“Sorry, Anaxi fashion isn’t my clocking thesis.” The red-headed galdor snickered, lopsided smile reluctant as if he anticipated a reprimand from his housemate and friend.
“It’s not mine either, but at least I can dress myself like a man. I don’t know why we’re here, anyway. I’d rather be getting guttered off campus than under the watchful eye of most of our senior staff. Don’t we spend enough of our time in these halls already? Oh, wait—” The shorter man laughed, shoving his fellow professor toward the double doors that lead into the far end of the formal ballroom. Beyond them, the faint hum of conversation buzzed over the tinkle of the final form Student Orchestra playing this year’s trendiest selection of chamber music. The Headmistress was courting support again now that the new year would soon bring politicians from all across the Ten Kingdoms for yet another Vyrdag in the rainy season.
“—close it. We’re both here because we’re fine young examples of the next generation of Brunnhold professors and our fine Headmistress Ophelia wants to make sure we make a positive impression on the foreign dignitaries here tonight so our esteemed institution maintains its superior status throughout all of the Ten Kingdoms.” Naul said with a mockery of haughty pride and authority, his crooked grin bordering on the wicked. He knew why he was really here in fancy clothes tonight: the red-haired galdor wanted a glimpse of his father. Well, no, he really wanted a clocking conversation with the elder Siordanti who payed his rent and kept him fed mysteriously but couldn’t write a single damned letter to his oldest son. Eight years had slipped through his fingers and the young graduate student and fresh professor hadn’t exchanged a word with the man, let alone a thank you.
“Positive? Tocks. Well, you should clocking go home then.” Mateo chuckled, the auburn-haired galdor letting his dark-eyed gaze fall onto the passive near the doors to watch the creature avert his gaze to the woven carpet of the floor and reach quickly for the engraved handles, swinging the doors open for the two young men without a word.
“Oh, please—sod off already. It’ll be fine. I can behave.”
“Can you really, Naul? I’ll bet you grading the next round of mid-terms—mine and yours, thank you—that you find some trouble to get into—your father not withstanding in that equation, of course.” The shorter galdor was holding in so much laughter that his faintly freckled cheeks were red now, though he could feel his ginger friend’s field bristle, the sudden frayed edges a warning that his humor was beginning to brush against the other man’s boundaries of acceptable teasing. Mateo was well aware of the other galdor’s infamous past, having been a young student on the Lawn opposite the contemporary-form sorcerer years ago. Strangely enough, it had been his embarrassing loss that brought them back together as friends post-graduation, for the auburn-haired galdor had always held a secret candle of respect for Nauleth’s outside of the traditional approach to casting.
“Mine and yours? Done.” The taller man rolled his blue-green eyes before taking in the vast, high-ceilinged, brightly-lit room full of sparkling glassware, too many galdori bodies and the wash of their fields.
Passive servers dressed ridiculously well for their lowly gated status mingled among the Brunnhold staff—professors, the board, and somewhere the Headmistress herself—with appetizers and drinks on tray while the politicians from all over the Ten Kingdoms who’d bothered to come made it obvious they were just here for the food and the gossip, taking advantage of the open invitation before the process of government began anew for next year during Loshis which officially began tomorrow despite the past several days of drizzle as a preview of the turning season.
With voices and the touch of mona everywhere, the young Siordanti quickly reminded himself that this was a good cause, that he was there for a reason, that he was more than capable of representing an actually praise-worthy selection of new Brunnhold professors, no matter what his personal history may have been, no matter how immediately claustrophobic the press of fields and the expectant glances of senior staff and strangers made him feel. The ginger galdor was almost immediately ready to leave, sure someone would bring something up about just how remarkable a turn around he’d made of his life in casual conversation before he even caught a glimpse of his father, let alone before he hoped to corner the man.
He’d made his mistakes. He’d learned from them. And now, somehow, he hoped to keep others from following in his once-malicious, nearly fatal footsteps. Or, well, clock it all, something like that. Running a hand over the left side of his face in sub-conscious remembrance, Naul leaned toward Mateo with a tilt of his head,
“Drinks first, Matty. I’m not going to make it through this room full of foreigners' vibes and swollen skulls entirely sober.”
“Aye, seconded. That way.”