Xavier Zhirune was not one to suffer from a case of the nerves. They didn't feel butterflies when they were about to perform, save for perhaps a handful of times in their life, if only because they knew where they belonged and it was center stage. Had they been more nervous to invite Juniper Feldspar, Tailor, to hear them play at the Singing Badger than to know they'd be playing their beautiful black oud in front of a bunch of half-wasted galdori students? Yes. A little. Maybe.
Sssh. They weren't going to clockin' admit that out loud, ye chen.
And, by Imaan's eternal grace, what wonders that tailor had worked! Uh, in fabric and thread, of course. Well. A bit between the sheets, too, oes, but the pale musician had not felt so beautiful and so properly dressed in seasons, years. They also hadn't really enjoyed themselves so thoroughly in the shopping and waiting process probably in their entire short life.
Colorless hair crowned their alabaster face in a series of intricate braids, and their eyes were outlined in glittery mauve and violet, fading at the edges in a smokey effect that somehow managed to draw the perfect amount of attention to their mauve-stained lips. They were wearing new trousers of black fabric like the velvety Autumn night sky, a stripe of incandescent ribbon running up each willowy leg accentuating just how much like a snug, perfect glove the new pants fit, tucked as they were into travel-worn but carefully cleaned knee-high boots. Instead of their usual layers and in typical Gioran defiance of what the Anaxi people considered the Vortas chill, Xavier wore a billowy blouse of pale pink silk as if dyed by the color of their flustered blushes, more unbuttoned than buttoned, the scandalously and purposefully plunging ruffled, laced neckline was complimented by a collection of sparkling necklaces and various bangles, rivaled only by their bejeweled fingers and glitter-lacquered nails, hardly hiding their translucent skin beneath it all. A violet scarf had been fashioned into a belt, the wick always one for a dramatic flair when it came to fashion, if not simply bending all the rules of propriety and gender for the sake of aesthetic perfection.
The Singing Badger's proprietor, one grey-haired, burly badger of a wick named Jeoffrey Nicks, had eagerly invited the pale musician to the small, slightly cramped stage after hearing them busk in the streets of the Stacks just two mornings before, and the albino wick couldn't help but invite Juniper to join them, whispering their eager request against one delightfully delicate ear while curled so comfortably in the adorable tailor's bed they'd yet to be refused to share.
Thankfully, the ginger tsat had agreed, though to say that Xavier hadn't been a little shy about such an invitation would have been a godsbedamned lie. They'd certainly enjoyed each other's company and the albino wick had already appreciated and enjoyed Juniper's professional talents as well as his personal ones, but for some reason, for the musician to return the offer, even if the other wick had heard them sing and heard them play within the quiet confines of their humble home, Xav was loath to ruin a good thing by getting too personal themselves. The man's acceptance had, obviously, thus far been glorious, but the willowy Gioran had simply not given voice to the doubts and worries that always nagged at the back of their mind because, honestly, why ruin a good thing?
They'd left Feldspar Tailoring a half an hour earlier than their invited guest and whoever Juniper desired to bring with him so they could meet the other musicians who'd be playing for the evening, to have one quiet drink, and to settle backstage for their turn to play after a trio of Yellow Eye wicks opened the musical entertainment for the evening with a cello, a mandolin, and a violin in a few very well-composed, very rousing folk songs from the Northern Tors.
Xavier snuck violet-eyed peeks out into the crowd from behind a very old, very in need of replacement velvet curtain on the very tiny, barely off-the ground stage tucked next to the impressive bar of the Singing Badger. While outside the establishment was a cute bronze statue of the popular student pub's namesake, the inside was a humble, comfortable place with a dizzying selection of imported beers and well-worn leather seats. Jeoffrey claimed to have international connections, and Xav suspected that simply meant he paid his taxes to Silas Hawke.
Whatever the case, the spiced, honeyed mead from Hesse was amazing and the pale musician had no complaints, having watched young galdori and a handful of wicks and humans filter in from their waiting spot, oud freshly waxed and waiting next to them just off-stage. Restless fingers toyed with ruffles and bangles, tucked braids one more time, and the albino wick felt the flutter of genuine anxiety against their ribs, the thrill of sharing more of themselves with someone whose company they'd come to more than just casually enjoy over the past mere handful of days both terrifying and oh so exciting.
It was wrong, of course, to lead anyone on with such needful companionship, but it also felt far too good to just stop, especially because their clothes weren't even all finished ... yet. This was just another distraction, really, but it was a well-deserved rest for one freckled wick who deserved a night out for all of his hard work. Oes, all of it.