Re: [Closed] Just a Game [Memory]
Posted: Thu Jul 09, 2020 10:01 pm
The Golden Beetle, The Stacks
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening
Yaris 79, 2717 - Evening
Cerise had swallowed something sharp that had stuck in her throat at the question. Did they like her? She certainly had no idea. They--loved her, she thought. At least, she assumed so. Somewhere, she thought, they did. Cerise loved them, as far as she understood the concept. In her own way, she supposed. Of dubious benefit to all of them, really, the shape of her affections. A look of hurt flashed across her face for the briefest of moments; she had, after all, said more or less this already. Over and over--it just sounded different, coming out of someone else's mouth. She couldn't even manage a shrug.
Well, maybe they loved her, maybe they didn't. She certainly didn't think they liked her very much. They wouldn't have liked this, either, so it was a good thing that Cerise Vauquelin lived very little of her life based on what her parents would or would not like her for.
Also on the list of "things Anatole and Diana Vauquelin would not like" was, more than likely, that preening grin that had fixed itself to Emiel's face at her acknowledgement that he had chosen well a second time. Working from the age of fifteen seemed so--she knew it wasn't uncommon, for wick and human families, and she supposed it wasn't impractical. After all, she thought uneasily, it wasn't like there was schooling to finish. Cerise simply couldn't picture it; to have such a concern at an age not so far off from her own was strange. Some part of it even struck her as unfair, although she couldn't have articulated what. That was what she had opened her mouth to ask about, when her hair had decided to take that moment to escape its confines.
At first, she hadn't quite known what to make of the attention paid to her as she took her hair down, throwing in the towel on the battle against her natural chaotic state. Then Emiel had smiled, in some distracted away, and thought she just might after all. Cerise smiled then too, as if her face couldn't help but answer the expression. When she realized how she must look--even though Emiel wasn't, actually, looking at her but rather at the bottle he set down--she tried to frown, or at least to stop smiling. She was caught between both, again.
"No? That's, ah. Good then. I think. I don't know what that means." Her hand took some time to untangle from her hair. Cerise then found she was focusing on the action so much she didn't know what else to do with her hands once she'd achieved that goal. Beer. She could drink her beer, that was something she could do. Cerise brought her glass to her mouth and let it stop her from doing anything too completely inane, like continuing that line of thought.
What she didn't do was look away, faintly disbelieving and pleased. Emiel swore; she bit her lip on a laugh. Swallowed it when he looked back up, all golden-eyed and handsome and looking at her so intently. Her pale face tinted, just a little. This was absolutely not book club, if it ever had been, and she wasn't drunk. Giddy maybe, but she didn't think she'd had enough for that. So what was she? Other that the obvious: reckless.
"We were also just going to have one drink," she said, running a finger over her glass, "and we aren't doing that either." Cerise leaned forward again, looking up.
"Which habit is that? This one?" Cerise tapped a slim finger on the book, something in her smile. "Or this one?" Bravado, maybe that was what was in her smile. Her leg pushed, gentle and deliberate pressure, against his where they touched under the table. "Or... do you mean this one?"
The last question, such as it was, she followed with a careful pulse of her field. As if to remind them both of each and every line crossed. Admonishment, or celebration? She wasn't sorry, so it had to be the latter. That delicate pulse swept some of the teasing bravery from her features; Cerise softened and looked down.
"It is a good book, which is why I wanted you to read it." Grey eyes lifted again. A breath while she hesitated, wanting to retreat from honesty--and feeling a coward for it. "I'm, ah, I like it too. The conversation. And the... rest."
Well, maybe they loved her, maybe they didn't. She certainly didn't think they liked her very much. They wouldn't have liked this, either, so it was a good thing that Cerise Vauquelin lived very little of her life based on what her parents would or would not like her for.
Also on the list of "things Anatole and Diana Vauquelin would not like" was, more than likely, that preening grin that had fixed itself to Emiel's face at her acknowledgement that he had chosen well a second time. Working from the age of fifteen seemed so--she knew it wasn't uncommon, for wick and human families, and she supposed it wasn't impractical. After all, she thought uneasily, it wasn't like there was schooling to finish. Cerise simply couldn't picture it; to have such a concern at an age not so far off from her own was strange. Some part of it even struck her as unfair, although she couldn't have articulated what. That was what she had opened her mouth to ask about, when her hair had decided to take that moment to escape its confines.
At first, she hadn't quite known what to make of the attention paid to her as she took her hair down, throwing in the towel on the battle against her natural chaotic state. Then Emiel had smiled, in some distracted away, and thought she just might after all. Cerise smiled then too, as if her face couldn't help but answer the expression. When she realized how she must look--even though Emiel wasn't, actually, looking at her but rather at the bottle he set down--she tried to frown, or at least to stop smiling. She was caught between both, again.
"No? That's, ah. Good then. I think. I don't know what that means." Her hand took some time to untangle from her hair. Cerise then found she was focusing on the action so much she didn't know what else to do with her hands once she'd achieved that goal. Beer. She could drink her beer, that was something she could do. Cerise brought her glass to her mouth and let it stop her from doing anything too completely inane, like continuing that line of thought.
What she didn't do was look away, faintly disbelieving and pleased. Emiel swore; she bit her lip on a laugh. Swallowed it when he looked back up, all golden-eyed and handsome and looking at her so intently. Her pale face tinted, just a little. This was absolutely not book club, if it ever had been, and she wasn't drunk. Giddy maybe, but she didn't think she'd had enough for that. So what was she? Other that the obvious: reckless.
"We were also just going to have one drink," she said, running a finger over her glass, "and we aren't doing that either." Cerise leaned forward again, looking up.
"Which habit is that? This one?" Cerise tapped a slim finger on the book, something in her smile. "Or this one?" Bravado, maybe that was what was in her smile. Her leg pushed, gentle and deliberate pressure, against his where they touched under the table. "Or... do you mean this one?"
The last question, such as it was, she followed with a careful pulse of her field. As if to remind them both of each and every line crossed. Admonishment, or celebration? She wasn't sorry, so it had to be the latter. That delicate pulse swept some of the teasing bravery from her features; Cerise softened and looked down.
"It is a good book, which is why I wanted you to read it." Grey eyes lifted again. A breath while she hesitated, wanting to retreat from honesty--and feeling a coward for it. "I'm, ah, I like it too. The conversation. And the... rest."