked tonight. Maybe she liked talking to Emiel more than she'd expected. And she wasn't ready to let the evening end, so she agreed to being walked at least as far as the gate. None of that meant anything.

"Good," she echoed, color rising to her face. Again. For the love of--she needed to stop, this was getting ridiculous. Emiel said he'd settle their tab; for a second Cerise looked up, not sure that he really wanted to--but he insisted, and who was she to argue? It was, after all, his victory. He got up, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling back.

Kept smiling, in fact, the whole time he was gone. Oh, she'd made a face at that wink--it was utterly shameless, and she was getting the feeling that if she rewarded such things there would be no end to them. When he left, he took the flutter of his glamour with him. Cerise felt it something like a loss. That, she thought, was not a feeling she needed to share. But she smiled too, for no reason she could easily identify. Absurdity, no doubt.

The steel of her gaze just watched him at the bar because she had nothing better to do, and not because she liked to look at him. When he looked back, she found herself in sudden need of gathering up her things. This made sense, of course, because they were leaving. For a moment she thought--one of them should leave first, surely. But if they were walking all the way to the gate together, what difference did it make?

None at all, that's what.

"Ameter," she said easily as she stood, then paused. "That's the..." Cerise trailed off, holding her hands in front of her. It was hard to remember sometimes. "This side," she said confidently after a moment, indicating the appropriate hand. Well. She was fairly certain. It was a side, at any rate, and she didn't really mind which one they ended up on.

"Shall we, then, Just Emiel?" If her heart would just settle down, this would all be much easier.