[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - Just Past Midnight

Cerise chose not to dignify his comment with a response--verbally. While Emiel's back was conveniently turned, she did allow herself a fond smile. She would not have done so were he looking, of course; it seemed ill-advised to encourage him. He got plenty enough as it is. Cerise said this also often of Sish, so she wasn't really the best at sticking to such policies.

Leaning into Em was easy, in most ways. Their heights were close enough, even, that it was no great stretch for her to settle the line of her jaw onto his shoulder. In these shoes? She barely had to do anything at all. Comfortable and close. The wrenching feeling of a wound opening in her chest, then, was all just the natural result of wanting things she didn't really think she could have. Not enough for her to move her arms, though--not nearly enough.

"Whale, huh?" Cerise raised her eyebrows, smiling through the only partially successful attempt to both kiss her and distract Sish with the tin. Sish didn't seem particularly interested, although she didn't move to bite him again--yet. Cerise pondered the suitability of whale as a lure for the miraan. She made a noise of discontent when he escaped her grasp, mollified only slightly by the way he pressed up against her to do it.

She was capable of some concession to necessity at least. Cerise moved to the side, keeping out of the way but not out of reach. He did, after all, need to move around the kitchen and she didn't really know where it was he was going. She'd never been here before, not seen this flat or this kitchen or this arrangement of drawers. The thought brought with it all the awareness of what time had passed between them that she'd been trying to ignore; it hurt, simply and completely. "Well I don't think Sish would be very good at it, so yes, that's how it would go. Strictly business, you understand."

Okay, so maybe she didn't move out of the way entirely--maybe she waited until he moved her, creating the excuse for him to touch her under the guise of getting to a drawer, reaching into a cabinet. Moving to the table to set the tin down. She paused, close but not touching, when he stopped to look at her.

The news of his brother, delivered evenly and with that smile still on his face, took all the air right out of her lungs for a heartbeat or two. She had never gotten along with him, not from the moment she first saw him; she was almost certain the feeling was mutual. But she'd never hated him, not really, and certainly not enough to be glad to hear about his death.

She felt, of all things, unaccountably guilty--like she should have been there, even though there was no reason for her to have been. Nothing she could have done, for Em or for anyone. It wasn't like she was the comforting sort. Even now, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. "I'm sorry" seemed like not enough. She had nothing else. All she could think of was to keep her hands on him, to briefly cover the back of one of his hands with her own while he stood there opening that godsdamn can.

"In Dentis of--with... Ah." It took her a moment, struck by the news itself, by the look on Emiel's face, to make all the connections. But she made them, sure enough. She frowned, because she didn't know what other face to make. And she swallowed, not sure what to say or how to feel about that. A joke hovered on the edge of her teeth--So is that why he never liked me? And here I thought it was my sparkling personality--but the levity seemed ghoulish.

It felt cowardly, to move on so quickly, but she had nothing else to offer. Any kind of sentiment she thought she could offer required Sish to be sufficiently distracted, anyway. She snorted, putting the subject of Rohan aside. Sish, from her shoulders, watched the can opener work with keen interest. The scent of it was--well. Fishy. Sort of? But sweet, and also not like fish at all. Cerise wrinkled her nose. It didn't really seem like the sort of thing a person should eat. So of course Sish couldn't get off of Cerise's shoulders fast enough to put her face in it.

"I think she has agreed to the trade," Cerise laughed. Sish immediately fell to making noisy, sloppy work of consuming the contents of the can. "I see what my love is worth to you, brat--bought for the price of exotic Hoxian whale." She clicked her tongue in dismay, but already she had moved to take Em's hand in her own again. They didn't have much time to make good on their escape.

Sish can learn to share, she almost said. But the bitterness of that smile hurt almost as much as the sentiment. Like her standing here meant nothing at all, and he was already resigned to her leaving never to be seen again. Given up as inevitable. Fine. Maybe it was. Fighting against that idea seemed too much to her just now. She wasn't even sure he wasn't right. Better to pull Emiel away from the chorus of loud, wet smacking noises Sish was making and towards her, towards a more enjoyable line of thinking.

"She won't be distracted for long," Cerise said with a grin full of sharp promise and a hand that drifted up his arm, "so unless you have another can of exotic marine life in there, I think we should put a door in between her and us as quickly as possible."

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

What he couldn't say was that he'd followed in his brother's footsteps. What he couldn't say was that such a fate probably awaited him, too, somewhere, in his future, already with such a great clockin' criminal record—now with the added bonus of willful assault on a galdor. What he couldn't say was that it weren't 'bout folks like her—like Cerise—who'd always chosen to see him as jus' a man instead of folks like that ersehole Lionel McAllister who saw him as a mongrel instead of as a person. Th' thing was, there was a damn difference, even in galdorkind, an' while the Resistance folks sure 's the Circle didn't always see that difference between gollies jus' like gollies didn't always see that sameness between themselves an' the so-called lower races, that didn't mean it weren't there.

Em saw it. Every damn day. But Em knew he were in a strange, special place behind a bar in Brunnhold, some in between, some ambiguous middle ground even if he weren't allowed to step foot on campus, all th' minglin' in the Stacks still amounted to somethin'.

He couldn't even tell her, passin' off the rest of who he was, the rest of who he'd become, the choices he'd made without her—maybe even because of her—in the past year an' a half.

"Oes. It were a mess." Still was, inside sometimes.

He didn't make effort to deny the implication once he saw her frown, but he didn't go into details, neither. He certainly didn't bring up his opinions, ne right now. Probably not ever unless asked directly, an' even then. Emiel shifted his focus to how close they were still standin' an' how her hands were findin' excuses to touch him, findin' those things better to think on than Rohan or his secrets. He didn't want to dwell, either, an' he couldn't blame Cerise for bein' unsure. He probably shouldn't 've said anythin', but at the same time, it was too easy to confide in her jus' like he'd always done.

Not knowing what to expect from the canned whale, the purple-haired wick made a face at the odor of it, that mix of sweet and seafood not something he was at all used to.

Oh, but there was movement.

Out of the corner of Em's eye was a glitter of gold, a sign of Sish's interest.

Then, even before his fingers left the can, even before they were out of danger, there was the miraan with her mouth open, jaws ready—for whatever was in the tin, thank gods. Success still felt dangerous, an' Emiel found he didn't have a quip 'f a riposte. The dark-haired galdor reached to save him, tangling their hands together again and attempting to drag him away, something about her teasing statement to the creature cutting too deep. Another riff in the ribs.

"N'all of us have no concept 'f such value, Cerise." He murmured, far more serious than he should've been, leaning into the touch that curled toward his bicep, tugging him from the table, "Good thing I got a door, I s'pose."

Stepping out of the kitchen, leading her toward his bedroom. He paused only to glance back at the miraan, wary and unsure, before chuckling stupid-like at the whole idea, at the heavy awareness of the choices he were makin' from the moment he closed the door quietly with a lean of his hip, standin' in the dark for a flutter of a heartbeat or two while his eyes adjusted to th' dark.

"It ent much, but it's cozy."

Well, ne, at the moment, it were a lil' cold. Instead of moving to light the lantern in the small room right away, Em tugged off his shoes, usin' the motion to steady himself more against Cerise than anything else, all with a grin in the faint glow of street lamps through the upstairs window curtains. It weren't fancy—a bed on some repurposed pallets on the floor, unmade an' unfussed over; a desk with more books; a lil' stove, smolderin' still; a wardrobe he an' Ro'd carried up the stairs after findin' it lonesome and abandoned in three blocks down; shelves an' random spitch like favorite bottles he'd hoarded for the color of their glass or the art on their labels.

"Sish can fly but n'open doors, huh? How much trouble am I askin' for, leavin' her out there an' bringin' you in here?" He whispered, soft an' close, curious about where familiar trails picked up again an' where they'd lead. His featherlight glamour jus' the most teasing of caresses, barely tangible so mingled with the galdor's heavy field.

Once barefoot, shoes thunking heavily to the floor, the purple-haired wick trailed from Cerise's warmth reluctantly and spent a moment lighting the lantern, coaxing it to a reasonable brightness before he meandered into the tiny closet-like excuse for a washroom for his lil' box of first aid supplies an' a towel. Pausin' to stare at himself in the cracked mirror, broken before he moved in, Em saw the bruised side of his face, eyebrow swollen from smashing into that deservin' ersehole of a jent.

What the clockin' hell 're you doin'? He'd have asked himself, but he didn't, meeting his own golden-eyed reflection while he turned on the tap to let it run a bit. It would take a few minutes before the water ran clear, after all, what with the rusty pipes an' all.

Steppin' back into his bedroom, he tossed the kit and towel on the bed as if it were a rather informal invitation. He quirked a brow 'bout it, too, tongue against that ring through his lip,

"Have a seat an' I'll let you peruse the damages to my head, hmm?"

Gold-ringed fingers were already moving for buttons, first of his vest and then what hadn't already been unfastened from his shirt, aware that he'd been bloodied, splashed with booze, and cramped in a common cell for far too many hours. While he didn't undress, Em shrugged his shirt down off his shoulders to give a better view of the freckled skin of his back, unsure 'f the extent of what'd happened with broken glass an' flamin' alcohol beyond how much it'd hurt. He'd settle on the floor, closest to his lamp, sidling up with his back against the bed between her knees to give Cerise the best view of his neck and scalp.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Sish nearly took off part of Emiel's gold-ringed fingers in her haste to get to the contents of that can. Cerise made note of it, although she wasn't sure she wanted to commit herself to the idea of keeping imported Hoxian meat on hand. Not even in the face of the miraan's loud, smacking enthusiasm. The smell really was terribly off-putting.

Her fingers curled and tightened briefly in the fabric of Em's sleeve at that serious, quiet murmur that followed her teasing comment. Directed at the animal, of course. For a moment her grin faltered. No? she wanted to ask. She supposed not; it was just that the price of it was too high to pay. Cerise remembered that she had told him early on what sort of girl she was. That she could only be what she was, and that was the problem. He hadn't thought so then. It was, in the end, the problem still.

Cerise blinked, and she found her smile again. Her fingers loosened, though she left her hand on his arm. "Good thing," she agreed, and it wasn't so hard to ignore all the things that hurt. She'd had plenty of practice. They left the kitchen and the tinned whale and Sish behind, crossing into the bedroom.

With the door closed the sounds of Sish's eating faded to silence, and then it was just her and Emiel. He didn't move immediately to bring light into the room, and Cerise wasn't sorry. Better to have those extra moments of contact while he took of his shoes. She looked around as best she could, street lights from outside lending at least a little assistance there.

Not much, he'd said, and it wasn't. A bed, unmade, a desk and books (always books, and something about hurt too in a place she couldn't name). It wasn't warm, but there was a stove in the room too. Little bits and pieces of other things she couldn't make out in the dark--the detritus of a life. Emiel's life. Empty, relatively, as the room was, Cerise looked around and thought there seemed to her no place for her in it. As it should be, as it always was. She smiled, even though he likely couldn't see it now, and she looked at him. "It has all the important things in it."

She laughed at his whisper as he finished untying his shoes. She'd have to do the same, she thought, but she waited for him to finish first. The touch of his glamour woven through her field made her heart catch. She couldn't have said why it was that she'd started doing this, before. Just that she was curious what would happen, what it would be like. Now she knew, and she didn't.

"She can't open them yet, anyway. I'm not confident she'll never figure it out--she's still young. I hope you aren't attached to any of your upholstery," she responded with a shrug as Emiel moved away from her, shoes removed. Only a little more trouble than if she were in here with us. I hope it's worth it, she could have added, but she didn't. "But the books are safe," she added. It seemed an important assurance.

While Emiel was in the washroom, Cerise took off her own shoes, careful and slow. Leaning heavily against the door for support, because Em had left. Perhaps she should have left them on; she wasn't honestly sure how long he wanted her to stay. More wishful thinking. She had finished taking them off when she heard the stuttering rush of water. In time for him to come back and toss what looked to be a first aid kit and a towel onto the bed.

"Such a generous invitation." Cerise snorted again, another sharp half-chuckle. But she crossed the room and sat, putting both things next to her and waiting for Em to come sit down himself. Her heart beat a little faster, watching him undo his buttons. Even knowing the purpose, even looking at the ugly swelling on his brow. There was nothing she could do about that; even smashed up, Cerise still thought every part of him was unfairly beautiful.

She hissed, looking at his freckled shoulders now in the light. More prurient thoughts were driven out of her head; the damage didn't seem to be too serious, at least but it was extensive and had not been improved by the hours he had spent in that cell. Cerise ran her fingers through his bright hair, trying to keep her focus on playing nurse and not just how much she'd wanted to do that all night, moving it up and out of the way to get a better look at his scalp. Maybe she didn't focus so much--she did let her fingers wander, just a little; if anyone asked, she was just trying to be thorough.

"Alioe, Em--I might be back here a while." Cerise frowned, a pulse of concern and anger both going through the weight of her field. That absolute bastard; Cerise entertained the satisfying picture of hunting McAllister down after this and showing him just a little more about what assault really looked like. Team be damned. Slapping him had certainly not been enough, not even on top of the beating he'd taken from Em. But it was just a fantasy, and she knew she wouldn't act on it.

Another frown, and she left off her inspection to rummage through her pockets. She had a spare tie in them, which she used to gather up the longer parts of Emiel's hair into a sloppy kind of loop. Not even a bun, not really--it looked ridiculous, but it was about function here. Cerise twisted to open the kit, shuffling through to see if he had anything she could use to get the glass out. He didn't; she would have to remove the pieces that remained with her fingers. She thought of apologizing to him first, because it was going to hurt more that way. She didn't; he had to know by now that their time apart had made her no more delicate than she had been.

The tips of her slim fingers skimmed unthinkingly over the shell of one of his ears, swept over the undamaged skin on his neck and the top of that freckled shoulder. Then she began to pick out the bits of glass, as carefully as she could. Most of it had been removed already, but a few glittered here and there. More serious was the bright red burns from the hot alcohol. One step at a time, she thought. Glass first, then the rest.

"Tales of Near and Far," she said suddenly as she began to work. "That's what her name is from. Sish. That one I--one of Mama's books. I don't think you've read that one. Unless you have, since." She couldn't have said what made her mention it now, when he'd asked before they had ever gotten inside. That she had bought him a copy, a copy she still had, she didn't bother saying. She thought she understood, now, that he didn't want anything more than this. Certainly not a gift that was over a year too late.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Well, now it does." Emiel 'd worked real hard to play it all comfortable-like, roguish, suave, an' totally alright with whatever were goin' on right now with himself an' Cerise Vauquelin, but he couldn't slip away to the bathroom fast enough when she mentioned important things. His chest ached, holdin' those words in for a sharp, quick breath. He shouldn't 've said it, but he didn't say all of it, ne. All of it would've been too much: there'd been a time when she really was all he wanted, all he knew he couldn't have. Now? He didn't know. He only knew that he weren't supposed to be in her company and that it felt too right (even after all this time) to not tell her to go on home. She'd kissed him like she'd missed him, hand in his, an' it were jus' too damn confusin' to refuse.

"Yet." Drifted, tin-like and echoed from the tight space of the washroom, Em imagining that golden miraan gnawing through the beat-up armchair by the living room window or rolling in a flurry of claws and feathers all over the sunken, well-worn couch,

"Upholstery's replicable. Besides, I'm only home to sleep, anyway, an' I don't—I ent—" He hadn't kept much company since he'd been told not to see Cerise, an' even less since Rohan'd died. He didn't have it in him to yach, to hand out a heart that'd felt broken. Oes, he couldn't deny it were a decent enough distraction to hand out his body, but even that weren't always as easy a game to play as his face made it look, "—it's been a while since I've had guests."

Maybe she didn't need to know. She'd not been askin' what he'd been up to over the past year an' a half. She could sit on his bed without askin' who else 'd been in it since she'd left it last. It'd been long enough.

They were grown folks—mostly grown, accordin' to Anaxi law for the dark-haired galdor, grown enough in Em's eyes as a wick.

Emiel might've met her grey-eyed stare for jus' an inappropriate second or two, watchin' her watch him loosen his clothes right here in the no-good hours before dawn. He might've had some thought on that, reminded as he'd been already of what her lips felt like on his 'cause she'd n'even hesitated to remind him herself. He tried not to make it too awkward, shufflin' skirts a lil' an' settlin' there between her knees. For a moment, he didn't know what to do with his hands, resistin' the urge to rest them on her thighs by drawin' his knees up an' wrappin' his arms around his legs so he could lean his head forward and give her the clearest view of all he couldn't see.

She hissed and he frowned, unable to help closin' his eyes at the feelin' of her fingers in his hair, at least when her hands drifted through the parts of his scalp that didn't hurt. N'all of it was necessary to the examination, either, that much even Em knew, an' he felt a warmth rise to his cheeks that trickled down his jaw and over his chest, pooling in his abdomen at the teasingly light trace along his ear and toward his shoulder.

A while?

Em considered the damage he couldn't see, too aware of the damage he'd felt for long enough. He'd keep her from leaving if he could, honestly, and he wished he'd been a better man over a year ago. That thought stung like her fingers prodding the back of his head. Now that he had her here again, who said he'd let her go?

Mung. So clockin' mung.

"You can stay all night—I mean, as long as you'd like—shit, Cerise, take that as you want, but I—I ent got anywhere else to be. An' besides, I, uh, I like you touchin' me more than I like the thought of waking my daoa to help, mujo ma." Emiel half-growled, half-sighed the words into his arms, face she couldn't see twisted in a bit of pain an' a bit of amusement.

He cussed and whined, though, once those gentle touches became actual work, once her delicate hands began the indelicate process of removing glass from burned skin. Ne too proud to express his discomfort, never one to stifle an opportunity to be vocal, even if this moment was pain instead of pleasure, he did his best not to be too much of a boch 'bout it, even if it weren't at all comfortable. His glamour writhed and tensed, too, Em doin' his best not to hunch his shoulders or lean away, finally settling on turnin' his head jus' so to lean the unbruised side of his face against her knee when she paused to gather up whatever vibrant hair of his she could to tie it out of the way, eyes closed tight, fingers curled into his sleeves,

"I ent read it." Emiel grunted, biting his lip. One arm dropped gently from around his knees, hand slipping beneath skirts to curl around the galdor's thigh, steadying himself. A sharp inhale, and his voice wavered more in physical suffering than emotion. Definitely. That were exactly it, "I didn't read as much without y—without proper motivation. Clockin' hell—that hurt—gods! Readin' hurt a bit, too, 'cause I were missin' you—missin' book club, of course. An' after Dentis, after losin' Ro, too, ye chen—I jus'—there were lots of spitch I didn't want to feel. N'even pretend."

He hid his face in fabric, making some noise disguised as what he felt when little slivers were slid from his scalp but he knew it were more that sayin' that stuff out loud was finally removing sharp shards from his chest.

He felt a warm trickle, some dislodged piece of glass bringing fresh blood to the surface, tickling down his neck.

He knew there weren't any reason to waste time, to play games, n'anymore. Ne like they once did.

"Lots of chroveshit I just didn't want to deal with, but—dammit—" The purple-haired wick huffed, "—here we are, eh? An' all I want t' ask is—shit!—did you make the travel team? An' why 're we kissin'?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - Around Midnight

Guests, he'd said, with all that emphasis that left her no doubt what kind of guests Emiel meant. Cerise heard him, voice distorted by the acoustics of that small washroom, and she didn't know why he'd said it. She hadn't asked, hadn't even tried to find out, if Em was keeping someone else's company now. Because she was trying not to think about it, as stupid as that was. It had been over a year, and she knew--Em had always been popular.

She hadn't asked because she didn't want to hear the answer, didn't want to know. The childishness of that irritated her; he could do what he wanted. He had, she was sure; she had. Nevermind that what she wanted hadn't, really, included seeing anyone else. She hadn't been waiting for some impossibility like this to happen, deliberately avoiding giving any piece of herself to someone who wasn't Emiel Emmerson. She hadn't, but that was just coincidence. Cerise hadn't expected, for all the rest of her life, to see him again.

So what was wrong with her that she felt just the littlest bit happy to hear him say that? The same thing that made her think that nobody ever quite measured up, she guessed. The same part that contracted and hurt at that "now it does", like he meant her. Even though that was impossible.

Maybe she'd sat down on the edge of that bed too heavily. And maybe she'd felt some little thrill watching him, another again when he settled easy between her knees. For a moment she'd thought he would have reached out to touch her again, but he leaned forward instead. Which was helpful, and she was here to pick glass out of his scalp, not think about who else had shared this bed with him in the last year and a half. Not to drift in some kind of strange, unfocused miasma of jealousy over hypothetical, faceless "guests".

"Save that for when I'm actually doing the work. You might not be so glad it's me back here," she shot back, hands still in his hair, still looking at every little cut and burn. "But... noted, I suppose. I've not got--I'm not going anywhere. Unless you want me to." Her face was warm, and she was grateful he was turned away from her just now. The last thing he needed was to see the stupid smile on her stupid face because he told her she didn't have to leave.

Em was no more shy about expressing pain than he was about expressing anything else. At least he stayed still, for the most part, though once he pulled away and she nudged him with her leg and a clicking of her tongue. After that, he put his face against her knee; Cerise did her best not to pause or push too hard, even though her heart stopped for a moment. Pulling his hair out of the way let her see the work better, all the hair at the back short and dark. Except where the glass or some dampness caught the low light of the lamp.

Her efforts to be as gentle as she could, to be steady, failed when he put his hand around her thigh. No, not then--though that did make her pause, suddenly too warm. It wasn't that which made her fingers stumble in their task. It was the part where he said he missed her--missed book club. Her and his brother, mentioned in the same breath, like they were even remotely on the same level.

"Stop moving, or I'll be here all night doing this, and nothing else. You--" Cerise broke off and swallowed. Glass, focus on the glass. She kept her hands moving, even though the sight of him was blurring in front of her eyes. "...Fair enough," was all she could say, not trusting herself with any more honesty than that. If she cried now, she would be furious with herself.

One particularly large piece brought with it a trickle of fresh, bright blood down the back of his neck. Cerise reached for the first aid kit, for the towel, trying to stem the flow of it. As she pressed that towel up against the cut, putting pressure on it until the blood stopped, he kept talking.

All he wanted to ask. Cerise wanted to laugh. Slowly, she set the towel to the side. It was getting too hard to see what she was doing. Here they were, he said. And shit he didn't want to feel. Like what, she wanted to demand. For a moment she pulled her hands away from his head and pressed the heel of them into her eyes, like that would make a difference. She wanted to laugh, but she thought she might cry instead.

How dare he ask her that, like the answer wasn't obvious? Not about the travel team, even if that flooded her with some strange tenderness that he'd remember her ambition for so long. Sure she'd never said it--not then, and not now, but... Did she really need to? Suddenly she was angry again, a feeling with no target. Thin white fingers reached out and flicked the back of his head, hard. Then she leaned forward to wrap her slender arms around his shoulders as carefully as she could.

"No, I haven't made the travel team yet. Results from tryouts aren't posted for another week." Her voice wobbled, muffled by her face being pushed into the back of Emiel's head. "And don't ask me stupid questions. Did you not want me to? I didn't hear you complaining."

Gods help her but there was a real question there, real fear, like she'd stepped over a line and he'd just not told her for some reason. Just because he'd always pushed back before didn't mean he'd still do so now. She knew things had to have changed, with him and between them. It had only been a year and a half; it had been an entire year and a half. She wasn't the same either, so why would he be? Cerise drew a breath, still safe enough with her face tucked towards his neck.

"I kissed you because I missed you. Because I loved you, you stupid ersehole. Circle only knows why, when you're sitting here asking me questions like this while I'm spending my night picking broken glass out of your idiot godsdamn head, but I did. And I don't think I ever--" Stopped. Told you, not like this.

"I don't know why you kissed me back. Or why you invited me up here. You have to tell me that one, because I can't read your mind. Jerk." That last bit, that little insult, she had meant it to sound harsh. Somehow her voice twisted it up and it sounded less like an insult and more like an endearment.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Ne, I don't." He'd never had, truth be told, but surely she knew that. Em noticed the pauses and felt the way the dark-haired galdor's body reacted to his touch, smiling faintly. He felt the careful work of her fingers become a little less careful at his words, too, and he closed his eyes tighter because sayin' 'em hurt as much as her workin' through broken glass.

"Havakda, rosh—"

The wick growled his Tek expletive when she hit him, the back of his head stinging already, but then he simply turned a lil' an' sank teeth into her inner thigh, not half as hard as she'd been, playful and mostly made useless by layers of her clothes. He laughed then, rough and bitter, perhaps jus' as thrilled by her admissions as he was by their proximity. The sound was a little broken, however, caught in his chest when Cerise's arms slid gently over his shoulders and she leaned against him from behind, burying her face in some dark, close-cropped section of his scalp that weren't burned or bloodied. Surely, the scent of top shelf booze still lingered, but, honestly, when did Emiel not have some hint of alcohol following him?

"N-ne, I did. I do. Damnit. It weren't a complaint, an' you know it." His voice dropped in volume and he reached his free hand up to come to rest over her forearms firmly, holding her in place, holding her against him. Her forehead slipped downward and her breath tickled his neck, a lil' ragged, plenty sad. As temptin' as it was to shift from sittin' there, to change positions, to turn 'round an' face her, he didn't. He could feel the hint of tears on his freckled skin. Her cheeks were warm. Her voice a mixture of anger and tenderness, that sharp edge of hurt honed sharper still by everything she'd not been able to say for so long.

He were mung, oes, but he weren't stupid.

Emiel sighed, leaning his head back into dark curls and resting his cheek gently on hers. He felt her voice as much as he heard it, closing his eyes tight, feelin' the heat behind 'em an' sure she could feel the clenchin' of his jaw. He pressed the lower half of his spine into the edge of wood and his mattress, settlin' firmly against the young woman behind him, feeling that sharp, familiar sensation of how Cerise dealt with things like everythin' required stabbin' first,

"Oes, I know. I never wanted to stop lovin' you, ye chen. Maybe I didn't—maybe I haven't—" He whispered now, lips brushing her skin, not wincin' at how it hurt to say the truth, not flinchin' at how she'd dug her fingers not jus' into injured flesh, but right there, so deep, into his heart. There were shards in there, too, it felt like, an' she were no less gentle 'bout diggin' 'em out 'cause, in his own way, he'd asked her to, too.

"—maybe we're in the same place without even tryin'."

Em chuckled again, deep and husky, refusin' to open his eyes lest he lose his resolve to follow through with all the things that needed to be said, lest he end up blinded by the glitter of so much broken glass, "Listen, I ent ever been good at doin' what I'm told, an' I'm damn sure I ent ever really let you go. All I've ever heard is how it ent ever been the best choice, 'bout how wrong it were—still is, but clock it all, I ent convinced anyone knows what the fuck they're talkin' 'bout 'cause I know how I've felt this whole time. Ne that you've ever been somethin' of mine anyway—you can't be, y'aren't, but—you have been, you still are, godsdamnit."

Shifting a little with a shrug of his shoulders, Em made an attempt to face her more, searchin' her face so close to his, holdin' on, takin' her harsh words for what they were—kindness th' only way she knew how to give, "I kissed you back 'cause I missed your macha mouth, Cerise. You're ne here 'cause I want to ruin my fami business, but because I've clockin' hated stayin' out 'f yours for so long. It were selfish, lettin' you up here, but it still feels more right than wrong. You don't disagree, clearly."

He couldn't say he'd picked his battles, 'cause he'd jus' taken them elsewhere. He couldn't say he'd jus' taken his anger at ersehole jent like her da to a bigger target: galdori society at large. He couldn't tell her that all he'd felt for one golly 'd jus' been fuel for why he longed to see things change, perhaps even more than any desire to see better things for his folks, for his business. It weren't anything he could talk to her about, ne now, probably n'ever, but his breath were ragged an' his voice a lil' full of feelin' by the last sentence, whisperin' again,

"I'm gonna kiss you some more if you're finished playin' field medic, ye chen. Lost time to make up for an' all that literature-worthy feel benny spitch."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - Past Midnight

Cerise yelped when he turned and bit her thigh. Not because it hurt, or at least not because of his teeth. She'd done him more damage when she had snapped her finger into the back of his head; that really was more than fair. She was just surprised, wrapped up in her own anger and sadness both. Certainly it didn't stop her from slouching forward, from burying her cheek against the short-cropped hair at the back of his head. What bits of it weren't bloody or burnt, at least. She breathed in deep, a shuddering inhale that brought with it the smell of the alcohol that had been contained in that glass, Emiel's shampoo, and underneath it all just him.

"I don't know shit," she said, petulant insistence. Maybe it was his hand holding her in place that made her keep going, she didn't really know. She should have kept it to herself instead of being so clocking reckless, impulsive, selfish. A knot in her heart untied at his words anyway. Her eyelashes were wet where her face met his skin. Beloved and warm. She was grateful that he wasn't looking at her, at least, because she didn't know she could have stood to spit it all out if he had been.

Did it all really need saying? No. Yes. Maybe--she didn't know, she hadn't really thought about it. Better to just act, to just throw it all out and see what happened after that. For all she knew, she'd never get another chance. She'd already wasted one, and she'd regretted that for over a year. Cerise thought she should probably be nicer about it, or at least nice at all, but this was how she was and she couldn't be any other way. If the words meant anything, she didn't think that would be a problem, anyway. If they didn't--well, then it wasn't a problem in a different way.

There was a sigh, and then Em shifted in her arms to put his cheek against hers. She could feel the tension of all the muscles in his face. His stupid, handsome face, with all those stupid glittering pieces of gold set in and around it. A face she loved, more fiercely and truly than she had any words to express. He started to speak, now, and she swallowed, a little afraid of what would come after her sharp-edged admissions.

Cerise kept her eyes squeezed shut, feeling the scrape of his skin against hers while he spoke, the shape his mouth made to form the words. Hearing his voice, and still not convinced she wouldn't open her eyes and find all of this just some cruel trick of her imagination. Never wanted to stop, and then those maybes--like every bit of glass she'd picked out of his skin had been put into her heart and not her hand. He phrased it like a question, like there was room for doubt--but if he was stupid she was worse, because she wanted to hear those "maybe"s like "yes".

She laughed too, a softer sound than the loud, sharp thing that she normally made. Broken a little, falling jagged over the strong line of his jaw. No, "doing what they're told" had never been a particularly strong skill for either of them. Or, she thought, letting go.

She felt sorry then, suddenly, that she hadn't tried harder--pushed more, found out just what it was that had been allowed to pull them apart. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered, and she would still have tried to stay away for all this time. Thinking she knew what he wanted, or at least what she could do for him, what was best and in the sphere of her control. But maybe it would have, and she'd just wasted all of this time. Letting both of them think--whatever it was that had occupied their minds.

Just a bunch of garbage, honestly.

"I was. Am. If you--" Cerise swallowed, fighting down the sting of some strange twisted-up kind of pride. Feeling pathetic, like she was begging for his attention--but gods, what did it matter? There wasn't anyone else around, anyway, and she'd be as pathetic as it took. She kept going, a slurred, hasty mumble, "Will be, 's long as you want me."

What did her face look like, when he turned to look at her? He was searching it for something, and she held her breath, not sure if he would find it. I am yours, if you want, she wanted to insist again. She could only be what she was, and that included this. It wasn't that easy, she wasn't that stupid. But she thought--this much didn't have to be quite so hard. Em's amber gaze skimmed over her face and she held it, not letting herself flinch. Not now. And when he got to the end of it, she smiled.

"I won't let anything happen," she swore, "not if I can--no. I'll find a way to... Whatever, if... I don't want that either. Tonight was, uh. I'll try harder." Whatever I have, she thought, whatever I can do--it's yours, if you want it. If you want me, still, somehow. Cerise was reaching her limit of all this honesty, all this spoken sentiment. Em whispered to her again, and she laughed.

"Mm, I can be persuaded to put it on pause," she whispered back, moving her mouth along the side of his face. She pressed a kiss to his temple, more tenderness than desire. And then she moved again to put her teeth over the curve of his ear, letting the sharp edges of them tug on a bit of glittering gold. Fond, but not quite so soft.

"Revenge," she said, a wicked slant to her smile and promise in that breathed word. She was, after all, much better with action than with words.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"There's a difference, ye chen, between if you an' I'd decided to call it quits an' well, whatever the clockin' hell happened." Emiel whispered back at her shy mumbling, turning to face her. He saw the hurt, the frustration written there, and more than that, he felt it, too. While there were plenty of fields he couldn't read at all because nearly all galdori were strangers, all loud noise and undisguised power to his senses, Cerise's was intimately familiar and he'd worked hard to understand the subtleties of it. He'd not forgotten all the details, apparently.

His honeyed gaze warmly washed over her aquiline, beautiful face—well-carved and well-bred features that'd captured his imagination as much as his attention. They still did, an' whether or not that were a good idea, Em 'd already made his own decisions regardless.

The problem were that he jus' couldn't stay angry—it'd always been a struggle, really—even more so when her lips brushed the side of his face, gentle against the side that weren't bruised, an' when she nipped at his ear, teeth just rough enough to be invitin'. It weren't clear whether that or her whisper elicited the playful growl of a chuckle, but it didn't matter, he were grinnin' either way.

Emiel 'd spent plenty of time feelin' guilty, feelin' like he made the wrong choice. He'd worried for a while whether the threat were real or not, whether it would've ever mattered, but he did value his job, his writ, an' his fami more than he sometimes let on. He knew he occupied a strangely privileged position, precarious though it were in the scheme of things, as a tsat with decent, long-standin', an' rather secure employment (gollies sure as th' Circle weren't gonna stop drinkin' anytime soon, right?), but at the same time, he were still (an' always jus' gonna be) a wick. There were things he couldn't explain to Cerise, even now, even after confessin' the feelin's they'd held onto for so long, feelings they both knew were, ultimately, n'only considered culturally forbidden but also legally prosecutable in a court of law (for Em, anyway, an' unhesitatingly so).

He'd never been sure if she understood the differences in consequences for him in comparison to her, an' he weren't even sure if he could articulate them proper-like if asked. Her life 'd pretty much been the same, albeit a lil' lonelier, albeit a lil' less fun in his opinion. His life could've changed irreparably—an' still could if Lionel McAllister had anythin' to do about it, if that ersehole couldn't be appeased, or, worse, if Cerise's Incumbent da caught wind an' felt like sparkin' fire all over again. His life an' the lives 'f those close to him would be ruined, where for the dark-haired galdor on his bed, a lil' shame 'd be the worst of her consequences in th'end.

He couldn't help but smirk at her promise, however, gently shakin' his head less in dismissal and more in admonishment. He could've—should've—been angry, really, or at least indignant: she'd done more than she should've. He knew the price of his bail, an' he knew it weren't a sum that would easily go unnoticed once paid in full, 'specially considerin' that it weren't a tailor shop requestin' the money, but the city courts. She couldn't pass it off as shoppin' for the change in season, neither, an' that understandin' that she'd shoved herself so willingly into that kinda trouble didn't not bother the purple-haired wick,

"Dze, a pause? Now—" Em hummed, drawin' out the sounds as he shifted, hands wanderin' a pina manna before comin' to rest comfortable-like on her thighs, scandalously higher than her knees so he could sit up on his. Turnin' to face the dark-haired galdor in a slow, easy motion, he used the tilt of her head to his advantage, trailin' kisses without any particular rush along that pleasing curve of her neck to whisper his riposte in her ear with no more of a gentle nibble of teeth, "—you said yourself you didn't wanna be messin' with jus' glass the rest of the night, an' I wouldn't mind your full attention. Hmm? I wouldn't mind a lil' messin' around with you. Catchin' up, ye chen."

He weren't out to make whatever work was left tidyin' up the back of his scalp easy, however, ne when his palms slid higher, further, reachin' to pull her whole self a lil' closer while he kept her from a response with a lingerin', entirely unhelpful press of his lips. Stealin' words and takin' way too much time to do so, the purple-haired wick eventually pulled away roughly to add with ne small hint o' coyness,

"Instead of pausin', maybe you jus' need motivatin'—"

Jus' as wicked but with that stupid, breathless edge of excitement to his husky tone, Emiel's hands traveled upwards, teasing over fabric, toying with buttons but in an agonizingly deliberate an' frustratingly obvious way that made it clear he weren't 'bout to make any effort to peel away layers (yet), no matter how suddenly eager he felt for the pale landscape he knew waited beneath,

"—'cause if there's gonna be any tumblin' in my bed, Cerise, I'd prefer there ne be any glass in it."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, The Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Was there a difference? For a long time, Cerise hadn't been sure. In the end the result was the same, so the how and the why of it didn't feel like it mattered. As far as she could see, there was no problem to solve--no action for her to take. Other than to just finally, for once, do as she was told and stay away from Emiel Emmerson. And, just to be thorough, the entirety of the Stacks really. Other than just wallow in her own frustration and loneliness and anger. Powerlessness was not a feeling she handled well, and she didn't think it mattered where it came from. Cerise was starting to think maybe she was wrong. That maybe it did matter, the why of it and not just the result.

It still hurt, and all the problems that had been there over a year ago were still there now, mostly. Nothing had really changed--there were more considerations than just Incumbent Vauquelin. Even if she knew, and had not said, that her newly-amnesiac father had promised that he wouldn't interfere. Those words were a promise she hadn't tested and couldn't trust, certainly not at Em's expense. Not now that she knew just what it was that had driven this wedge of a year and a half between them. There was no worth in mentioning it now when she couldn't be sure it was anything to be depended on. And she certainly couldn't begin to start talking about how she'd even come by such a promise. "Well, Em, the thing about my ersehole father is..."

One day, she thought, she would tell him. If any of that embarrassing, needy confession mattered. If there really was a difference between the two of them deciding things should end, and someone else deciding for them. She still couldn't quite let go of the idea that this was just a goodbye, no matter what she said, despite her behavior. That no matter how much she wanted to hold on, that was just her wild selfishness and it would do real damage in the long run. Not to her--her reputation, such as it was, didn't matter. Cerise just couldn't seem to stop herself from pressing forward against her better judgement. And, she knew, she never really had.

She made her wild promises, knowing it wasn't something she could keep--not even knowing what it was, really, she was promising to do. That was the problem with talking. Cerise knew now, more than she had at the end of things, more than she had when they met, more than she did even that morning, that her affections were a burden in ways she couldn't do anything about. But she didn't know the shape of it, just the shape of her. Emiel shook his head when she said it, and she didn't know what to do with that. It made her a little sad, a little angry. Mostly because, she thought, if he was dismissing it--he was probably right.

He was grinning at her, and she put anything loftier out of her mind to grin back, bright and warm. It wasn't hard, with those calloused hands warm on her thighs. She had promised a pause, and he turned to her fully now. The appreciative noises she made at his mouth on her neck, teeth on her ear, were much less embarrassing than anything she'd said to the curve of his shoulder. She let her hands drift from around his neck, placing them as carefully as she could on the freckled skin, still exposed (and still in need of at least some first aid, she could admit that).

She would have agreed that maybe a pause wasn't the best idea, albeit with reluctance, but he didn't really give her the chance. No sooner did she open her mouth to speak than he extremely helpfully decided to cover it with his own, pulling himself closer to her. Cerise was a little less careful with her touch then, distracted from whatever restraint she could muster up.

Besides, anything else she might have wanted to say was stoppered up somewhere in the tangle of her heart, her head, and her desire. Nothing she could do to untangle it now; her only path forward was to cut straight through. She could be no more gentle with this than she was with the glass, with her knife-edged sentiment. But she could, at least, prove just how much she missed him. Every single stitch.

"Only a little, huh? I did say that, you're right," she agreed, breathless by the time he pulled away. She was laughing, even if her face was warm and all the rest of her definitely not terribly eager to let him move away so she could finish what she'd started. The way he let his hands drift over her buttons was absolutely not helpful in any way. Grey eyes swept over him before settling back on his face. "Do you think I only have a little catching up to do?"

"But," she agreed with a theatrical sigh, "you're right. I don't want to have spent all this time pulling glass out of you just to put it back in somewhere else. Even if you are not being very helpful. Terrible patient, that's what you are." As she spoke, her fingers moved up and over his jaw, holding him in place for another kiss that was meant to be brief, but might have lingered just a little. "It's a good thing you're pretty."

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

If he hissed at the slip of her hands over damaged skin, it was hardly enough of a discomfort to dissuade him from continuing his distractions, quite ridiculously aware of how much discomfort he'd been willing to endure from her hard-knuckled, delicate, lovely hands from the beginnin', anyway. Emiel took his time, not in a hurry to lean away, to return to diggin' the evidence of earlier this evening from the back of his head, not when what were in front of him was everythin' he'd told himself he hadn't missed in too damn long.

"More than a lil', oes. Fine. Understatement ent somethin' you're taught in grammar classes, then?" The literary jokes were an important revival of tradition, and one which the purple-haired wick grinned about with just as much wickedness as he did about the flush to her aquiline cheeks or the raggedness of her laugh once her lungs remembered how to breathe,

"A mant manna." He murmured without shame, expressin' the full extent of what he wanted—of what he was quite sure she intended to be the answer to her coy riposte of a question—in Tek, tongue pressing for a moment against the back of that ring through his lower lip in some mockery of thought.

She sighed, dramatically, and Em pouted just as theatricallly at her accusation,

"I'm helpin'—"

He pretended at offense, not yet turning around to settle back between her knees, quite comfortable where he was, hands meandering at a very slow pace back to her waist, fingers curling into the fabric gathered at her hips, "–an' I'm ne better a patient than you're benny 'bout bedside manners. Good thing I don't want you next to my bed, but in it."

He all but purred while her featherlight touch traced along his jaw, tilting his head like some bright bird given compliments about his plumage, amber eyes full of mischief. Leaning in for more of her lips, hardly bothered by just how easy it was to procrastinate anything of medical importance while her breath tickled his face. It was his turn to laugh, husky and quiet, smirking when she called him pretty,

"I've been told it keeps me outta trouble—my macha face—but I ent convinced. Yours, though, can't seem to keep me anywhere but in it." His hands slid over her thighs again as he turned with a wink, settling back on the floor with the back of his head to her as if he knew if he kept lookin' at her, he'd jus' keep kissin' her, as if he knew if he kept leanin' so close, kissin' wouldn't be all he'd end up doin'. She weren't goin' anywhere, that much he knew, that assurance settled in with the warmth that danced through his veins.

'Least not tonight, ne if he could help it. Ne tomorrow morning, neither.

After that? Em couldn't know, didn't know, an' refused himself the focus enough to worry. Did she think this was all he wanted? Did she think he'd held on so tightly for so long only to let go again?

He could've asked—should've.

Instead, he were forced to adjust how he sat to be at all comfortable, hardly to his own personal chagrin so much as humorous anticipation. Listening to the steady dribble of the faucet he left runnin' in the hopes of seein' some sign of clear water once she were through, Emiel couldn't help but taunt the dark-haired galdor further, unable to even pretend he wasn't a lil' impatient,

"I'd tell you to be more thorough than careful, ye chen, but I ent sure how it even looks back there. Get on with it an' maybe I'll let you wash me up, too."