[Closed] A Friend in Need? (Yazad)

[Fionn]

Dentis 17, 2719 | Afternoon
Some café, The Stacks

.

Fionn couldn’t help but turn crimson at the compliment, even if it was potentially in jest rather than truly serious.

Scholar. Yazad had no idea how much that appealed to his vanity, the boy having wanted to be recognised for his intelligence for the longest time. It glowed within him, filling him with a pleasant warmth that threatened to send him flying high. He had to bite the inside of his cheek in order to hold back a smile though it couldn’t prevent it entirely, one side of his mouth twitching up.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he commented wryly— tried at least—though it might have come out a skosh too smug.

Considering his difficulties in suppressing his response to such a simple flyaway remark, it was surprising that he managed to maintain any semblance of composure when his words about putting body parts into one’s mouth were interpreted in frankly the most innocent manner imaginable by the other passive. There could be no doubt that his true inference had flown through Yazad’s ears without settling properly in between them because his response was offered minus any hint of self-awareness. It was entirely possible that the other was such a master of deceit that he could hide his reactions and that this was some manner of joke, but he did seem genuine in his recount.

The blond had to bite his lip hard, gaze fixed on a point above the other’s head so that he wouldn’t chance meeting his eye and laughing until he cried. He managed a restrained sound of acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak about the matter. No, it would be best not to think about any of that. Better to think of his tea, or his companion’s hot chocolate, even the weary looking human server balancing plates that he could see over Yazad’s head.

Anything was better than dwelling on the thing that would have him chortling and gasping for air, mirth that would be purely at the other servant’s expense.

His brows rose, but he made no comment as the passive admitted to being ‘rather particular’ about what he ate. What luxury to be capable of being so picky. Fionn had always had to make do with what he was given, left with the choice of eating it or going hungry. It wasn’t as if they’d ever had their preferences catered for in the school, and while he had some greater freedom now, he couldn’t go taking wild liberties when it came to purchasing ingredients. Far easier to cook for two rather than cooking two separate meals in any case, and thus, it was largely Umberto’s preferences that dictated his culinary choices these days.

There was some ill-feeling within him, which might not have entirely escaped his expression as he eyed the other, and disliked him for his comparative privilege. The youth could understand why some of his brethren had regarded him in a similar fashion when he had fallen in with Keyes, believing his life to be easier but not realising that his new position working closely with the engraver had come with its own difficulties and he’d still resided in his ordinary quarters. No doubt, they would be more envious considering his greater freedoms with Umberto, or perhaps frightened. There was comfort in the familiarity of a small, enclosed place like Brunnhold, especially compared to the unknown expanse of the wider world.

Regardless of his current circumstances, Fionn had not lived an easy life, having endured enough hardship and horrors to have been left with scars, most of which weren’t physical. It had made him harder, more cynical, more bitter... The more that the other man said, the more resentful the passive became because frankly, the foreigner had all the hallmarks of someone who had lived a charmed life, and one who didn’t even recognise their privilege.

Maybe it was a Bastian thing. He had no idea how that kingdom treated their passives so perhaps this was normal for them, and perhaps this might explain the way that the academic treated him as well. It gave him something to turn over in his mind as the conversation continued, pondering the implications of passives living an easier life in Bastia than here in Anaxas.

The youth released a disbelieving huff, his brows rising.

“I don’t know about that. I grant you, there’s beauty in simplicity”—his eyes went to his own drawn lines, which were failing to capture that axiom—“but I don’t think that beauty or simplicity were what my parents were aiming for. It’s more like a title, a label. It’s what I am. The blond one.”

There was an edge of a laugh to his word, a bite to the sound. His lips pressed together, brown gaze on the paper as he used his pencil to sketch the ghost of a curve, thumb moving to smudge it into obscurity as he shook his hurt curtly.

Yes, that’s what he was, the blond one, unique in his family and Alioe only knew where the trait had come from—outside the family no doubt so not from the man he’d known as his father. Not that any of it made any sense, the notion that he might be a bastard. Magic could protect a woman from pregnancy so it made no sense that his mother would have had an affair without taking precautions and-

The teenager let his eyes close, sucking in a deep breath and releasing it once more as he willed himself to let go of those thoughts, ground so often treaded in his mind that it was all too easy to follow its familiar path. Not something that had a place here, certainly not with other people, except maybe with his sister but even then-

“It’s just a name,” he added shortly. “It doesn’t have to have meaning.”

Perhaps he sounded especially unfriendly as he said it, but the clueless stopclocker across the table might take the hint that the subject was finished.

Inserting the side of his thumb into his mouth, worrying lightly at the skin beside the nail, the boy attempted to channel his energies into his drawing. The page had grown rather dirty, even in areas where he hadn’t added any new lines or engaged in deliberate smudging, but the light grubbiness seemed more suitable than the natural shade of the paper in the areas of the drawing that ought to be ‘bright’. The brightest points could be further lightened with the help of the eraser and it would give a greater sense of the gradient between light and dark in the representation. With that in mind, it could be that the dark areas could be subtler as well, a spectre of darkness rather than something solid that jumped at the viewer from the paper.

The task etched an ugly, angry wrinkle between his brows as they scrunched, but he was calmer as the conversation progressed.

The youth made a mental note of his teacup’s position as he raised it and took a mouthful of the bitter liquid, its aroma filling his nose no doubt sharper than the one that wafted to him from across the table. Allowing it to coat his tongue on that first taste gave him a chance to acclimatise himself to its bitterness before he took more, able to appreciate the underlying flavours that had been stewed from the leaves. It gave him something to do as he waited for Yazad to describe his own beverage, watching him over the porcelain rim, the brighter flecks in his eyes catching the light—amused.

“Like delight.”

The warm liquid almost streamed back into the cup but he managed to catch himself before more than a slight dribble escaped.

Sweet, merciful Lady…

While the other prated on like someone composing poetry, the youth slowly gulped down the tea that had been held in his mouth, unconsciously wiping away the excess from his lips with the heel of his hand. Lashes fluttered over rounded eyes, gaze fixed on the servant who appeared entirely unaware of how strangely his speech was being received by his audience of one.

When he finished, Fionn was left wondering what the fuck was so distinctive about white sugar that Yazad could somehow taste the colour—among other things. He was inclined to be snarky and ask how delight tasted, but he refrained, instead aiming for something a bit more civil.

“He drinks coffee and he likes it strong so I’m not sure how he’d react to something… sweeter. I’ll be sure to bear it in mind though. You’ve been very uh… helpful.”

Okay, the sarcasm hadn’t been kept entirely at bay but at the same time, it was quite possible that it would be utterly lost on the other man; he really did seem clueless.

Fionn cleared his throat, taking the opportunity to steer the conversation back to an earlier topic.

“You said before that you’re from Florne originally. I don’t know anything about it really, or Bastia as a whole for that matter.”

A finger nudged his teacup to make it turn minutely on its saucer. He scribbled a heavier line on the representation of the handle, thumb softening its intensity as he traced it in an arc.

“Why do you prefer it to here? I suppose its home to you, but… more than that, is it very different?” Fionn asked softly, licking his lips nervously before he sought the information that he really wanted to know. “Do they treat passives differently there? You were with a master so…”

The blond trailed off, cursing himself inwardly as he realised the flaw in his line of questioning, visibly wincing. Yazad had never said that he was a passive and his servant status made it more likely that he was human rather than one of the magic defectives, a more logical assumption on sight alone.

Not that Fionn had identified what he was by sight, not at all.

It was always possible that the half-Hessean had features typical of galdori with his heritage, in which case he might be safe. It was lucky that he hadn’t been foolish enough to say something such as “passives like us”.

Either way, his own curiosity displeased him. It was going to be the end of him one of these days.

[Yazad]

Some Café, The Stacks

17th of Dentis, 2719; Afternoon

T he effect of Yazad’s words on Fionn did not escape the man’s observant eyes, though he was more amused than anything at the partial twitch of the boy’s lip. A smile that was barely there, but it was still there. The more he looked at him, at how he behaved, Fionn appeared more and more as an awkward big child. Someone on the cusp between adolescence and adulthood. A comment was formed in Yazad’s mind and perished before it reached his lips. No matter how much he wanted to tell Fionn to smile more, such a remark could only serve to make the other even more tense. Awkwardness seemed a common enough trait among the Anaxi youth, if Fionn and Aurelie were anything to go by.

There was budding confusion in the passive’s head as he watched the boy sitting across to him turning his sight upwards, as if focusing his attention entirely on something above his head, or behind him. It would be in poor manners to turn around and look for the subject of Fionn’s staring. Something that a child with no control of self would do. But he was not a child--not anymore. Perhaps the artist had found something of interest elsewhere, and perhaps -Hurte forbid- a hair was sticking out of his immaculately combed crown of black. Self-consciously, the man gently ran his hand to smooth down his hair, carding through inky strands before tucking a few behind his ear. His eyes gazed down on his delight-filled cup the entire time.

"Ah." Pale green eyes looked up from the deep brown liquid to meet honey-colored eyes that carried something--something that he could not entirely place. Just like Fionn’s half-smile, it was there, he could see it, but only barely. Was the other, for some unknown reason, upset? His words regarding his parents’ choice of names for him lacked any sort of affection, and that was odder to Yazad than the indifference he spoke of his master with. With his cheek resting on his palm, and his gaze meeting the other’s, Yazad wondered just how many other hair colors the family’s children had if this was the point of reference for their son. There was a hint of laughter in Fionn’s tone, but it was neither mirthful nor playful. The way he alternated between dry sentences and adding more lines to the paper then smudging them spoke of distraction, or maybe it is a manifestation of his companion’s still-present tension. Clear as day during months in which the sun actually shone, Fionn harbored no fondness towards his given name or the parents who had given it to him. Names can be changed, new names can be adopted, yet he did not think it wise to say that. Prickly words were as easy to distinguish as an open glare, and Yazad made a point to simply smile and nod silently, hoping to soak the strain permeating the air.

With unchanging relaxed motions, Yazad raised his cup to take a sip of his drink, then another. Once again, Fionn was momentarily engaged with his art with a frown of concentration creasing his brows. This boy is going to have wrinkles by the time he is Yazad’s age at this rate. The raven-haired passive wanted to say that out loud, but he worried that conversing with Fionn while he was drawing could break the other’s focus. Across the artist, the servant’s fingers tapped lightly against his cheek in an even rhythm. Just when Yazad had thought that the boy would do nothing with the teacup but recreate it on paper, Fionn reached for it to take a brief sip of his beverage. "Goodness--" How many times had he said that today? Nay, just this past hour? Yazad blinked at the way Fionn appeared to have almost spat out his tea before quickly swallowing it. What managed to escape the other’s mouth was, to Yazad’s horror, wiped with Fionn’s hand. The tea could have been still hot, but--such unrefined conducts were nearly painful to witness. One can only hope that the boy would grow out of them.

"It is my pleasure to be of service." Yazad responded, filled with mellow satisfaction at having been helpful, though the other seemed hesitant to try his suggestion of serving his employer a bit of experimental hot cocoa.

All too suddenly, the conversation was brought back to the topic of Bastia. Yazad, used as he was to go with the flow of other people’s thoughts, did not seem to have been surprised at the change of subjects. It was rather intriguing to know that an illustration is being born before him, one line at a time, even if he could only chance a glance at the drawn piece every now and then. Fion was apparently curious about his life in Florne, and the passive had no reason to not indulge the boy’s inquisitiveness. "You are correct. I am a man of order, and I do find comfort in familiarity. Florence is where I was born, where my family -Hurte watch over them- is, where blooms are plenty and beauty is prized above all else." The passive spoke softly, smilingly, and tenderly. The reason behind Fionn’s questions was not clear, but Yazad did not need a reason to answer something truthfully. It might come across that he is less impressed with the boy’s homeland of Anaxas, but in all frankness, he was. Another question was asked, and this time, the passive blinked, smiled, then lightly shrugged his shoulders.

"I have never met any other passives in Florne. Rightly so, as I would assume that most of them are in Anastou. My life in Florne consisted only of my family’s residence, and after that, the house of my good master who is also family." There was a light chuckle before Yazad kept going, "It was only in Brunnhold that I was able to meet one such as I am. A lovely lady by the name of Aurelie. Perhaps you are aware that the campus itself houses a large number of other passives, but I cannot say that I had truly ‘met’ any of them." Not unless watching the blue-clad passives walk the less-frequented hallways of Brunnhold with dipped heads and quick steps was considered meeting them. If there was any shame or anger felt towards his state of being a defective galdor child who was made to live a life of servitude, it certainly did not show on the man’s mildly smiling face. And why should he feel any humiliation for it? This was the life that had been meant for him, and he was determined to fully embrace it.

"The good master, difficult as he could be, is a decent man at heart. I can only hope that other passives are looked after just as I had been." With him only ever talking -briefly- to one other passive, it was difficult to build an accurate standard for reference.

The passive sat up straight and laced his fingers over his knees, dipping his head slightly to the other in apology. "I regret that I had very little of use to tell you." The only life he was going to be able to tell Fionn about in full confidence is his own.

A Friend In Need? Yes, Indeed

[Fionn]

Dentis 17, 2719 | Afternoon
Some café, The Stacks

.

If Yazad picked up on any of the flippancy in the youth’s manner then he didn’t show it, seeming to remain in a happy sort of oblivion. He really was exceptionally cheerful, and it would almost have been sickening if he hadn’t been so ludicrously pretty; there were many things that Fionn was willing to forgive when dealing with a pretty face.

Ah yes, because that went really well yesterday, he thought, his mind turning briefly to Lilliana’s visit only to skitter away from it again before he could scowl.

Best not to think of that woman and her deceit. It didn’t bear thinking about in general, but this was hardly an appropriate venue, especially if his temper took a turn for the worse. It was all still too raw, not something that he should contemplate examining until he felt less inclined to tear his own hair out as he dealt with the dilemma posed by contradictory promises.

He pushed it away firmly, forcing himself to focus on the young man before him, pretty-faced and unnaturally happy—easy on the eyes, suitably diverting.

Yazad didn’t appear to be ruffled by much, but he appeared to have issues with Fionn touching his mouth. Before, he’d been perturbed by the boy putting his fingertip in his mouth and now, it was an issue with him wiping away the moisture that had leaked out—not that that was immediately obvious. When the realisation did dawn on him, the young man found it incredibly funny. So squeamish! There were really far worse things and at least he knew where his own hands had been!

Though it did suggest that the other was rather particular in his behaviour, perhaps consulting some inner manual that had been driven into him along with this happy acceptance of his lot. Godsdamnit, he’d said that it was a pleasure to be of service and it had seemed genuine—not sullen or sarcastic at all! Perhaps this was what you got when you stuck a passive into servitude outside of the likes of Brunnhold instead of gating them. There were some grateful passives in the university as he’d been unfortunate enough to encounter them, but none of them had been… like this exactly. Although it could be a cultural difference, despite the fact that he’d heard that Bastia and Anaxas were similar in many ways.

A man of order? Yes, that might be it—something more personal. Many tried to find something to cling to that allowed them to cope with the shift in their life from children of the ruling race who had been told that their greatness was inevitable to the discarded, defective scraps that you did your best to hide.

There was order to manners, rules of decorum to be learned by rote and internalised, and it was quite possible that those standards had taken on greater importance to the half-Hessean when he fell from grace and then he’d gone slightly insane. Quite possible, they were all a little touched in the head—some passives more than others.

First, Lars popped into his head and then worse—far worse—came Ayden and the old scars—both physical and psychological—started to itch.

He balled his hand into fist, pressing tighter until the nails dug into his palm and the pain grounded him in the present, forcing him to focus as the other chirped about the centrality of beauty in his home city. The man spoke of the place with a fondness that Fionn failed to hold for Vienda. True, he hadn’t lived in the Anaxi capital for as many years as Yazad had lived in Florne—he seemed older though one could never be sure of these things—but the blond didn’t think his opinion would have been changed by residing there for a greater duration.

As the other servant kept talking however, the teenager stared at him intently, lips parting slightly.

He hadn’t met any passives in Florne and rightly so—rightly so.

Blessed Circle and all its aspects, what the fuck was wrong with this one? How readily had he absorbed and accepted the rhetoric about passives and never thought to question it? Passives weren’t bloody criminals and you weren’t supposed to think it a good thing that they were kept together in one place that was out of the way—he assumed that Anastou was like Brunnhold.

Energy that had previously gone into clenching his empty hand, and left crescent moon impressions behind, shifted to the hand that held the pencil. He half-heard and half-felt the soft squeak of the give in the wood as it came under pressure, held too tightly and threatening to snap in half if he kept squeezing.

He wasn’t going to lose it—not here, not now—he wasn’t going to slap this delusional creature to ensure he held Yazad’s attention before he screamed sense at him. There were new twitches of his mouth now, lips threatening to pull back and bare his teeth in a snarl instead of a smile.

The mention of the redhead was thoroughly unexpected and probably one of the few things in that moment that could have safely disarmed him rather than allowing him to explode in the half-Bastian’s direction. His fingers released and sent the pencil clattering from his grip as he sank back in his seat, deflated.

“You saw Aura? Did she-” he cut himself off abruptly, wondering what information he expected to get out of the young man across from him. If he asked how she’d seemed, Yazad would probably have told him some chroveshit like how she’d been only too glad to be in Brunnhold and why on Vita could anything be wrong with her while she was in there?

He sighed, the youth’s eyes heavily-hooded as he made a short dismissive gesture with his hand. Forget it. His companion was oblivious and it wouldn’t serve anything to discuss the girl with him; besides he might only irritate him further.

Unfortunately, his mention of the kitchen maid brought the thoughts he’d been trying to avoid to the forefront of his mind once more. After the initial shock and strange thrill of excitement that Yazad had met her, the young man was left with the sensation of his heart sinking into his stomach once more, a heavy feeling that he’d experienced the day before while in Ana’s presence as well. The sweet scent of his companion’s beverage no longer seemed tantalising, but rather nauseating; he took to breathing in through his mouth to try to ease the situation.

“It’s not right you know, keeping- keeping passives in places like Brunnhold,”—he’d almost said ‘keeping us’—“and I highly doubt that any of them are treated as well as you’ve been. Your parents foisted you off on a relative, but you’re still lucky; you weren’t orphaned outright.”

While Fionn’s temper had lost its volatility, the youth couldn’t help but snap, the ignorance of it truly irking him. The other was sheltered and he’d been fed the sort of lies that you were meant to believe—and he had. The blond shouldn’t take that out on him but truthfully, it pissed him off.

”Do you think it’s normal to be allowed enough freedom to come into a place like this and buy a drink for yourself—to be allowed the coin to do so?” the boy asked in a hiss, keeping his voice low so that he wouldn’t scream; it made him sound more vicious in the process, or maybe he really was that desperate to wound with his tongue alone.

The teenager’s lips pressed together firmly, wrestling with the idea of saying more when it might be better to stay silent. Yazad hadn’t grouped him in his talk of passives, he had left him separate and if he did view him as human then they weren’t supposed to care, were they? A broken galdor was still a galdor to them, and thus, they wouldn’t be blustering about passive rights!

“Don’t you think it’s wrong that you don’t get to see any of your own kind? You aren’t a criminal. Would you think it fair to lock somebody up if they hadn’t done anything wrong? For what? The crime of being born the way that they are? Oh but if you call it gating instead of prison that makes it all right, does it? It makes it kind, does it?”

The youth simply couldn’t help himself, but what good would this passion do him? It wasn’t likely that he’d awaken some sense of injustice in the half-Hessean. No, he’d probably view him almost on par with someone committing blasphemy.

He picked up his tea, seemingly muttering an apology to the porcelain, his brows knit together in an ugly twist of flesh.

[Yazad]

Some Café, The Stacks

17th of Dentis, 2719; Afternoon

I t had been a very apparent thing for a while now, but Yazad still found himself thinking about how odd Fionn is. The boy tensed up sometimes, looked to be lost in thought some others, sporadically kept himself busy with his art, and stopped only to ask such curious questions. It was not a bad kind of odd; Yazad had never met anyone who was a bad kind of odd, but still--Fionn was odd.

It made sense that people who had not been given the opportunity to travel would be curious about other kingdoms, so Yazad thought nothing of the other’s inquiries about Florne and how passives were treated there. Inquisitiveness was as natural a trait to the man as his inability to resist a good beat. His brief description of his city of birth had brought back fragmented images that had faded with the passage of time--hedge roses of pink and red, the shimmering waters of a lake under direct sunlight, lavish dresses so wide in diameter that they could easily eclipse others behind them, the grand chandelier in the Logarchon manor. Such beautiful sights, such distant memories.

For someone who had asked to be told about Bastia, Fionn made no comments about the passive’s answer. It could have been disappointment at Yazad’s lack of information to give regarding his fellow Bastian passives, or the boy attempting to envision what Yazad had described. For a passing moment, Fionn wore a stiffened expression which Yazad knew not what to make of, before the other’s form relaxed back onto the seat following the dropping of his pencil. This...was not the effect that Yazad expected his answer to have. Both of his hands closed around the now lukewarm cup while his eyes stared ahead at the silent youth.

It was Yazad’s turn to be momentarily speechless at the other’s mention of the name ‘Aura’. It was the casual utterance of someone who seemed to know exactly who the passive spoke about and was familiar enough with her to not address her formally. Fionn might be an acquaintance of the young woman, or perhaps a relative? No, that would not make much sense unless Fionn was a galdor, and Yazad was certain that he is not sitting with a galdor. Whatever Fionn was going to ask, he ended up not asking. Pale green eyes blinked slowly, his head tilted slightly to the side. This could be one of fate’s little amusements-- a simple coincidence to meet someone who knows someone else whom he had met, but for all he knows, the awkward passive could know more people than he initially expected.

Fionn waved his hand, pushing the incomplete question away, and Yazad stowed his curiosity for another time.

Just as Yazad did before, -this was turning into a pattern at this point- he lifted his now half-full cup to his lips, filling the silence with another sip.

"Hm?" Long lashes fluttered slightly as Yazad looked up at Fionn over the cup, his lips closing on the white porcelain. For the fifth time -or perhaps the eighth?- he thought that Fionn was odd. Slowly, the raven-haired man lowered his cup to the table, eyes pinned on his companion in what was openly apparent as confused anticipation for him to continue. And for the following few moments, Yazad had said nothing--he only stared with eyes that carried neither offense nor understanding.

There was nothing to the passive’s expression. He was not pleased or upset; only slightly puzzled by the boy’s seemingly abrupt spillage of heated sentences. Suddenly, the one before him was a page that is just begging to be read. Fionn’s interest in passives went beyond just Bastia, extending to Anaxan passives as well. Strong words of doubt and contempt, harsh words that almost tasted bitter to the man’s ears. Yazad’s capacity to feel slighted, intended or not, was already utterly low. He was even less likely to be offended when everything that the other said is true.

Yazad continued to openly stare, now with a couple of slender fingers lightly tapping the side of his cheek in thought. Something was forming in his head. An idea, a probability, an explanation.

"Not all in this world is right, dear boy." Yazad finally spoke, not smiling for once. His expression remained just as placid and tempered, his voice lost nothing of its softness. "I do think that it is wrong to gate passives,” Yazad’s head leaned slightly to rest on his palm again as he went on, “I also feel that it is just as wrong that some tend to slaughter game for sport, or to see children walking the streets covered in soot and blisters. Alas, life does not function in accordance with what I feel is right or wrong. If I am ever presented with the chance to make another’s life any easier, then I would take it. Yes, I had been, as you put it, foisted off on a relative. I was and am still lucky." And that was something that he felt grateful for, even if Fionn made it sound as though his fortune was something to be ashamed of.

It had always been this way for Yazad. Due to no effort of his own, he was spared the fate of joining hundreds of gated passives in Anastou. Coin reached him from his father, freedom of movement was granted to him by his master, the vendors sometimes gifted him additional wares for no payment, and happiness came to him naturally even when there was no reason for it. It could be a blessing, it could be a boon of divine origins, it could be something in the way he perceived the world around him--whatever it is, he accepted it with no qualms.

The state of the world was far removed from what his luck can help him with. Had Fionn expected that being livid at the law will somehow alter it? What can be done about it? Should they hold galdori at knifepoint and demand that they love and respect passives? Scream them into understanding that passives should be their equals? Reckless temperaments and thoughtless zeal would only serve to prove the point that passives were witless and incapable. Those are not things that he thought should be said to a person who looked to already be struggling with their temper.

"No matter my thoughts and feelings about it, this is the way of the world. Denial does nothing to change it, neither does anger." There was a light shrug to go with Yazad’s calm voice. Fionn was frowning rather deeply, mumbling into his teacup. By Hurte, this child’s face will have the wrinkles of a raisin by the time he is thirty if he continues to scowl like this. Slowly, the serene smile returned to the man’s rose-hued lips, as though he had finally reached a satisfactory conclusion. It was Yazad’s turn to ask questions of his own, and he did so with a soft smile and a lowered voice.

"Are you this fervid regarding passives on behalf of someone else, or yourself?"

A Friend In Need? Yes, Indeed

[Fionn]

Dentis 17, 2719 | Afternoon
Some café, The Stacks

.

Regardless of how much the youth might wish to curse his own temper, it had certainly brought results; at the very least, it had caused a change. The other had grown rather inexpressive, silent in the face of the blond’s passion, but he’d finally stopped smiling. It was a grim relief to discover that he could almost be serious, albeit the relief was short-lived—as was his relative calmness.

As soon as Yazad opened his mouth, the desire to slap him surged, and the impulse was strong enough to leave his left hand white-knuckled on the table to prevent his palm from reddening one of those cherubic cheeks. The other made matters incredibly difficult for him, something horribly patronising about his words as if he was teaching him. Between the pair of them, it was the foreigner who was liable to be the greater innocent. In truth, the young man was amazed that he had stated anything contrary to the world being a place of delight and fairness.

It almost made him reconsider his view of Yazad, wondering if he’d misjudged him.

Almost.

His lips pressed together firmly, withholding the sarcastic remark that would no doubt have missed its mark, his companion all liable to take him literally and therefore, utterly misunderstand. Again. Only the straightest words could be used with the other, he suspected.

A huff of exasperation escaped him, teeth grinding viciously against each other as he resisted the inclination to scream. This wasn’t the time to weigh this one injustice against the others of the world—as if hunting for sport should be held in comparison with the captivity of the magically unfortunate— and allow it to slip into obscurity and insignificance amidst the general woes of Vita.

“I am all too aware that not all is right in the world. I’m not inclined to think that there’s much right in it,” the teenager stated from between gritted teeth, doing his best to keep his lips close together so that he wouldn’t seem to be snarling.

“Denial does nothing though, you’re correct there,” he added, though he said nothing of anger; he suspected that that could do a great deal if it was suitably aimed—not that he had such skill. “I don’t imagine that simply treating it as ‘the way of the world’ helps either—that being complacency.”

The young man was not only angry but contemptuous as well. It didn’t matter if Yazad was merely a product of his environment, some sort of ideal resulting from the entitlement and comfort of a one-time galdori upbringing and the passive ideology that everyone was supposed to imbibe. He’d been pampered—relatively speaking—and he shouldn’t view him as truly culpable and yet…

He was pissed, and they all just felt like excuses, but it was the frosty kind of rage that had a different kind of burn. It was remaining mostly beneath the surface albeit it was present in his voice and the way his chin pointed up.

And then his companion asked his question and the blood drained from Fionn’s face. His face became increasingly wooden as well, the muscles locking in place. He certainly wasn’t impassive—it was clear that he was ill-pleased—but he was nowhere near as expressive as he was wont to be.

Bells and chimes! He wouldn’t have asked a question like that unless he had a fair suspicion of what he was. It didn’t seem like something you’d ask on a whim without quite a bit of confidence in what you were insinuating.

“Myself?” he questioned coldly, the syllables slow and deliberate. “I don’t know what you mean by a thing like that. On the behalf of someone else obviously.”

He might be frosty and bloodless on the outside but internally, he was on fire, his heart beating with such ferocity that there was a great deal of friction within, ready to send him up in flames.

Panic wasn’t a good thing to mix in with the anger and the rest of emotions tumbling about inside him.

[Yazad]

Some Café, The Stacks

17th of Dentis, 2719; Afternoon

T he forceful exhale of breath coming from the visibly agitated boy nearly plucked a chuckle out of Yazad’s lips, but the passive managed to suppress that. At that moment, Fionn was reminding him of a kettle spewing steam and heat. Oh, but he was being awful; finding amusement in his companion’s poorly masked reactions. Quite the opposite of the one person Yazad often spent his days with, and perhaps that contrast was rather refreshing to see. Aurelie was also struggling with expressing herself, although her attempts were more awkward and less heated. Perhaps it was simply an Anaxan thing. For all the clever words Fionn could utter, he was not what Yazad would call forthcoming.

Yazad glanced over at the pencil, the paper with a drawing taking form on it, and the eyes carrying a spark of something intense and volatile. The boy was undoubtedly intelligent, and capable of more than simply stringing a few sentences to sound smart, but-- Yazad looked at the set jaw and high-strung form. What point is there to be great at dicing ingredients if one is going to always burn what they cook? What good is intellect if rampant feelings were going to drown it? Not that the passive himself was one to talk, he was admittedly a man of emotions, but still-- it was the difference between a runny pudding and a well-cooked one.

Goodness, he really did have a hopeless tendency to compare everything to cooking.

There was agreement spoken by the boy, which was a slight surprise to Yazad who half expected the other to give an explosive response. Fionn was, apparently, not as mindlessly lost to rage as Yazad had initially thought. Still somewhat of a negative pessimist, though. The raven-haired man nodded to his companion, who was thankfully still composed enough to hold the exchange despite the peeking aggression.

As much as Yazad wanted an honest answer to his question, the reaction itself was already rather interesting. Is this offense that he was sensing in the other’s tone? Hostility? Well, that last one had been present for a while now, though the passive felt little to no bother about it. There was only further intrigue, and more questions mounting atop existing observations. It was understandable that a person who is not a passive would want to be mistaken for one of society’s lowest rungs, so that could explain Fionn’s strong reply of dismissal. "I see." If anything, the man found himself smiling a bit more as he uttered the words. It is perhaps better to be wrong in his assumptions than it is to be right about a boy with such a sensitive personality being a passive.

There was a long and quiet sip; one that drained the rest of what remained in Yazad’s cup before it was lowered to the table, the man’s pinky cushioning it as to not make a sound. This had been a good drink, and if he can miraculously make his way to the same cafe at another time then he would gladly repeat the order. "In that case," Yazad picked up the conversation, now resting both of his elbows on the table, slender fingers lacing so he could rest his chin on them. With his drink now properly finished, his pale green eyes gazed attentively at the younger male before him with a visible degree of expectation.

"Clearly you had thought about this extensively enough to have such passionate opinions about it. Perhaps you can tell me what you would have done to change things? I am rather curious." And truly, he was curious to hear what the obviously-not-a-passive boy had to say regarding that matter.

"Not that I intend to be doing anything of the sort, mind you. Any such foolishness would reflect rather terribly on the good master’s name. Alas, it is rather fascinating to be able to see a different side of things." They were sitting on a table that barely separated them, within easy touching distance from one another, but their views appeared to be set on the opposite ends of a considerably wider distance. Yazad’s eyes gleamed with anticipation for an interesting answer.

"What, exactly, would Fionn do to make things different for passives?"

A Friend In Need? Yes, Indeed

[Fionn]

Dentis 17, 2719 | Afternoon
Some café, The Stacks

.

The teenager had no idea what to make of Yazad’s smirk that appeared when Fionn provided his rather shrewd answer. Was it something he’d said or something he hadn’t? He didn’t know what was so amusing about what he’d said unless his companion knew precisely what he was and thus-

No, there was no way that the brunette could have known all this time and somehow hidden it. There was no way that he could be quite so impenetrable unless the passive had been duped again. The idea that this seeming guilelessness could be an act was too awful to contemplate honestly, although why would he be putting it on? Did he always act this way around strangers or did he have an ulterior motive after all?

The youth didn’t know what to think and perhaps he was particularly vulnerable after his encounter with Lilliana the previous day, but all of the second guessing and analysis was exhausting. The middle Madden desperately wanted to believe that what he saw was exactly what he was getting, but experience told him something rather opposite. Ayden had been worldly before he’d come to Brunnhold, which was why he’d been able to fake so much. Now that he was dealing with more people like him—those who hadn’t had the cloistered lifestyle of gated passives—shades of grey were becoming more prevalent rather than the stark black and white to which Fionn had grown accustomed. If he didn’t swing so wildly between one position and another, it might be easier, but when taking things literally could leave him naively trusting and optimistic, it might be better to believe in cynicism and paranoia.

Was it better to view the other in the best possible light or the worst one in this instance? Which one would harm the blond less in either the short-term or the long-term? In spite of the loneliness that continues to gnaw at him, viewing the half-Bastian as someone not wholly trustworthy was probably the safest option.

He did his best not to let his forehead crumple into its typical thoughtful furrow, least of all because it would probably leave him with a tension headache. Instead, his gaze settled on the awkward, unnatural looking lines of his drawing. Too many straight lines, even where there were curves, they simply didn’t look organic enough. Anything with a true roundness to it appeared clumsy to him, some areas more clearly having felt the effects of his mood than others as there was a carelessness to the way he’d blocked out light and shade, areas darker and more uneven than they had to be, lacking the carefree grace of real artists. He allowed the sketching paper to return to its original arrangement, hiding the ugly thing from his sight.

It gave him something to do as the other presented questions that were… frankly quite unexpected, a quick, furtive look suggesting that his companion wasn’t mocking him but seemed to be genuinely intrigued by what the passive might say. The teenager wasn’t hasty in getting back to him with an answer either, weighing what he would tell him, drawing on the thoughts that had plagued him over the last number of seasons. Underneath all the bitterness and resentment, Fionn really thought about what could be done, not only in general, but by him personally.

He downed the remainder of his tea, hurrying to get it down his gullet so that he’d have to suffer less from the particularly tart flavour of the lukewarm liquid, which was inclined to form something like a skin over his tongue. His lips twisted as he set the teacup back on its saucer, the almost gritty texture of the leaves having caressed his taste buds before he’d allowed them to slide back into the porcelain.

The vessel remained at an angle, not set down properly as the youth maintained a grasp on it. It was tilted so that he could see the dark residue on the bottom, an odd remembrance triggered by the sight as he recalled that wicks claimed that they could tell things about a person based on the dregs of their tea. It had sounded whimsical to him as a child, appealing in its strangeness, and not unlike his pastime of picking out patterns in clouds or within the grain of his bedroom floorboards, fancying that he recognised living things inside them.

While he turned the cup now and watched the black mass shift and change, Fionn couldn’t see anything alive in it. In fact, it reminded him of the mould that could grow up around ingredients that had fallen into odd crevices in a kitchen or simply been left neglected and forgotten. Rot and decay, that’s what he saw. Death.

With that wonderful cheery thought, the young man set it correctly on its dish and focused on Yazad instead, head tilting slightly to the side.

“What I can do and what I would do aren’t the same,” the servant admitted quietly, folding his hands together on top of his sketchbook. They were at rest for a moment before he switched to the task of lining up and straightening his pencils from hard to soft, their lengths varied.

“If I was a galdor, there’s far more that I could do because I might actually be listened to and that probably makes a lot of difference. Even then,”—he thought of the professors working out of Laboratory Beta, viewed as being somewhat radical, and his sister who had become almost guilty by association—“it can’t be done alone and while there are sympathetic galdori, they don’t necessarily have much influence, or know what to do with it.”

“You have to understand what makes passives tick. The why and the how of diableries. If people think that a passive might go off unexpectedly like one of those Hoxian firecrackers then it’s easy to be afraid and gate them so that they’re someone else’s problem. Easier to think of them-”

He broke off, licking his lips lightly as flecked brown eyes sought sparkling green ones, and narrowed as the passive made some quick calculations and ultimately came out with ‘fuck it’.

The teenager leaned closer, darting glances to either side to see who might be listening, and corrected himself so softly that it could be heard scarcely above his breath.

“Easier to think of us as cursed, broken, pitiable. But if the gollies did the research and it turned out that passives weren’t as dangerous and unpredictable as they’ve led themselves to believe…”

He trailed off, shrugging as he leaned back in his chair again. He sighed, massaging his brow.

“The university needs passives, maybe—probably—it’s the same in Bastia and that’s probably more important to them than whether the need goes both ways. They won’t let humans near and they can’t look after themselves,”—a sneer crept into his voice before dissipating—“so they need passives and that won’t change unless they learn to consider something else.”

Which sometimes felt as impossible as trying to convince the sun and moons to reverse their movements, but he certainly didn’t add that. Maybe the other would see his sense of hopelessness in the slump of his shoulders or the lowering of his eyes once more.

“As for what I can do personally, considering that I’m… not a galdor, well, I’m already doing what I can. Like I said, there are sympathetic gollies.”

The blond bit his lip, regarding Yazad warily. He didn’t know if he should have revealed his true nature, but it wouldn’t be the first time that his recklessness had been his downfall. That being said, if the other decided to crow the fact then he’d give him a chance to shut his godsbedamned head before Fionn did it for him. Not that the proprietor would like that, but he thought he could live with being kicked out right about now. Unless he went for the collies, of course, in which case, Fionn would have a definite problem.

[Yazad]

Some Café, The Stacks

17th of Dentis, 2719; Afternoon

A s seconds ticked by, Fionn and Yazad’s conversation was replaced by silence-- or it would have been if not for the ever-present background sounds of merging chatter and clinking cups. The two well-dressed gentlemen who occupied the table within Yazad’s line of sight had departed a few moments ago, and they were eventually replaced by slightly younger ones with far less reservation. For a mere second, the passive’s eyebrows gathered in a display of displeasure. Hurte above. This vest? With that coat?

Yazad was aware that his questions were not something that most people would have a ready answer for, and so he gave the boy his time of thinking. In an attempt to shield his mind from the unfortunate outfit coordination going on behind Fionn’s back, the man returned his gaze to the contemplative blonde. The cream-colored paper, with its coarse lines and pencil smears, was tucked somewhere out of his sight now. Fionn drank the contents of his cup -which Yazad assumed had already lost its warmth- before setting the thing down at an odd angle. It looked as if Fionn, lost in thought as he was, sought an answer from the depths of the small porcelain container. It was a standard shape with minimal decoration-- a far cry from the tea set that he used at home for his tea-serving purposes.

When Fionn finally began to talk again, Yazad nodded silently and left the boy to continue his words uninterrupted. He would have said something like ‘That is understandable’, but it nearly felt as if speaking up might just break up the other’s flow. Fionn’s voice was low, and his hands moved in what looked like an impulsive motion to rearrange the pencils that were strewn about. A nervous tick, maybe?

Again, Yazad simply listened with attentive eyes and a steady smile, his only interaction with Fionn -whom he chose to give the freedom of elaboration to out of respect- was to sometimes tilt his head slightly to the side or blink two times in succession. Despite the lack of response, thoughts bloomed in his head at rapid speed. There were a couple of times in which Yazad barely managed to hold back a chuckle, up until he saw the boy lean forward with a rather wary expression on his face, after taking a few seconds to look around. Sensing Fionn’s earnestness, Yazad himself lowered his stance, his eyes widening slightly in silent inquisitiveness.

Us.

It would have been a bit more surprising for Yazad had he heard this ten minutes prior, but the blonde’s reaction to his earlier question was so much of a giveaway that Yazad had already arrived at that conclusion as a possibility. It was an answer of such guarded denial that can only give the impression of an attempt at hiding something. While his smile persisted, the man’s fine brows arched slightly downward. "I was hoping that I was wrong regarding that." Yazad commented, sighing softly. The reason Fionn was looking rather alert while disclosing his identity as a passive escaped Yazad. Was the boy ashamed of who he is--what he is? Was he concerned about some kind of unknown harm coming his way? As much as Yazad wanted to know, there were more important things to be said now. Fionn was not yet finished, and Yazad had a lot to say about all the things his companion mentioned.

"I am rather impressed, Fionn." Yazad began calmly when the younger male ceased talking and sat back on his chair, giving him a cautious look. "You look rather young to me, and your antics are somewhat--shall we say, unbridled. Yet you speak of solutions that are sensible and rational. Though, I must say, if you were a galdor, there is a high probability that you would not have the same views that you do right now." The man chuckled lightly, summoning up the image of a prim and proper Fionn in a tailored suit and a silken top hat. It was equally humorous and unfitting. Yazad had such thoughts sometime in the past. If he were still Yazad Logarchon, the galdor, would he still be the man that he is today?

"A galdor has very little to gain for vocalizing such views, and in return, they would have quite a bit to lose. I, personally, believe that silence can be attributed to various reasons. Some might not want to risk rocking what they consider to be a steady boat, others could be functioning upon misinformation. And then there are those who are indifferent to it all." Sophronios belonged to that last group. Fionn’s statement was correct. Men such as his relative had no sway in the grand scheme of things. Expecting those who actually have sway -people of means and status- to toss their privileges for the sake of moral integrity is a tall order. Yazad still believed that there is goodness in most, galdori or otherwise.

"It had come to my attention that there are recent attempts to understand the nature of passives and what makes them, as you said, ‘go off unexpectedly like one of those Hoxian firecrackers’. I do hope to be able to see that one day. Ah, I mean the Hoxian firecrackers, mind you. Not a passive’s--" Yazad left his words to trail away into momentary silence, allowing the unspoken but obvious alternative to sink in. Up until his conversation with Aurelie -who told him about one unknown Professor Moore-, Yazad had not even considered himself to be capable of a diablerie. These things happened, yes, but they would not happen to him. His life was peaceful and mundane-- people with peaceful and mundane lives do not become the subjects of any events of importance.

And did Fionn not react rather oddly to his mention of Aurelie’s name being mentioned before? Knowing the woman does not necessarily entail her sharing that information with Fionn.

And on the subject of Brunnhold--

"Correct you are. The galdori need us, we are just indisposable like that." Instead of snark or sarcasm, there was lighthearted pride in the man’s voice as he spoke in reference to one of the boy’s remarks. Yazad was accepting of his decided role as a servant, though who really made that choice for him? Was it the law written up by galdori, or the weavers of fate itself? It did not matter, either way. He had little to complain about. "It is not at all a terrible thing if we are recognized to be that vital. After all, if one is so severely needed by another, then it means that they are the ones with far less to lose. I know not to what effect the universities are going to such lengths, but if the risk of diablerie fatalities is the justification, then no factory would still be standing anywhere in the world." Not many printed issues of newspapers would go by without mention of freakish accidents and deadly mishaps at one factory or another. Carriages were also known to be responsible for a fair number of the names occupying the obituary sections, yet no one seems as eager to gate horses or kensers. But flimsy as the argument was, it had long since been established as a reasonable and valid precaution.

"Just like brown sugar, white sugar, and confectioner’s sugar are all essentially the same substance with different properties, galdori and passives have more in common than otherwise. Though if people were told that brown sugar is poison repeatedly enough over countless decades, then they were more and more likely to believe it."

Until brown sugar is proven innocent of toxicity, which is what Fionn himself had suggested earlier.

Slowly, Yazad mirrored Fionn’s motion to sit back against his relatively hard chair. His eyes looked at the boy's perpetually tense face in thought, before plump lips opened again to speak. He really did not have to say how he came to learn of this, which is what encouraged him to say it. "Do you know of a certain Professor Moore? Supposedly a faculty member in Brunnhold?" Yazad asked casually, chancing the question that he did not expect much in response to.

A Friend In Need? Yes, Indeed

[Fionn]

Dentis 17, 2719 | Afternoon
Some café, The Stacks

.

Yazad was such a startlingly passive thing. Perhaps it was an odd thing to think, but there really could be no better way to describe him. He could sit across from Fionn, meek and mild, and simply waiting. Looking at the half-Hessean, he could understand how their kind had gotten their name. Waiting to be given purpose, acted through by galdori rather than being truly active. Waiting to be filled up with mona that was beyond their control. It was strange, how pleasantly vacant he was, like a canvas that had had something pretty painted on it, something alive, but hadn’t received the necessary strokes to make it truly vital, as if Yazad was missing depth. It didn’t seem natural that a person’s spark could just be absent. He wasn’t lifeless, it wasn’t my that, but it simply seemed as if he was going through the motions—perfectly passive.

That sort of passivity had always disgusted him; Fionn wasn’t like that at all, which was why it was ironic that he’d had his diablerie, and thus had passively experienced magic.

The other took his cue from the teenager, leaning close to reduce the chance of being overheard, a response that the blond had both anticipated and counted on, but after that…

“I was hoping that I was wrong regarding that.”

So he really had been suspicious and had been damn near direct in his line of questioning here. Ticks!

“Yes, and I was hoping that you wouldn’t… w-wouldn’t realise,” he admitted with a sigh, resisting the urge to rub his palm wearily across his face. It had been far too much to hope for really, and that was probably generally true as well. Then again, people were no doubt more willing to believe that he was a well-spoken human—they weren’t all primitive or uncivilised after all—rather than a magically unpredictable galdor who didn’t readily stand apart from them as he ought to do. Everyone hoped that he wasn’t passive and the ambiguity of his appearance coupled with his lack of distinctive clothing allowed them to dismiss his true nature as a possibility. However, there was no cause for the foreign servant to hold such hopes and thus, no grounds to refuse to draw certain conclusions.

It didn’t mean that he had to be thrilled about it though.

“Even if I’d kept mum, you probably would have seen me in… more recognisable clothing and then you’d have known anyway, and maybe… it’s not the worst thing that you know—though I don’t want you drawing attention to it.”

There was a growl of warning, a slight narrowing of his brown eyes. No sense in being coy with the older man—a wasted effort. The other passive seemed rather nonplussed anyway, not that he should have expected anything different.

The comment about his particularly youthful appearance drew an exasperated sigh from him, his hand finding an excuse to rub across his face after all. He should be used to that at this point but it never failed to irk him. It had happened so many times with everyone assuming that he must be scarcely past boyhood, and for some that had appealed far more than it should have.

“I’m not as young as I look, all right? I’m not that far off majority—not that it means much—but I was a bit of a late bloomer.”

The middle Madden couldn’t help but give his tally’s worth on the subject, even though it would have been better to ignore it and simply listen. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying more, forcing himself to hear the other’s words as they were delivered instead of dwelling on ones that were slipping further and further into the past.

The youth nodded along, giving a low, unhappy hum of agreement regarding how his outlook would likely have been different if he hadn’t proved to be defective. It wasn’t news to him—Fionn had contemplated it before, including how he might have been if his path in his life hadn’t proven to be so cruel—but it wasn’t something worth dwelling upon. After all, there was absolutely no way for him to reverse time and somehow change his nature so that when the time came, he never tested as passive. The idea of playing a part in passive rights though, that was a real possibility—a slim one—but something that realistically could be attained. It might take years but it wasn’t pure fantasy like the other thing.

“Probably not. I doubt that I’d care about anything beyond myself if I’d been a galdor—not that I’m concerned with much beyond myself as it is,” he pointed out, smiling thinly as he fixed his flinty gaze on the other. His hands grasped the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip. “Although, my life wasn’t exactly rosy before my life really went to shit.”

He cocked his head to the side, eyes sliding sideways as if he was trying to peer inside of himself. That was quite an admittance, especially to a veritable stranger, and one for which he didn’t have a particular fondness. He’d simply wanted to imply that not every galdor had ‘quite a bit to lose’, and while he’d only really been referring to himself, he found himself in the unfortunate position of almost being sympathetic to his magically superior kin and he shied away from it as he so often did; they didn’t deserve his sympathy considering all of their advantages.

The repetition about Hoxian fireworks had his brain going somewhat off-task, cheeks warming at thoughts of his time with Aurelie on the night of the fireworks display, but quickly going cold again as his meeting with her sister rudely intruded. Thoughts of Lilliana’s visit didn’t make him feel well at all and it was probably visible to some degree in his face, perhaps turning off-colour now instead of retaining that glow of vitality that has bloomed as a result of the wind.

The other’s pride sickened him further, the boy unable to stop the grimace into which his mouth curled. He shook his head curtly, clucking softly with his tongue to show his disapproval.

“Indisposable as a group, yes, but not as individuals. A death here and there or the occasional maiming probably wouldn’t be reason for tears. Passives dying in droves would be… well, reason for concern but largely inconvenient, I think. Uncomfortable, maybe, but any other damage?”

His head tilted downwards, brown eyes fixing on the brunette’s face from beneath closely knit brows as he chuckled darkly.

“As long as it isn’t visible and it doesn’t prevent work then nobody cares about any other damage so to say that a passive is indispensable… perhaps that’s a tad strong.”

The idea that he had less to lose than a galdor because of how ‘vital’ he was made Fionn fire a dirty look at his companion, one that also found itself being aimed in a more diluted form at a server over Yazad’s shoulder who was hovering. The man had clearly been trying to determine if they were finished, no doubt keen to prevent them from lingering unless they were ready to shell out more coin. The human reminded him of a carrion eater, watching for signs that the creature it was planning to devour had weakened sufficiently to be its meal; he just needed to know that it was safe for him to swoop in without incurring wrath or resistance.

He met the blond’s glare with a vapid smile that had an edge of nervousness to it and turned his attention elsewhere, acting as if brown eyes hadn’t attempted to skewer him to the opposite wall.

“You’d be surprised how much you can lose, even when it shouldn’t be possible—or reasonable,” he snapped at the other, wishing—not for the first time—that he could ruffle his nexus in the same manner with which galdori did their fields when displeased. “Not that you’d know anything about that,” he added bitterly, hands moving restlessly over his belongings.

His fingers twitched, hands threatening to ball into fists. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, attempting to use the deep breaths to gather and expel his anger; if only it was that easy. He crossed his arms across his chest, tense and guarded as he leaned back. The front legs of the chair rose slightly as he proceeded to rock back and forth on the back legs, unconsciously trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the other servant.

While the half-Bastian prattled on, he took the time to gather himself somewhat, to allow his temper to cool instead of jumping to insert his own thoughts. Only when he was asked a direct question did he permit himself to break his sullen silence, aware that the server had begun his hovering again; he didn’t think that he’d be able to stay here much longer.

“Yes, I know the professor. He’s a monic theorist. As I said, there are sympathetic galdor—he’s one of them, probably the most sympathetic one I’ve met,” the boy admitted reluctantly, eyeing the other with unease.

“Why do you ask? I’m surprised that you even know his name, never mind being aware of enough to raise it in this context.”

[Yazad]

Some Café, The Stacks

17th of Dentis, 2719; Afternoon

Y azad did not understand it.

He did not understand why Fionn would not want him to realize his nature as a fellow passive, and why the boy appeared almost weary admitting it. Is it shame? Is it annoyance? Whatever the reason may be, the blonde apparently preferred to keep his passivity a secret. Yazad’s lips tugged into a small smile. There was a smidgen of pity -or guilt? He was not sure which one- at him going against the other’s hopes. To Yazad, it simply did not matter all that much in the end. The way he views Fionn would have been no different if he were a human, a wick, or a galdor. With a tiny chuckle that was born out of amusement, the raven-haired man realized that no matter his race, he would have always seen Fionn as just a rather emotional child.

"Hmmm." The passive’s gaze morphed into something a little more thoughtful and focused following Fionn’s next words. Yazad stared the other passive sitting before him up and down -as much up and down as Fionn’s sitting position allowed-, slightly tilted his head to the side inquisitively with his chin resting on his knuckle, and continued to regard the boy silently in the fashion of someone attempting to assess something important. Ah, yes, indeed. Pale green eyes met the younger male’s, and Yazad smiled again. "Yes, I can see blue looking rather flattering to your eyes, and the darker shades would greatly accent the color of your hair. But goodness, if it were up to me, I would love to see you in beige and light green. Perhaps with a few more announced tones for the sake of good contrast." With his initial thought out of his mind, the older of the two, looking satisfied with his conclusion, sat up straight and folded his hands neatly atop his knees. "Worry not, I shall remain discreet regarding the matter." Yazad assured Fionn, nodding a little. The cautionary look was not missed, but Yazad; still unsure of why Fionn was so concerned with the secrecy of his nature, only continued to smile unchangingly.

Strangely enough, it looked like most of his comments drew out some rather interesting -and irritated- reactions from Fionn. The number of times Fionn had smiled in the duration of their exchanges was comparable to the number of times Yazad had been truly angry in his entire time of existence. A fascinating correlation. It could be that this was a particularly ill-going day for Fionn, or so Yazad hoped. "There is nothing shameful about appearing youthful, though I must say that you do an awful lot of frowning for someone so young. Your skin might wrinkle before its time." Patient concern laced the man’s mildly-spoken words.

How odd. Fionn spoke of a master who insisted on him having a day off, and visibly, the boy is free to spend his days off as he pleases. There was unmissable displeasure that Fionn had displayed when they briefly spoke of his family, but aside from that--

Granted, Yazad was not foolish enough to assume that he knows everything that makes Fionn what he is after a single meeting. No person is ever only what they ‘appear’ to be, there is always much more lurking behind that thin veneer of a front. People were very much like root vegetables: the largest and most vital parts of their being are buried deep, hidden away from view. But then, some people are potatoes, while others are onions.

"Oh, goodness gracious, dear boy." Yazad instinctively covered his mouth which carried a suppressed smile. Truthfully, he felt torn between being appalled and being impressed. "Your candor is quite refreshing, though I hope that you can remember that we are in polite company. One would wish that you are not quite so-- open with your expressions in the presence of your good master." That would be simply disgraceful for one who is in service, though there is the boy’s seemingly reckless conduct to consider. For all he knows, his master might find this sort of behavior endearingly reminiscent of children, as Yazad does. The implication of a difficult life before his current one was easy to pick up, though Yazad found himself unable to relate to that as well. He did understand it, for he knows that even galdori have their own brand of difficulties, but he could not say that he knows what it is like. Hard, probably. But how ‘hard’, exactly?

The smooth space between Yazad’s eyebrows knotted slightly, his eyes blinking slowly at Fionn’s grim utterance. This boy had quite the amount of hostility towards galdori, and he did not hide that well if he even made the attempt at all. Confused, the raven-haired man was not certain if that aggressive exaggeration stemmed from these dark feelings or if they were based on something that Fionn himself had witnessed. "I am not sure that I follow this talk of death and maiming. Surely no one with any amount of civility would attempt such things." And they were living in a cultured society. There are laws to behold. It did not make any sense for the law to not grant protection to passives, regardless of other obligatory arrangements made for them. Fionn’s passionate retort gave Yazad the impression that the boy could be speaking out of personal knowledge, so he could not dismiss that as a mere need to make a point. Deaths and maiming. The Bastian never heard any mention of that, nor did he behold such inflictions upon himself or other passives. Though, really...how many passives did he really know? The number came to a grand total of three, including himself.

Perhaps Yazad had been lost in his thoughts for longer than he should because when he returned his gaze to Fionn, he met a look that was more than a little combative. The other’s temper was on a steady decline into even deeper aggression, it seems.

"Ah, no, I most likely would not." The man admitted easily, his tone soft yet still unapologetic for his perceived fortune. It would be rather graceless of him to turn this into a competition of woes and begin listing all the things that he had lost when he had made the transition from Yazad Logarchon to just Yazad the passive. Additionally, he would be ungrateful to all that he had gained afterward.

Unlike the increase in his companion’s nervous movements, Yazad seemed to become even more grounded into his seat. The mellow smile did not dim, the locked gaze with Fionn did not flinch. Though, the sight of Fionn, sullen and cross-armed, rocking his chair in what Yazad found to be a precarious motion, caused Yazad to grimace a little. One wrong move and the blonde would be toppling back into the hard ground.

Hurte knows that Yazad had not an inkling of what a ‘monic theorist’ is supposed to be, but he chose to not interject one of the few sentences that Fionn managed to speak without seething. The boy has this unique talent to make everything sound dreadful. Amusingly, the other knows more than the professor’s name, it looks like. And-- ah, he met the man. It was now very possible that Fionn knew the same information that Aurelie hesitantly shared with him--that passives were not ‘empty’. How very interesting.

"I had heard about him, and I was merely curious." Yazad answered vaguely and smilingly. He was not going to mention the name of the one who told him about the professor, seeing that he could not confirm the extent to which Aurelie and Fionn knew each other.

Feet shuffled directly behind Yazad, prompting him to turn his head towards the source, which turned out to be the server from before. Momentary surprise turned into realization after a small and meaningful clearing of the server’s throat. "Oh, gracious. Please pardon me." Yazad’s smile turned bashful as he nimbly rose off his seat to face the taller man fully. He did not think that much time had passed, but clearly, he was wrong. As agreed upon, the amount he produced to pay for their drinks included Fionn’s tea along with his hot cocoa. An apologetic tally was added to the sum for the server’s trouble. With coin matters in order, the passive faced Fionn once again.

"My, time did fly. I shall not keep you for much longer, despite my enjoyment of such an enriching conversation." After lightly brushing his bangs, slipping his gloves back on, and smoothing the front of his outfit, the servant offered his cantankerous companion a respectful parting bow. "It had been a pleasure, Fionn. Do attempt to appreciate the beauty of life, it is not quite so dark and cheerless." There was a little wink, a soft chuckle, and then Yazad walked past the blonde for the cafe’s door, not waiting for a response. This curious boy with his heated words and sketchbook, his odd thoughts and depressing world views--

One day, he might come to understand him, but that day was not today.

A Friend In Need? Yes, Indeed