i was locked up, never free, until you turned me Who: Quenten and Lavitz What: Shopping, Breakfast, & Feels Where: Nobles District When: Saturday morning Rating: PG Status: Complete!
When things had already been looking bleak, further complications needed to ruin Lavitz’ poor mood, of course. None of it was Audrey’s fault -- he’d never liked chocobos, and normally would’ve used them as the excuse -- but rather his own. This was karma bitch slapping him in the face -- again -- and at the worst of times. What was that saying, don’t kick a dog when it’s down? That was all karma ever did for him.
Friday had been the only day he’d been looking forward to in the past week, considering its importance: finding out if Quenten made class. He’d prepared himself for more enthusiasm than he’d offered, following his visit to the clinic -- he knew how much work she’d put into it, how much it meant to her -- and now, hours after an unrestful sleep, the guilt was settling in deep. Quenten didn’t deserve his bad attitude. It couldn’t be helped, with what was coming up, but he could, at the very least, try harder.
He’d perched himself on a set of stones in the Tower courtyard, elbows pressed into his knees and eyes on the front entrance, and sincerely hoped she wouldn’t hold all of this against him.
Even after an evening of drinking and celebrating at the Snuggly Duckling, Quen had found herself wide awake before eight o’clock in the morning. Habits ran deep, and her habit of more than six years of rising early seemed to run deeper than most. Still, she was looking forward to having breakfast with Lav. She couldn’t hold his lack of enthusiasm against him—she felt a bit bad herself, celebrating while Audrey was in a coma—but the fact that he was willing to make an effort meant a lot to her.
It was precisely half past ten when she burst through the front door in her usual day-off uniform of a simple dress and flats. Having made class made her feel different in some ways, but mostly, not at all. Mostly, she felt exactly the same. Every now and then, however, the thought would cross her mind, unbidden: I’m a black mage. Then she would feel a thrill of excitement course through her veins, and she would finally, finally feel like she had a purpose.
Without Zelda at his side this time, Lavitz needed to make himself known first, abandoning his post and crossing over to her before she waited too long for his voice. Quenten wouldn’t be able to read his mood through his face, but she was smart, and perceptive-- if he sounded tired or unhappy, she’d hear it. But she also knew what the upcoming week meant to him, so maybe trying too hard wasn’t a good idea, either.
Even so, upon reaching the younger girl, he gave her his best (and most genuine) enthusiasm, in the form of: “What, no pointy hat?” He forced a smile, even if she couldn’t see.
Quen laughed and linked her arm with his. “You joke,” she said, “but I’m going to get one. A robe, too. One of the traditional ones with the collar that goes up to here,” she added, indicating her mouth. “That’s one of the things I’m planning to do this weekend, in fact.” The Tower was hosting a Mages Convention beginning on Monday, and Quen planned to give tours to the visitors wearing full black mage regalia. “I already got the dress I’m going to wear under it. Because, you know, the robe is more like a coat than a dress. It goes to here.” She indicated a point on her thigh only a few inches below her hip and grinned.
Even with everything going on, it seemed that Lav had made the decision to be cheerful on his outing with Quen that morning. She would reciprocate by talking of other things. There was no need to dwell on the bad unnecessarily.
“How scandalous,” the dragoon chided half-heartedly, directing them both toward the streets leading out to the Nobles District. She was in good spirits, thankfully, which he wouldn’t be able to return in full, but surely he could sustain some modicum of his usual warmth. The idea of Quenten finally sporting the black mage robes she’d been yearning for for years drew a tightness into his chest, not from anxiety, but a certain excitement for her he didn’t know if he could express right then.
Still, he was happy for her-- more than words could say.
“Besides, aren’t you only fifteen or something? It should go down past your knees.”
“Are they promoting fifteen-year-old scholars now?” Quen countered, and shook her head. “So it’s true, then. New mages really do get younger and younger.” She followed where he led, recognizing that they were going to the Nobles District: a part of the city she wasn’t entirely familiar with. She knew Lav was, though, and she would follow him anywhere, in any case.
“Anyway, I’ve been wearing knee-length dresses for years now. It’s time I showed what Faram blessed me with. The shop clerk said I looked hot,” she added, as if the opinion of a shop clerk was the final word on the subject.
Lavitz couldn’t help it: he choked on air. What Faram blessed her with? Sweet Ajora, that was not what he needed to hear. She was more than old enough to shake what her mother gave her, but he was pushing forty and she still had yet to reach twenty, so the words gave him pause. Besides, he knew she wasn’t fifteen. Quenten was growing up into a lovely lady, that was true, but he would leave it to the young generation to admire her pretty face and-- no, he wasn’t going to go there.
He stuffed his free hand in a pocket, hoping to sound less scandalized than he felt. “So do you know what color the robe is? I assume black, but maybe my eyes are worse than they used to be.”
“It’s blue,” Quen said. She didn’t really have any experience with colors, but the blue Black Mages robes were remarked upon often enough that she did know about it. “I don’t know why,” she admitted, “but ever since the beginning of the Mages Guild, the traditional Black Mage robes have been blue with a yellow hat.” It would make more sense for Black Mage robes to be black, but Quen cared more for tradition than semantics, and so she intended to wear her blue Black Mage robes in all of their glory.
She smiled a little bit at the slightly shocked tone of his voice. Uncle Lav was the closest thing she’d had to a father in over a decade, so she wasn’t looking to scandalize him entirely, but sometimes she had to remind all of these overprotective men in her life that she was growing up.
“If you come to the Mages Convention, I’ll give you a tour of the tower,” she suggested, “and then you can see how I look in my new robes.”
Ah. The Mages Convention. For as little as Lavitz knew about the color of traditional black mage robes, he knew that was coming up toward the beginning of next week. The timing, of course, was awful-- he couldn’t say with any certainty that he’d be in good enough spirits to even fake a smile or a laugh, but if she meant to debut the robes there, was it selfish to deny her the opportunity to show him when he was very likely going to feel like rubbish? How much of an asshole would he be for saying no, considering what it meant to her, what it symbolized?
He swallowed a sigh. “I wouldn’t be able to stay for long, but I’ll make an appearance for a tour and your robes.” A pause. “I promise.”
She squeezed his arm with hers. “Thanks, Uncle Lav,” she said softly. “I know it’s bad timing, and I’m sorry.” He’d told her about his friend Nowe who’d died four years this coming Thursday, and Audrey was in a coma, and Quen felt selfish asking people to celebrate with her and be happy for her at a time when they had every right to be sad, but at the same time she’d been a scholar for an entire third of her life, and there was a time, not long ago—Lav should know, she’d confided in him often enough—that she’d doubted this day would ever come.
“So where are we going?” she asked, cheerfully changing the subject as she did when she sensed the mood was dropping.
None of this was fair to Quenten, but life was unexpected, and when karma came calling, what could Lavitz do but surrender to inevitability? Though she put on a good act, her confidence hadn’t always been so high, but she’d come a long way since being fifteen and wanting this so much. Not willing to allow her any sadness or guilt whatsoever, because this was a celebration, he briefly blanketed his hand over the arm linked through his.
“Don’t be sorry about something that isn’t your fault.” And that was all he’d say about that. “We’re going to breakfast to a place I’ve never been myself, but only heard good things about. They make everything fresh, even the orange juice.” It being in the Nobles District, it was bound to be overpriced for tiny portions, but no less delicious.
Lav’s reassurance was appreciated, and Quen’s determined cheerfulness cracked, just a bit, as she allowed herself a small, sad smile. Shaking it off, she turned her thoughts toward the impending breakfast. Fresh orange juice sounded lovely. It was later than she usually ate breakfast, and she was starving. “So what have you heard the best reviews about?” she asked. “Is there any particular dish you’ve heard we must try?”
Breakfast, fortunately, was something he could talk about without feeling guilty. As he led them through the district, taking care not to inhale anything too tempting, he decided to starve her with words alone. “I’ve been told the omelettes are the best. You can request they put anything into it without extra charge. Some people, I’ve heard, make the strangest requests. Lettuce and fruit, olives, things like that. But to each their own, I guess.”
They rounded a corner. “Before they take your breakfast order, they bring out warm and fresh croissants with a bowl of butter that tastes like it was just made out back. Their juices are always made minutes before they bring it to you, and it’s said you can always smell the café from a block away.”
On second thought, maybe this was only starving him.
As Lav spoke, Quen could imagine the croissants, warm and flaky. She could imagine the cool, fresh juice and the comforting smells of coffee and breakfast. Her stomach growled audibly, and Quen giggled. “Oops,” she said sheepishly, her free hand going automatically to her stomach. “I guess I’m hungry. And you’re not helping.” She nudged him with her shoulder.
“If the omelets are what they’re famous for, I’ll have to have that,” she went on. “But—you can put anything in them? Like hot peppers, cheese, and ham? And maybe avocado? Ooh, do they have wasabi?” She’d tried wasabi once, at the Founders Festival with Peony. It was a gritty paste with an acute heat that went right to the nasal cavity. She thought it might taste good with eggs. Although Quen loved sweet things and tended to go for crepes and pancakes in the morning, this would give her the opportunity to indulge another of the flavors she enjoyed: spice.
“Anything,” the dragoon assured her, quietly amused at her enthusiasm. He so rarely got excited for food, no matter who it was with, though he could hardly fault anyone for their eagerness. Much of what he chose to eat wasn’t very exciting, but maybe he’d become boring in old age, as Audrey might’ve said. Another sigh was withheld at the thought of her, lying comatose in starched white sheets. But that was a mental image for later.
“One day, you’ll need to explain to me the appeal of things that set your mouth and throat on fire,” he muttered.
"It's about being alive," Quen told him gently, smiling. "Food is a sensorial experience anyway, of course. You smell it and taste it. But when the flavors are spicy or sour or sweet, there's something extra: you feel it, too. Sometimes you feel it with your whole body."
Perhaps she was a bit of a hedonist, but she didn't see how that could possibly be a bad thing. Not when there was so much of the world to enjoy.
Her words prompted the flicker of a smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it’d appeared. “I’ve always wondered if you were secretly a masochist,” Lavitz teased, however distractedly. Food was among the many things he couldn’t enjoy for the sensation alone. He never sought out anything to make him feel alive, only things that eased the anxiety and the aches, that made things bearable. If Quenten was the hedonist, he was the escapist, looking to evade what he couldn’t face in an emotional capacity.
“Maybe I’m a bit of a masochist as well,” Quen allowed with a small smile, thinking of her countless doomed crushes on older men. Lav was safe from her, if only because he’d become a paternal influence in her life long before she saw men with any sort of romantic potential.
As they approached the café, now half a block away, he shifted their linked arms. “You mentioned about two, two and a half weeks ago, that you needed a staff. Do you still?”
“I don’t have one yet, if that’s what you mean,” Quen said. “To be honest, I am not very good with a staff. I’ve been mainly working with a rod for the past few years. In thinking about it, though, a staff seems like a more versatile weapon, so I think I would like to switch to using one.”
She thought she could detect the smell of breakfast on the air now, so they must be getting close. Bacon, coffee, freshly baked pastries… her stomach growled again in anticipation.
Being primarily acquainted with weapons the Fighters’ Guild wielded, Lavitz knew little of the difference between the weapons mages used to enhance their spells, but he’d heard enough over the past twenty-some years to get him by. A staff was more complicated, probably even heavier, but he didn’t think he was getting that old that he couldn’t remember she’d explicitly said staff in those earlier weeks, not a rod.
He shot a quick glance at the approaching café patio before redirecting his attention to the mage at his side. “You don’t have to decide which you want right now, but if you wanted to browse for one today, there’s one with your name on it. If you’re considering transitioning to a staff, you can take home a beginner’s staff until you get a hang of it.”
There was a pause. This was Quenten, not some random squire who’d never held a sword. “Sound like a plan?”
“Oh, Uncle Lav, that’s very generous,” Quen said, genuinely surprised by the offer. “I’ve used the staves at the tower a few times, of course, but they’re kind of unwieldy and old-fashioned. I have something rather specific in mind for what I would like to do with my own weapon. I would like a staff narrow enough that I could wrap my hands entirely around it, with the decor at both ends balanced and not large.” The main reason she wished to use a staff was because it occurred to her that as a mage, she was quite vulnerable in battle. While any weapon could be used as a physical weapon in a pinch, Quen envisioned a staff created with that purpose in mind, so that she could use it as a defensive weapon if she ever found herself in close quarters with an enemy, or as an offensive weapon if she ever found herself Silenced in battle. Of course, she knew she was probably getting ahead of herself, but she thought about battle quite a lot these days, and anything that improved her chances of coming home alive seemed a good investment to her.
Sounded like Quenten had thought it all out, right down to the specifics. Lavitz couldn’t help a smile, brief though it was. “I’ll keep an eye out for you. But food first, before we get too ahead of ourselves.”
Soon enough, a table was commandeered, and just as described, a waiter brought them a basket of fresh buns and croissants, with butter that genuinely did taste as if it’d only just been made. They spoke over bread and coffee once it was delivered, but when it came to choosing what to eat, Lavitz opted for little. His appetite had been shot over the last several days, and he suspected that more food would be coming up than going down by next mid-week-- and yet this wasn’t the place to think about that, nor the time.
This was about Quenten, not him-- he had to remember that.
Valendian coffee, even in the Nobles District, always tasted of soil to him, so fortunately he had the newly imported Ordalian coffee to thank for the slight improvement in his mood. Once the bill was paid, he escorted them from the patio and toward the road that would lead them to the shop he’d had in mind all breakfast.
“So where are we going now?” Quen asked. She had felt fine, considering the circumstances, but in her experience, a good meal improved the mood even at the best of times. With her belly pleasantly full, the fragrance of Ordalian coffee still lingering at the back of her tongue, and her mouth still afire from the hot peppers she’d had in her omelet, she all but skipped alongside Lav, her arm once again tucked in the crook of his elbow. She could tell that they were not headed back the way they’d come, but she wasn’t particularly surprised or alarmed. Lav always had something up his sleeve, and he knew she didn’t mind surprises.
“Somewhere,” he assured her, not at all aiming to sound mysterious. While it might not’ve been a surprise he was directing them toward a weapons shoppe at which to procure a new staff, he’d keep the place a secret for the time being. Upon finally reaching the doorstep, Lavitz withdrew from the mage, only long enough to hold the door open for her. A sweet, pleasant-sounding set of bells chimed above their heads.
“Uncle Lav,” Quen said, smiling, as they crossed the threshold of the store. “Are we at a weaponsmith?” He had broached the subject of staves with her on their way to breakfast that morning, so it was a reasonable assumption that he would take her to browse staves at a weapons shop next.
Instead of Lav’s voice, an unfamiliar voice answered. “You are indeed, miss. And what can I do for you?”
Taking a step forward, away from Lav, Quen launched into the same description she’d given Lav earlier. “And if it has an elemental augment-” she began, then paused and turned her head back toward where she knew Lav stood. “Well, I know that’s more expensive, so perhaps we ought to just get a staff without one. But I would prefer an ice augment to any other, because it’s my strongest elemental affinity.”
The bells tinkled as the door fell shut, and soon, Lavitz was within a few paces of her and the smithy. “Price doesn’t matter, but maybe it’s better to start with one that’s without,” he informed them both. Behind the counter, the man clapped his hands together, sliding around the counter with the news that he had just the staff in mind.
As he slipped away, the dragoon sucked in a deep breath, eyes falling away from the retreating man’s back. Now or never. “Hey,” he murmured, hoping to grab Quenten’s attention. A hesitant hand snuck out to steal one of hers. “I owe you something I should’ve given you earlier. C’mere.”
“Uncle Lav, you don’t owe me anything,” Quen protested, but she allowed him to take her hand. “Really, this is more than enough.” It was far more than she’d expected, and possibly more than she deserved. She couldn’t imagine what more he thought he must owe her, particularly since she’d never done anywhere near as much for him.
Offering only a fleeting hand squeeze to prepare her, Lavitz gently drew her forward, meeting her halfway in the only way he could adequately convey the honesty of the words that would soon follow: a hug. He’d never been particularly good at giving or receiving them, but he felt he owed her this, regardless of how, instinctively, he still tensed.
His hand settled along her spine, nose nearly brushing the top of her head.
That had been unexpected. Quen hesitated, then her arms came up to wrap tightly around him. She pressed her face against his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. She hugged him often enough, but it was always she who initiated it, never Lav. It was better somehow to be pulled into his arms and held close. It made her feel wanted.
As she settled in, Lavitz took the time to collect his thoughts, mulling over the right thing to say. The honest thing. With the smith blissfully awaiting them, there wasn’t enough time to launch into a long, cheesy speech, so he opted for the simplest, most genuine option.
“Before I don’t get a chance to tell you, I want you to know that after all this time, no matter what’s happened, I’m proud of you, Quenten.” The squeeze he gave her was light, gentle. “Congratulations on making class. You’ve earned it.”
The words went directly to her heart, leaving a warm sensation in her chest, like an ember. When Quen was finally released from his embrace, she was surprised to find her eyes were wet. Turning away from him, she self-consciously wiped the tears away with her fingers. “Oh, Uncle Lav,” she said with a shaky laugh. “You’re so sentimental.”
Hardly, was his first, immediate thought. If he was ever sentimental, it was only because she drew it out of him most unexpectedly. Their friendship of seven years ago was a far cry from their friendship now, but one day, Quenten would know how much she really did mean to him.
“I hope those are happy tears,” he teased without much conviction of amusement. Faram, he’d made her cry.
She never cried—not in front of people anyway. Nevertheless, here she was in a weapons shop, her hands wet with tears. Was she getting her period? No, she couldn’t be. She’d just had it. She fanned her face with her hands and took a few deep breaths, willing the moment to pass.
Finally, she said, “Of course they are. I think I just … really wanted to hear someone say that to me.” She smiled in Lav’s direction, a smile that was entirely happy and without any trace of sadness at all, save the shine in her eyes.
Lavitz raked his teeth over his lower lip, guilt swimming in his chest despite her assurances. “I’m happy to say it to you anytime, and mean it.” The words were soft, but no less genuine. Without realizing how quickly he was moving, he reached out to her face, wanting to wipe some of the wetness away, but paused before his fingertips were within two inches of her nose.
When he peripherally spotted a head peeking out from the back of the shoppe, he sought to recover by withdrawing completely, only after leaning in just long enough to whisper: “If he asks, you got dust in your eyes.”
Quen laughed softly and turned back toward the smith, who took her hand and drew her deeper into the shop. He placed first one staff and then another into her hands, explaining the specifications of each as he did so. Before long, Quen found herself leaving the weaponsmith’s shoppe, arm in arm with Lav once again, with her very own staff strapped across her back and a promise from the weaponsmith that he would be willing and able to add an elemental augment whenever she was ready for one.
It was a great present, as presents from Lav invariably were. Even so, nothing gil could buy would ever equal what he’d already given her.