[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Back Roads and Side Streets, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Evening

Something in the joke struck her too hard. Cerise had invited it, sure enough, teasing miraan and man both in the same breath. A charm with sharp objects, huh. Well, she couldn't argue. Cerise swallowed, and a piece of it stuck in her throat.

"So it seems," she agreed. Whatever was under the lightness of her tone she didn't comment on. There was a breath while she hesitated to tell him Sish's name. Sish, Destroyer of Hours--that was easy enough to offer, wasn't it? Harder was the thoughts that came with it. Thoughts of a book, wrapped in plain brown paper, sitting at the bottom of a drawer in her desk. Underneath old letters, stray pens, other bric-a-brac, that smooth, rectangular package didn't linger in her mind. Normally. Until now.

It's from a book, she thought dizzily, a book I bought for you. Because she still couldn't have lent her copy, dog-eared and worn. Her Mama's copy. But it was her favorite, and she had seen it at the bookstore not two weeks before--before the end of everything, or where she had to mark it. That paper-covered packet was meant to have been a birthday present; they'd never made it that far. Cerise thought she should have gotten rid of it, but somehow it was still there. "Sish, Destroyer of Hours," she said at last, then carefully set the subject aside.

What was she supposed to say to that? There had been something there, something half-said. Cerise made a noise, half agreement and half denial. She didn't know--Cerise could guess, but she couldn't be sure. How the two things connected--the hangings in Vienda, his schedule at the bar. Cerise's gut twisted with heavy premonition. Whatever it was that had set his jaw, Cerise didn't think she had the right to ask anymore.

He was right, of course, in a broad sort of way. She didn't know how to say that of course she could have come to see him any time she wanted. She had assumed it wouldn't have been a welcome intrusion, given everything. Nothing good would have come of it, throwing herself at someone she knew (did she?) wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Cerise Vauquelin would not beg for anyone's attention. And, more importantly still, the consequences wouldn't have been hers to bear.

They hadn't, in the end, been hers even now. So much for her good intentions. There was no small amount of guilt laced in with her stupid hopefulness as she walked by his side and breezily declared herself a juvenile delinquent. Even as she smiled, even as she let their auras mingle together, even as she nudged him with her arm.

Idiot that she was, Cerise still thrilled at all of it. Wishful thinking, just wishful thinking. A little piece of something just for this walk. Would the wound heal cleaner now, after opening to let it bleed full and true? Was this, then, what closure was? Was that what she wanted?

No. She didn't want that at all.

Em's laugh hurt that time, and still she held out her hand. Hadn't she earned at least that much selfishness? A year and a half for her to realize something she'd never said, a bitter kind of clarity. Cerise didn't want closure. She could have found that, if she'd wanted to. Could have at least found some measure of peace and calm, if she hadn't tore that hurt open over and over again.

The fingers that brushed hers were warm, broken only by the cold of the rings on them. Flashy as always, Cerise thought dazedly. Her pale hand came to clasp his, brushing her thumb over one of them before squeezing tight with sudden ferocity. She released the pressure but not the grasp. He could pull away from her, if he wanted to. But only if he wanted to; Cerise would hold on.

"Ah," she said and swallowed. He's been sick, she could have said. Did you know? I never knew what worked, in the end. Nobody would tell me. "I didn't... I see. Of course you wouldn't... of course."

What was that like? Cerise wanted to ask, suddenly, thinking of the bare, crumbling face of her stepmother in the mirror. What was it like, for your family to love you? That was old territory. Just a rawness she carried all the time, as part of her as her hair, the color of her eyes. Old and worn, and irrelevant.

Of what--but Em had wanted? What had he... What was it, to him, that he'd given up? She hadn't known what it was to her until it was too late--had he?This hurt her, too, clinging on like this, stoking all that anger in her breast. A tide that ebbed and flowed, but never disappeared.

"I didn't know," she said at last, finding some clarity. Cutting through the mess of her head with it. Sish called out overhead. "I never knew--I wasn't sure... I thought, at least, you wouldn't want to see me. Whatever it was he had done."

Untangle those fingers, she thought to herself. Pull away. You are being selfish, Cerise Vauquelin. Think of consequences properly, for once in your entire clocking life. She couldn't quite seem to do it, anymore than she had stopped herself from walking through that door earlier in the night. All her studying and training and fighting, and just unclasping her hand took more strength than she had.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Sish." Em repeated as if he'd heard the name before, considering, "Destroyer of Hours. What's that from?" He wasn't dumb or dense, jus' undereducated, jus' not privileged, jus' a wick. They'd shared too many literary conversations for him to not know the way she worked, but his curious smile didn't last as long as he'd wanted it to.

Talkin' 'bout Ro were hard. Harder than he thought it'd be, even a year later. She didn't know. He didn't know how to tell her—they'd not liked each other, so what difference did it make? Did it matter 'cause he'd hung until dead there in Vienda, accused of a crime he didn't commit? Or did it matter 'cause he'd been a Resistance member an' it'd been made public? Or did it matter 'cause in admitting that, he worried he'd out himself, too?

He couldn't—

Shovin' it all down, chewin' his lip, he didn't want to care 'bout the Cause right now, not when this particular galdor'd stuck her hand out in the dark, wantin' his, wantin' him without question, even after all this time. It were clockin' selfish, that's what it was, especially tanglin' his fingers with hers an' steppin' closer. He had no right to touch her again, no matter how good it felt, no right to put anyone at risk of gettin' in trouble. He didn't need this kinda reconnection, not anymore. He'd closed those doors, as hard as he could—hadn't he?

She squeezed. Needfully, he thought. Expressively, he figured.

He didn't wrench or wiggle away, relaxing instead, shoulders sagging and brushing hers again with how close he chose to walk.

"You didn't know? 'Course ne. What an ersehole." Emiel felt like he'd been punched in the gut, like he went from buzzed to guttered in a single gulp, and his voice broke over the words, just a crashing wave of emotion he didn't bother holding back, "Godsdamnit, Cerise. What'd you think this whole time—that I jus'—that I would—that I wanted that? To end us? Ne—"

Well-hewn features twisted in anger, in confusion, and all that the purple-haired wick had pretended he didn't feel washed over him in a tidal wave, rushing through his glamour, stinging the edges of his eyes, and curling his lips into a sneer of utter disbelief. He looked down at their hands, tangled together, thoughts and feelings a churning, brined mess in the cavity of his chest.

'Course she didn't need to know—could she even understand?

His fami'd owned the Badger for so long—well, owned it as much as any tsat could own anythin' in Anaxas. They took care of it. They ran it. They repaired it. They worked so hard to keep it. But some jent with a fancy name got the taxes an' his signature were on the property deed. It were more the Emmerson's than anyone else's, but there wasn't much argument in court. When Incumbent Vauquelin 'd written to make sure Emiel stopped scandalizing his daughter, he'd included their landlord's name, made certain promises, and Paolo knew they'd be helpless in front of any judge if anythin' happened. Em didn't have the choice—he couldn't choose Cerise or his fami because he needed his writ to work, because he needed to work to eat, because he’d be nothin’ without those illusions of legal protection he relied on to be a member of society.

Even now, jus' now, she'd paid his bail like it weren't anythin' to shake a stick at, like it had no effect on how she'd live her life tomorrow. Or the day after that. She didn’t even bring it up, there on the street. She didn’t ask how he were gonna pay it back. She didn’t know th’ depth of such an easy favor from her family’s deep pockets—from her ersehole father’s own ging. Em would've had to 've chosen bail 'r rent, bail 'r sleepin' in his parent's house again, bail ‘r some kinda debt he’d be payin’ for months. She couldn't possibly wrap her mind 'round that choice, ne like she'd wrapped her hand with his.

"—I liked what we had goin', ye chen, even if I knew it couldn't go on forever—right? I mean, I didn't know then—I still don't now. I've jus' told myself that every day an' kept goin', jus' to see how far we'd get. It's been over a year, an' th' way things are—were—but, clockin' hell! I didn't get t' choose, ne really, an' I wouldn't 've made that choice, ne back then." Maybe ne right now, either, had the choice ne already been made for him. He paused, hearing voices growin’ louder in the cross street beyond the alley, hearing laughter, suddenly stopping and holding them still in the eclipse of phosphor shadow by the walls of the buildings on either side of them, tugging on Cerise’s hand an standin' so close, he were sure she'd hear the angry, swift flutter of his heart through his clothes.

Turning his head away from the street as if he didn't want to be seen, closer than were proper 'r polite as footsteps and giggles passed them by, they were just a handful of inebriated students without a care in the world. They sloshed along the sidewalk, totally oblivious, and Emiel might 've attempted to hide in the powerful weight of her field, free hand curling in instinctual trust into the fabric of her coat. He might've closed his eyes for a hitched breath, unwilling to let go, not mung enough to not know that a handful of students weren't going to give a kenser's erse 'bout two bodies too close in the dark,

"I jus' figured you'd asked him. To do us both some kinda favor." Em whispered, a rumble in the quiet lack of space between them. Maybe it were a cruel admission, but it were the truth. He felt the brush of untamed dark curls and was so very scandalously aware of the warmth of their bodies in the Bethas chill. A rush of memory and a flutter of his pulse reminded him that once the students passed, slurring and giggling, he could have stepped away. He didn't, lingering and still speaking in hushed tones, pretending not to feel the undercurrents of helpless anger that began to writhe in his gut, feeling aches in places he'd thought had knit back together, "I always told myself that made everythin' easier for you so it'd somehow be easier for me, but you didn't even know. Shit. I'm sorry."

His bruised forehead hurt, brows drawn together, face curled into a frown even if Cerise couldn't see it, turned away and too close as he was, all without a thought at how easy it was to play at too familiar even after all this time. Maybe it's ‘cause neither of them ‘d ever really let it all go. Or so it seemed.

Slowly, he began to step back, finally tilting his head so his bright hues could meet her steel-eyed gaze, reluctantly attempting to untangle himself from her proximity as if he knew—he did!—it were wrong to ‘ve—well, when weren’t it wrong, really? When did that start mattering and how much time had to pass before it didn’t anymore?

Emiel grinned, golden gaze skimming over the sharp edges of her face, over the softer curves of her lips, still whispering,

"Havakda. I’m too sober for this honesty spitch."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

A Dark Side Street, the Stacks
Bethas 15, 2720 - Evening

For all that Cerise had squeezed that hand he'd given her--willingly, unhesitatingly, like they didn't both of them know there was no point--she had been almost certain he'd pull away from her again just as quickly. But he didn't. A little piece of her broke off and the jagged edge of it caught her in all those places that had never healed. Cerise didn't quite sigh. At the brush of his shoulder, she leaned in.

"I didn't know what you wanted, Em. I didn't know anything. Not one single godsdamn thing, not even--what 'us' you thought there was to end. I just--" Cerise still clung to that hand, even as she felt some stoppered-up anger come rushing out. Not at Emiel, not even fully at her father. Cerise turned to look at him as they passed under the golden light of a lamp, unflinching. The light warmed his features and shifted all the colors in them--like an old spectragram, a piece of something gone.

A year and half, and a little more. All that time, what had she thought? She had thought lots of things. Felt things, mostly, because thinking wasn't always her strong suit. Acted, for sure. She'd thought she was doing what was best for both of them when she stayed away. Thought she knew what he would have wanted, because she had no information to the contrary. Had the scandal been minor or major to that looming shadow of a man she called her father? What were the consequences, if she ignored him the same as she usually did? How would she know?

How the hells was she supposed to know? she wanted to demand. Who was going to tell her what he, Emiel, wanted or didn't want--when it didn't come out of his mouth? By what method would she have come to know what her father had done? Like Anatole Vauquelin had consulted her on it and laid out the plan. "Cerise, I forbid it, and here's what will happen." Put it all in a letter, because like hell he'd say it to her face. Or worse yet, delivered in Diana's condescending patience. Polished and remote. No, he'd just done it--and then he'd forgotten, apparently. I haven't even been in the same room as him until this month--when would I have asked? Emiel didn't know that, and Cerise wasn't sure it really mattered anyway.

It wasn't just anger that spilled out of her on a tide of things she'd thought she could ignore. His face stung, his glamour too--hard to read, less of it than there would have been with another galdor, but she'd made a study of it since that first not-a-date at the Beetle. Cerise knew it fair well back then, she thought; even still, she thought she just might know it. They were both talking about choices, like they had any of them to make.

Cerise set her jaw. Her eyes hurt. Sish was somewhere in the darkness, her comfort out of reach. When Emiel paused she stopped too, hearing those voices just the same as he did. She let him press them both into the shadow of the wall. As if any of those slurred, drunk voices would have even paused to look at them if they'd kept on just as they'd been--please. Cerise knew, and she thought he did too, that she just liked the excuse to stand close enough to feel the heat of him through his clothes. The hand she didn't hold came to grasp her coat; it took all of her will to keep her head from dropping forward to his shoulder.

I jus' figured you'd asked him. That whisper in the small space between them struck her deep and hard. The noise Cerise made wasn't a gasp or a sigh, but a quiet sound like a wounded animal. She swallowed; the gravity of her field shook with it.

"Is that what you thought of me? That I would ask-- That I would want--" A furious whispering intensity in the dark, Cerise knowing full well whatever danger those students had posed was passed and she should step away. But godsdamnit, she didn't want to. "Like he would have done it at my request, anyway. Shit. Godsdamnit, Em, I--I thought you, of all people, would have known me better than that. I l--I liked what we had, too. Since when have I ever cared about my reputation enough to--"

Cerise choked, finally. Unable to continue. Now she didn't stop herself, because she hadn't any strength left--her darkly-curled head dropped to his shoulder, her own slumping down. She left it there, taking ragged breaths until Emiel started to step back away from her.

Cerise met his eyes, then skimmed all over the rest of his face. The bruise on his forehead, just a shadow on a shadow where they stood. She wanted--she had to-- Cerise didn't know what she wanted, not now. Some kind of favor. Because it couldn't go on forever. So everyone who knew enough to have an opinion said. So had seemingly proven true.

But he grinned, and she didn't wonder about what she wanted--she knew. Honesty, was it? Selfish, whispered the back of her mind, but not loud enough to stop her. Cerise brushed her hand along the strong planes of Emiel's cheek, and unless he stopped her, she would close that distance between his familiar, frustrating grin and her sharp mouth. Guilt and hurt and anger all losing to the strength of what she'd ignored for far, far too long.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Ne—no. That ent what I thought—there were so many lines crossed, Cerise." Still were. Some things ne'er change, indeed.

That grating sensation of anger, that redshift of monic colors he could imagine but not quite, writhed through her powerful field and, mingled so close, there was very little Emiel could do but feel it. He weren't the type to flinch when afraid 'r wince when in pain, those jus' weren't things the purple-haired wick gave to others 'cause it were better to not show how keenly one felt their weaknesses in front of gollies, especially, but he inhaled sharply at the press of her magical gravity and the weight of all he'd learned to read, unspoken, in her field and no one else's.

Ne, he didn't cower; if anything, as always, he pushed back, glamour defiant and bright when he began to reluctantly lean away, "That's not at all what I thought of you, but even if I thought I knew what you wanted, what I wanted, I've always known what I am, ye chen? What I'm always gonna be. I jus' figured—" It were an obvious statement, pointin' out the differences between them. They'd always known, down to their bare skin, even when it hadn't mattered where one body ended and th'other began, he'd never been a galdor.

Never wanted to be. Couldn't pretend otherwise.

It hadn't mattered. Until it did.

It hadn't meant anythin', both of 'em ignorin' the truth of things to enjoy each other's company. Until the truth got too hot not to feel, too hot to do anything but burn their hands.

"—it's how things had to be, even if there were more I'd have wanted. For us."

Reputation, she hissed back at him, still too close, hurt and angry that he'd had time to think about it all and finally knew how to string syllables together and put shape to that shadow that'd always loomed over them. Her grey eyes drifted from holding his gaze to his face, and his heart didn't know whether to sink or stop altogether. He'd both never cared an' always cared 'bout reputation—hers not his. The word held different meanings for a galdor and a wick, carried different connotations, and never went the same distances, legally speaking. He'd never cared 'bout any of it for his sake, anyway, but he weren't the one who'd have to ever make somethin' of himself, not like Cerise. Expectations for him, for his kind, were already low and he didn't mind livin' 'em out, most of the time, but an Incumbent's daughter?

"It weren't 'bout that—"

Just as he didn't bend beneath the weight of her field, he didn't break at the gentle brush of her hand. Too light, clockin' unasked for, too familiar, but not unwanted. Never not wanted, really. Em felt that shift in her warm closeness, touchin' as they were, an' if he didn't jus' lean right in to meet the dark-haired galdor in the middle, pressin' jus' so against her smooth palm, well, he didn't lean away, neither.

They could go 'round about it all. Clearly, they'd done it in their heads—in their hearts—all this time. The whole time. He didn't want to think 'bout that, ne really. He didn't want to realize he'd not been th'only one. Pickin' at scabs. Rippin' stitches because they weren't set right, because he'd wanted the scar instead. It wasn't right, but it was what it was an' sayin' so couldn't change anythin'.

It was better to stop talkin'.

Emiel couldn't even deny that he'd wanted this, too, couldn't deny that he'd thought 'bout how it'd be to kiss Cerise Vauquelin again while sittin' in that cell with a bunch of drunks after seein' her for the first time in so long. Surely, she didn't want him this way anymore, he'd told himself, but with that fierce, honest press of her mouth to his, he realized he'd been wrong. It was his turn to make some quiet noise, some sound of hurt bein' felt 'cause it'd been forgotten caught with his breath. The purple-haired wick didn't let her be brief, either, if that's what she'd wanted, greedier than he should've been to share the taste of regrets held onto too tightly for too long.

Fingers curled tighter, bringing their tangled together hand up toward that ache in his chest, right over his heart, pressing so hard against skin and bone as if the delicate back of hers could ever stop the bleedin'. Maybe he just wanted the heat to cauterize the wound. Finally. When he thought to breathe, teeth brushing lips he'd missed, he was grinning all over again,

"Oes. Missed that, too. It's jus' a lil' more walkin', since we're reminicin' now. I ent got much to say that can fix what were broke, but I can't say I've tried. I didn't think that you'd—"

One more, he told himself, just one more kiss to see if he tasted closure or something else, stolen in the dark.

"—I didn't think that you'd hang onto it all, but you did."

Em chuckled: chagrined, confused, courageous, and took a step backward, then another, tugging the dark-haired galdor with him out of the alley and into the cross street. Just another block 'til home, really, if she wanted more of the conversation.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

A Dark Alleyway, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

The press of her field might have been too much, all that red anger ripping through it. There was nothing she could do about it, to pull it in or contain herself. Cerise's feelings spilled out into it, a chaotic mess that even she could hardly make sense of. Let alone put away. Cerise heard his sharp inhale, and she felt him push back against her, too. That hadn't changed, either; he always had been more than willing to do that. It was one of her favorite things about him.

"I knew, too, though. I know."

Cerise closed her eyes for a moment there with her head on his shoulder. Lines crossed, indeed. She had known what he was--and what she was, too. That wouldn't change. Couldn't change, even if either of them had wanted it to. Grey eyes opened again as the warm line of Emiel's shoulder was pulled away from her. Oh, she knew. She always had. Right from the start. She just hadn't thought it would matter so much.

Maybe "reputation" hadn't been the right word to use; she knew it was more than that. A bright spark caught in her that in the eyes of anyone looking, she was lowering herself more with this than she would have been associating with a bastard like McAllister. That her hand in Emiel's was more a scandal than anything that had come out of that filthy fucking mouth; the problem there would have been the crassness, not the sentiment. She hated it.

Lines and lines and lines. All of them drawn in someone else's sand, not their own. That should have been all that mattered. Turns out, that wasn't good enough when the ones who did care owned the whole godsdamn beach. Even Cerise couldn't do anything to change that, not with all the rage in the world. And not with all the love, either.

She didn't care what it was about. Too many theories about that, true and untrue both. What did it all matter? She had never been much of a theorist; in the end, the result had been the same for each and every one. Her hand had reached out without her much thinking about it, and if he had moved away, she would have stopped. Even an inch, and she would have been hurt, she would have been sad, but she would had dropped it and not pressed it any more. Emiel didn't move in to her touch, but he didn't pull away either.

She wasn't going to question it; she wanted too much for that.

Em tasted like those cigarettes she bought and lost time. He made a sound that Cerise thought might have been pain--emotional or physical? she hadn't gotten a good, clear look at his face in the light--but if she wanted to pull back because of it, he didn't let her. She hadn't meant to do this, walking him home; at most she thought maybe she could talk to him a little more. Knew this was stupid, knew it was just as likely to end badly as before. Em gathered up her hand and pressed it to his chest so hard it hurt. Cerise didn't care.

When they pulled apart, he was grinning. Cerise knew she was too, in a way she hadn't for a long time. Lady she had missed that stupid, gold-ringed mouth. And even all the things that came out of it, too. "I could say the same about you," she murmured, more to herself than anything.

"Are you inviting me over, Emiel Emmerson? Without an escort? The scandal!" Cerise laughed, looking up to find where Sish was overhead. Like she cared about scandal--like she had ever cared, when someone didn't make her. She could have told him he didn't need to say much to fix things; there was only one thing she really wanted to hear. But talking seemed to hurt them both more than it helped right now. He hadn't let go of her hand, pulling her along. She crossed out of the shadow of the alley and into the bright street after him.

There was no one else on the street at this hour, not that she could see, so she didn't let their hands unclasp. Her thumb swiped gentle over the back of Em's hand once or twice. A little in wonder, a little in fear. Eventually they got close enough that she whistled for Sish, who came to land heavily on her shoulder. And still she held on; she had been holding on, now, for over a year. She had held on, and so had he--for no reason, to no benefit. Yet, here they were. Cerise didn't care if all he wanted was this little bit more, either; she was greedy and reckless. She'd take whatever she could get. Consequences be damned.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

Mung. That's what this all was. Clockin' mung. Wantin' to hide in those curls jus' like he were some bigger, dumber, more violet-colored miraan, especially when Cerise leaned closer and the comfortable weight of her cheek settled briefly on his shoulder.

So clockin' mung.

'Course everyone knew. There weren't any denyin', any hidin'. There were a fair bit of sneakin', oes, but that were just the way of things. They'd jus' never cared from the start, ne like everyone else did.

Em weren't sure if it was all that unseen power crushing him or if it was all that unspoken shit between them that made him dizzy, that made him weak enough in the knees that kissin' her felt like findin' solid ground again. Breathing in deep, senses fillin' with Cerise smellin' like the kind of soap he couldn't afford, with the tobacco he didn't budget for, and with the desire he'd not forgotten.

He'd tried, though. Couldn't fault him there. He'd tried to bury all those memories beneath new ones, an' he hated that n'anyone seemed to quite compare. It were wrong, an' he knew it. Jus' like he knew all the flavors of the pricey, top-shelf alcohol were totally worth their price, most 've the time, 'cause he'd tried 'em all. When you knew a good thing, it were damn hard to let it go. Em didn't even let go of her hand now. Couldn't, really, for he wondered if she'd take off like Sish if he did, somewhere into th' dark again,

"I broke your escort's clockin' nose, mujo ma."

He teased, tryin' to think clearly, quite aware he wasn't drunk while feelin' so intoxicated, ne like all those other bodies in the jail he'd just spent gods only knew how long in. Too long. Not long enough. He couldn't give a chroves' erse what time it was, ne until he were done stealin' whatever time he could with Cerise Vauquelin, "But, oes, I'd like to think I'm a damn good scandal."

Emiel almost hesitated, tugging the dark-haired galdor with him into the bright phosphor glow of the street, nervous that he'd wake up in that cell, bloodied and alone, an' she'd just disappear. She didn't, though, and he xhaled the breath he held, feelin' the Bethas chill through still-damp clothes an' without a coat. Even if there'd been someone else on the street, Em was sure he wouldn't 've cared, an' his amber eyes were reluctant to leave lookin' at Cerise's flushed face to even scan the shadows an' see.

Brazen, full of bravado fueled by the warmth of familiar lips, he led them up the street, pausing when she whistled for that golden miraan and watching it land with no small hint of possessive grace on the young woman’s shoulders. Maybe it were a good excuse to lean in again, close enough to reach fingers back out and risk a stroke or two along golden scales, usin’ the gentle motion as an excuse to tuck dark curls away from Cerise's still-grinnin’ face. He'd left the station without any intention of rushin’ their walk, without any want to end what unexpected time with her he was given, thinkin’ that was all he'd get before she'd be gone again. But now the walk seemed too long, the promise of somethin’ like a proper goodbye, somethin' they'd not been given any chance to choose, picked up Emiel’s pace and convinced him to drag them along together with casual but obvious haste.

He might've stopped along the way to steal another kiss 'r two, hardly gentle once he'd been given permission, hardly shy about makin' up for lost time, keepin' things warm with a lil' wanderin' hands. Just a lil' and jus' here an’ there: turnin’ a corner, takin’ a shortcut, keeping their bodies closer than necessary, ne less greedy an' ne less reckless than she were, really.

If this were it—all there were gonna be, well, he knew how that went an' he weren't gonna waste it.

Em's humble rented flat was actually in view of the Singing Badger, up the street another block, tucked between a couple 've shops an' above a couple of natts who seemed to hardly ever be home. The stair railin' needed fixed and a couple of them creaked but they held nonetheless. He finally had to let Cerise's hand go to fumble for his keys, worried for a moment that the brigk 'd not given 'em back an' they'd be stuck here in the cold, lookin' mung an' full of wantin' they shouldn't give into anyway.

His victorious grin was wicked, and if his amber eyes flicked to Sish with a hint of concern, he made it quick, opening the door to the small, dark living space with all the flourish he was known for behind the bar. A toss of his hair, teeth catching the ring through his lip with no small hint of coyness, an' he closed the door behind him quietly, leanin' against it while his eyes adjusted to the bluish gloom that reminded him of just how long he was locked up this evenin', after all.

He couldn't not hear his pulse, couldn't not feel that rush of anticipation, this kind of wantin' different than mere carnal entertainment, 'cause it felt more like some spur tucked in his pocket for too long provin' itself still willin' to be lit.

"Do y'want a drink—or a tour?"

Em waved his fingers, glittering in the half-light, sweeping his palm through the cramped space—two rooms and kind of a kitchen. He washed at the Badger on account of his bathroom barely bein' one. Otherwise, without a light on, it looked clean enough for hardly being larger than a Brunnhold student dorm. Shovin' up from the door, he brushed past Cerise, purposeful before he dug in his vest pocket for that silver tin, empty now of anythin' expensive, cigarettes stolen, an' struck a match to light an oil lamp in the living room that was threadbare on furniture but full of books. Lookin' up with that same coy expression, he huffed out the little flame and added quieter still,

"Or jus' me?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Cerise laughed, thinking about Lionel McAllister's smashed-up face. There was nothing funny about it objectively, and she thought it was far from over. All the same, it had been more than a little bit satisfying to watch. More than a little bit something else, too; Cerise probably should have felt concerned about that. Was there any point, though? She liked watching Emiel do anything, really, and always had. Em and his stupid beautiful face that he was so quick to bash into McAllister's inferior one, that smiled at her now. How was she supposed to move on from that, honestly?

"I have always thought so," she agreed, honest and direct. The warmth from his hand traveled up her arm and bloomed all through her chest. The grin wouldn't leave her face; if someone saw them--well, who cared? What were they going to do, that hadn't been done already? It was too late for that. She couldn't have let go of that hand without cutting her own away.

Somewhere on that last bit of their walk, she had thought to whistle for Sish. The miraan had wrapped around her shoulders in her usual place, letting Em come close enough to touch that soft, scaled body again. It was strange and new to feel like she had to figure out how to balance the bulk of Sish's weight so it didn't interfere with anything else. Like stops along the way, brazen kisses stolen in the dark. Sish didn't mind the petting, but Cerise laughed when she hit Em in the face with her feathered tail for kissing Cerise a little too long, moving his body in a little too close for the miraan's approval.

"She's not used to sharing," Cerise teased, breathless and flushed. They turned a corner, cut across a side street. All the while, she was torn between wanting the journey to be over as soon as possible and wanting to draw it out. If all Em wanted from this was some kind of goodbye, some kind of period on the end of a sentence they never got to say--well, that was fine. That would hurt, but it had hurt all this time. It wouldn't do so any less if she didn't follow his flashy, gold-edged lead up the stairs and into the flat he lived in now. Denying herself something she wanted--something she needed--because it might hurt her in the long run wasn't her way.

There was no way to dig for his keys and hold her hand at the same time, but Cerise still felt so illogically compelled to reach out and snatch it back. Keys or no keys. Like none of this was real if she wasn't touching him. Just a dream, like she'd had an embarrassing number of times before. Usually with less detail than this, though--and less of Sish nudging her cheek with the end of a pointed snout. All the same she reached out the hand he'd let go of to rest it against the small of his back.

The door opened to his little flat with a theatrical kind of gesture from Emiel. Cerise stifled a laugh and went inside, not wanting to stand around in the cold Bethas night air any longer than necessary. Now that they were here, she didn't see any reason to linger. How late was it...? No, she didn't care. Cerise resolved not to think about it; it wasn't like she had a curfew anymore, anyway, or a roommate to notice the hour of her return. She took a few steps in and turned to look at him while he stood there with his back against the door.

Was her heart as loud as she thought it was? Everything in the small space was his, and this felt oddly significant. Maybe she was just losing her mind, all the excitement going to her head. Cerise raised her eyebrows; she didn't think she needed a drink, at all. Not when she felt so unsteady enough anyway, drunk on the feeling of his body so close to hers on the walk over. Like all the wanting she pretended she didn't have the last year and half had come to her all at once, and it was all she could do to stay upright.

In the warm, stuttering light of the lamp, Cerise looked around. Emiel had very little by way of furniture; much more by way of books. Cerise spun around, deliberately slow in the wake of the look on his face when he blew out the match. She hummed with exaggerated consideration. "Let's see. Room one," she pointed to each in turn as she listed them off, "room two. Kitchen. Door. There, tour complete."

Cerise turned again to face Em, to look at him in the low warm light. She took a few steps back towards him, grinning, and stopped just inches away. "I don't want a drink," she said, pronouncing each word very carefully and quietly. Cerise leaned in a little more, pressing up against the firm line of his body. Her hands came to rest on his hips, like that was the only place for them to be.

"So I guess that leaves you, Just Emiel." Cerise moved her face in close then, filled with more than wanting--but no small amount of that, either. Voice quiet, then she stopped speaking at all. There were, after all, better uses for her mouth, like kissing him hard enough to sear some kind of permanent mark.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

Emiel 'd found fiction early in life, havin' found himself a knack for reading as a boch and learning quick how to snatch a book that weren't bein' watched too closely. Once his da started payin' him a wage for bussin' tables, preppin' food, or takin' orders, well, he started buyin' his own books. There weren't much more satisfyin' than that writ and a pocket full of coins turned into a few good storybooks. Pretend was important—those gollies lived in that castle called campus, sorcery secrets and all while peasants like himself just looked on from the outside—because it allowed a boch to travel to new places, to fight drakes an' win, t'overcome th' odds.

To survive consequences.

Fiction 'd been a basis of their friendship—ne—of their relationship, even if they'd never really given what they had together a name so specific. It were jus' pretend, after all, but it were a book without a title an' pages without numbers. They could pretend how they were born didn't matter. They could pretend their rungs on the social ladder were different, were closer. They could pretend how they spent their time was their own magic to make. They had some good stories, but it'd only always ever jus' been pretend.

Now? Still was. That's why this was so easy, Em wrote that onto the pages of his heart, pretendin' it didn't ache. He could hold Cerise's hand and taste her lips and enjoy the warmth of her familiar body because he knew this was just another story. It had an end, hopefully a better one than the last one, but eventually he'd have to turn the last page, close the book, and put it on the shelf. He could pretend to play in this same world all over again as if no time had passed between them because it was just that well-written, and so he did.

There was even a drake in it, no matter how small. It became quickly clear that the golden beast didn't consider herself teacup-sized, ne, and all it took were a tail an' a few feathers in his face for Em to realize she was comfortable in her place, too. He didn't want to conquer the beast, but he did want his turn with her mistress.

Emiel couldn't not feel the dark-haired galdor's hand on him, palm against the small of his back like she needed the same anchor he did—some tether in the dark, some reminder that neither of them were asleep. Ne like his lil' flat couldn't be anythin' but a dose of reality, honestly, since it wasn't fancy, wasn't well-maintained. It just was and Em did what he could to keep it livable, aware that it was a step up from sneakin' around upstairs above the Badger even if it were like some forgotten basement corner in comparison to Brunnhold.

Ne like he'd say that. Not now.

He didn't want to break the spell, even when he huffed out that match, meeting her steel-sharp gaze before his amber eyes followed the taunting mockery of her hand,

"Benny. That's 'bout the tour I'd give." Emiel sort of whispered, sort of purred, watching her step closer, shifting a little to turn toward her, smirking once she poured herself right against him, monic particles eddying and mingling like he were jus' mixin' liquors at the bar. He sighed, staring now, into the sharp, familiar and so clockin' lovely face of danger an' delight,

"Ne, I see y' don't." The purple-haired wick pressed back, leaned forward, meetin' her somewhere in the middle of space that weren't even there anymore. Fingers trailed over the backs of hands that found comfortable places on his hips, up her arms, toward her shoulders with all the intention of taking her face in his palms, warm and rough for her smooth, cold cheeks, but he got a lil' distracted by those dark curls, aware there were hints of gold an' feathers there, shiny eyes watching the way he moved, but so were those lips he'd missed more than he should've.

Oes, jus' me he'd have said but she kissed him first, stealing the punchline to the joke 'cause he weren't any more than he was over a year ago, even if he weren't any less. Just Emiel, tsat barkeep. Ne, he were a lil' more than that—

Her mouth was a brand, hot enough to burn new scars, to close all that'd been left open to fester for over a clockin' year, and Emiel didn't deny her the glorious heat of it. It hurt—somewhere inside, somewhere unseen—but in all the ways he knew it would. His hands began to move again, finally lifting from her shoulders, untangling from her hair, moving to cup her face gently, to keep her from gettin' away too soon, tilting his head like tipping a keg, longing for a deeper taste of all that was good in the cellar of his memory.

Unable to see that shift in reptilian attention, it was a quick, sharp surprise when little teeth found the heel of his palm. Sish expressed her extreme displeasure in all of this reminiscing, in this stranger's body so close to her possession, and Em hissed in pain, barely managing to keep himself from biting the lips he'd just been enjoying,

"Shit—"

Pulling his hand away, he laughed some breathless, ridiculous sound, leanin' back with a mischievous shift of his hips, keepin' some kind of contact, albeit hardly polite. His amber eyes came into focus on the unhappy miraan even if he spoke quietly still so close to Cerise's face, not angry so much as wary, "—I see how this is gonna go. Th' jealous type. 'Course you are. Ent surprised. Boemo."

One more kiss, quick but promising, some needful, thoughtful noise gettin' caught in his chest, "Is th' Destroyer 'f Hours as hungry for yats 's we are for each other? I'm sure there's somethin' in the pantry you'd like more than bitin' me. Ent your mouth I'm interested in, n'offense."

The purple-haired wick trailed away from the dark-haired galdor, still so tangled up in the gravity of her field, grinning now, stupidly coy. He waved his fingers tauntingly at Sish, ignoring the bloody imprint of teeth, "Lemme bribe you with somethin' good—"

It was with obvious reluctance that he meandered the handful of steps into the meager kitchen, reaching up to rake a hand through his hair, gingerly avoiding the back of his head. Opening the lil' pantry, he stared, leaning against the door and skimming for sardines or tinned meat. He hardly ate here,

"—Cerise an' I have catchin' up to do, ye chen. Without you."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Don't do this, Cerise Vauquelin.

There was a scrap of common sense in her somewhere, despite all signs to the contrary. Cerise wasn't stupid--she knew this was just a stolen little piece of a dream. Maybe it always had been, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. She'd never put a name to what they were, what she wanted them to be. Like the act of trying to pin it down would find it crumbling under her hands without her ever having really known the shape of it. By the time she had a name for any of it, it was gone.

But dreams didn't have such shabby furniture, or obvious signs of disuse. They also didn't have Sish chattering angry on her shoulders, displeased with having her territory invaded. Even with the petting, which Cerise knew she did enjoy. Shamelessly, Cerise thought--she would have said she'd raised her golden friend better than to fall for any man who gave her sufficient attention, but she already knew Em didn't count. His charm certainly worked well enough on the drake, why not the miraan?

So she gave herself the grand tour, eyes lingering on the books all around the room for just a moment. There was time enough, she wanted to think, for her to look at those. Every time Cerise told herself she was going to be fine with Em only wanting this moment and no more, she knew she was a liar. Just because she decided she would be content with whatever decision Em made, whatever he wanted now for the two of them, didn't mean she wouldn't go down swinging if it came to it.

This was all a problem for future Cerise; for now she was stepping in closer, letting her field rush in too. Mingling together as carefully as she could with that feather-light touch of a glamour. The ramscott of her field that she kept in a curled fist now was more of a cupped hand. Just one more way to touch him, she thought dizzily, that she hadn't had in so long--too long. She wanted to stop, to savor the way his fingers moved from her hands, up her arms, to come to her shoulders where Sish remained draped across them, but she also wanted to kiss that stupid mouth she'd missed so much. So she did just that.

Playful touching, even kissing--those hadn't struck her as hard as Em's warm hands on her face. Holding her close, like there was anywhere else she wanted to be. A year and a half (only a year and a half, nothing at all) and it was both thrillingly new and comfortingly familiar at the same time. Better than she remembered, better than some insubstantial dream. Cerise forgot everything else outside of this moment, pressing deeper--

--Until Sish shifted her weight on her shoulders and struck out with sharp, delicate jaws. Her teeth sank into the fleshy heel of Em's hand. Cerise pulled back too late. Em had already had blood drawn by needle-precise biting, hissing in pain and surprise against her mouth. At least he laughed, instead of being angry. Cerise didn't know that she could have stayed, no matter how much she cared for him, if he got angry with Sish.

"A bit the jealous type, yes. I have spoiled her terribly," Cerise admitted with a smile. Her attention drifted from Sish to the press of Em's hips against her. That, she thought, was hideously unfair, all things considered. So was that kiss, too brief--even if it promised more. But he pulled away from her, breaking off in search of a suitable distracting for the miraan coiled around her shoulders and threaded through her dark hair.

For a moment Cerise just stood there looking at his back when he headed for that tiny kitchen. She looked at Sish out of the corner of her eye; there was nothing of Em's blood on her face. More on the back of his head. Standing and watching him dig through his pantry, she took note of where his hands avoided touching. "You're lucky you're cute," she muttered to the drakelet, then crossed the few steps after Emiel to watch over his shoulder.

"She likes fish," she offered helpfully. "If you have any. Miraan are omnivores though; she'll eat just about anything. And has." Fish, vegetables. Upholstery. Paper--though Cerise had trained her away from books, and she was proud to say that while Sish might knock them over, she would never chew on them. She was too smart for that.

Cerise didn't think Sish would much like this either, but she couldn't help it. While Em rummaged through his pantry, Cerise came up from behind him and put her sharp chin on his shoulder. Enjoying the feeling of leaning against his back. She moved to wrap her arms around his waist, enjoying just the proximity of him as much as anything.

"Is your head okay? You want me to look at it...?" The question was quiet, almost shy. Cerise had never been good at expressing tenderness, at least not to people. But she was worried--that had been a lot of glass. She couldn't imagine that the Seventen gave much of a shit about whether or not he got all of it out. Maybe it was too familiar a thing to do, a question to ask. Maybe not. She offered, at least.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, home

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Who, me? Served me well so far." Em knew the galdor 'd been whispering to her toothy pet, but he grinned anyway, back turned so she couldn't see how stupid the flushed expression was on his freckled face. He leaned against the kitchen wall, arm draped over the open pantry door, starin' at the rather bare contents,

"Fish. Benny." He echoed like he had an icebox full of the stuff, like he had an icebox at all. He mostly ate at the Badger, but his sister 'd worried so much 'bout riots eventually comin' to Brunnhold after 2718 that she made sure her purple-haired brother was stocked with all kinds of random imperishables. His amber eyes skimmed labels, drifting toward the back of the small storage shelves, only to flutter closed for a moment when Cerise settled jus’ so against him, pressed manna close with her arms winding their way around him. She’d feel his surprised inhale and the slow, comfortable exhale that followed.

Don't get used to this, Em. He chided himself with a strange, almost involuntary noise of contentment mixed with impatience, opening his eyes again to find them blurry, hot at the edges, stinging with emotions that weren't allowed to have names anymore,

"Ah—oes. Here."

Shifting a little just to purposefully lean into the woman over his shoulder with a grin, reaching into the back and arranging a few cans with peeling labels to produce a small one tucked away in a corner. With a coy carefulness, he turned without making attempts to dislodge himself from the embrace he were trapped in, wagglin' the small tin like a prize. Tilting it in the direction of his gold-scaled competition's keen eyes, he made a valiant attempt to steal another kiss before explaining, tone of voice more than a lil' husky in such proximity, "It's whale, I think—maybe—I don't actually remember—"

He made only half-hearted efforts to wriggle himself free, making sure all of the movements of his free hand and his body against hers were as mischievous as possible. Pausing at her concern, he nodded without hesitation, "I can't see back there, so I ent gonna say ne, 'specially not if it's gonna be your hands in my hair, hmm? Hang on a tick an' I'll let you play all the nurse you like behind closed doors."

It were so clockin' easy to pretend things were as they'd always been. Jus' another game as if time hadn't passed by at all—it had, hadn't it? That her feelin's hadn't seemed to fade at all (ne commentin' 'bout his, neither) felt so strange, all things considered. Bein' a golly, bein' a student now in her tenth year, an' yet here she was, still defyin' her Incumbent da, still actin' like she could see the wick for who he was instead of for what he was, still actin' like what she saw was jus' what she wanted, social obstacles be damned. He didn't get it, even now, but he didn't want to take it for granted either.

"—it's from Hox, Ro said. He brought it back from the Harbor an' I ent been brave enough t'open it. He, uh—" Em stopped himself from talkin' like his brother were still alive, biting his lip an' movin' to set the tin down on the small lil' table that stood in the space between the kitchen and the meager living room. Everythin' he did seemed to require some reason to touch Cerise—totally intentional and so clockin' greedy—whether it were to shift her to the left of a cabinet or move her jus' so from in front of a drawer, he searched for his can opener before he finally looked up and met her grey gaze,

"Rohan died th' Dentis before last. In '18. Hung in Vienda." Surely, she'd know why. Surely, she'd remember the riots of Yaris an' how the Anaxi High Judge blamed it all on the Resistance even though everyone knew it'd jus' been sparked by nomadic wick tribal rivalries an' the heat of the dry season. Surely, she'd make the connection without him havin' to say anything, some pang of worry crawling through all the warmth that'd settled in his veins, harsh and cold 'cause he knew he'd taken Ro's place, "S'why I work the nines."

Em spoke as evenly as possible, voice not wavering even if his smile faltered a little. Scrunching up his face with a wince—he'd forgotten about the bruises from smashin' into Lionel's mug—he exhaled through grit teeth before waving the can opener in Sish's direction,

"Enough 'f that spitch, though. I'm gonna make you a deal—Hoxian whale for your macha rosh there, ye chen?" The purple-haired wick taunted, moving to get to work on opening the roasted, canned whale. It was dark meat packed in rich, dark sauces, the scent definitely seafood-adjacent but also gamey and strangely sweet. He made sure to completely remove the jagged-edged top he'd cut away, setting the can in the middle of his kitchen table with a bit of theatrical flair,

"Now, listen—I ent gonna keep her—n'anyone in all Anaxas 'd ever let me do that, but we've done gone an' learned that lesson already. N'any sense fussin' over th' truth." His gaze flicked from the miraan to those pale, grey hues, amber eyes bright in his honesty. His smile was bittersweet but still inviting, full of that clockin' stupid, rebellious hope he'd clung to anyway, "Doesn't mean we can't buy a lil' time, though. Doesn't mean we can't enjoy it, neither. What d'you say—fair trade, maybe, Sish? "