Some café, The Stacks
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.