mathieu trinket. (flauto) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-18 14:11:00 |
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The holiday meant very little, but he had a part to play and it would be strange if he did not show at least some vestige of interest (however small) on this affair. He had made appropriate arrangements for today and rose early to get things over and done with. Rivalen’s single track mind was a blessing, since he loathed to waste time, he devoted enough time to pretence already to give up more. This morning was crisp, and he wrapped his scarf securely as he stepped out into the street; already there were signs of this holiday everywhere and he suppressed a twinge of annoyance. He was distracted by a particularly (gross, in his opinion) Cherub when he crashed into someone. His first instinct was to lash out; instead he put on an apologetic expression, “Sorry.” Mathieu readjusted the large bundle of flowers underneath his arm, his eyes wide. After the florist had gone through so much work arranging the gift, he would’ve hated to have it all ruined in an instant of bad luck. “Pardon me, good sir!” Looking up from his flowers to the man who had run into him (certainly not intimidated!), he tried his best to look apologetic. He had rushed out of the estate early that morning, dressed in his usual finery and well-prepared for a full-day onslaught of meetings and well-wishings (and even a bit of celebration as well). “And a hale and happy Saint Namorados day to you.” Oh Faram. Rivalen couldn’t keep the involuntary twitch in his lips betraying his annoyance despite Mathieu’s apology. Nothing like a bard to get him annoyed, and it wasn’t the greeting that yanked his chains but something else. Maybe it was the manner of the other man, who knew. “And back at you, sir…?” Rivalen gave a nod trying to prompt a name from the other man without asking for it. “Lord Mathieu Rozenkatz,” he offered generously, extending a hand to the other in hopes of a friendly handshake and a similarly warm greeting. Long ago, optimism had become something of a shield defense. “And not as late to my next important date as you might expect! My apologies for running into you again, the enthusiasm for the holiday seems to have gotten the better of me.” Mathieu gestured with his large bundle of flowers, hoping to bestow them upon some unsuspecting victim in the bard’s guild, most likely. “And you?” It was hard to tell what the man was thinking, but he hoped he hadn’t done much to sour his mood. Rivalen made a mental note of the name, and gave a brief - but firm - handshake in return, “Rivalen Beau.” His greeting did not match Mathieu’s warm one, however there was a clear attempt to do so. Smiles never reached his eyes either way, and yet he insisted on acting on and on. “It seems to have gotten the best of everyone today. Pay it no mind, it was an accident.” Casting a hesitant glance at the flowers he was holding, his manners won the battle and he found himself asking, “Do you require any help with those?” Mathieu, ever slightly crestfallen at the less-than-enthusiastic greeting in return, he continued to remain hopeful of this accidental first meeting regardless. While he was not, and would never be, amongst those ranks of brave warriors in the Fighters Guild, he nevertheless shared some aspect of their profound determination. “As you say, of course,” he nodded. As for the flowers, why, Mathieu wasn’t one to turn down such generosity from someone he’d only just met. Time enough to spread the festive spirit, he decided, and held the flowers out with both hands--heavier than he’d expected, the bard realized suddenly (but who could resist a sale?). “You wouldn’t mind, would you? I’ve got a meeting with a few guildmates of mine, right in the shop over there!” He gestured across the street to an expensive teahouse, a place that seemed to be enjoying its share of early morning business. He couldn’t decide what he thought of that perfectly deflective and polite answer (annoyance, that was for sure, but he thought there was more to learn from it than not). There was a vague satisfaction at the momentary crestfallen look — and then he felt apologetic because he ought to be a better person than that. (Rivalen, however, was not). “No, but-” The flowers were heavier than expected and the Samurai felt incredibly silly standing there in the street with a bunch of them; as if he had someone who was deserving of this to begin with. “-Is your intention to leave me here holding these while you meet with your-” he paused thinking of a suitable word that didn’t come out as rude as he as actually meant -”friends, because that does not give a good first impression of you.” “I would hardly think of it!” Mathieu did have the brief but amusing thought of allowing this Rivalen Beau fellow to have the flowers himself (for a woman waiting for a surprise, perhaps?), but quickly set the thought aside. For a stranger, no mischief could do--especially under peculiar circumstances as these. “My intent is for us to cross the street here together, and to impress my colleagues with such a surprise. But a moment’s time, and you’ll certainly be the talk of the guild!” Mathieu tried to sound encouraging, warring with the urge to nudge the man with his elbow. “Now I know you’re teasing me, because you surely thought of that, as you bards often do. Thinking things.” The remark lacked a bite to it and Rivalen allowed himself to relax and adjust the burden of flowers firmly in his arms (wouldn’t be acceptable to drop them now). He had a vision of himself dropping them and laughing like a megalomaniac. Silly things. “You must tell me when to cross the street because I cannot see beyond my nose thanks to your flowers.” A small grin was offered to indicate no hard feelings, “And to be the talk of your guild, what would they say? That I’m a gentleman or a gullible man you drew into some nefarious plot?” Laughing he shook his head, indicating a certain indifference for either of these outcomes. There were bigger fish to worry about than a silly bard and his friends. “That their councilman has generous friends in the city, of course!” Mathieu carefully directed Rivalen across the street, making certain that no carts or chocobos, or even a hovercar speeding past, might serve to harm or hinder their progress. Feeling particularly good of himself at luck that seemed to have turned, he glanced over his shoulder. “Are you in any of the guilds, by chance? Maybe they’ve already heard of you!” Well, thank fucking Faram someone was watching the road because if his tombstone read: ‘hit by a chocobo while crossing the street’ he would be pretty upset about the whole deal. Hs father would be disappointed in such a remembrance line. “Fighter’s.” Rivalen answered, attempting an awkward shrug while holding the flowers. “And I doubt it.” “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Cheerful, as ever, regardless of odds, Mathieu lead the fighter to the sidewalk, just in front of the teahouse. Before nudging his new and unexpected acquaintance into the establishment, Mathieu gave another quick inspection of his flowers, still nicely arranged (and now neatly out of his own hands). How fortunate, indeed! “Just this way, Mister Beau, we’re almost there,” he announced, leading Rivalen into the bustling teahouse. Spying his guildmates straight away, he bounded over with a wave of his hand, leaving the fighter to follow. Rivalen couldn’t decide what to make of Mathieu, either to write him off as someone to stab in a back alley or to let go his way or to befriend. Well, either way, right now those thoughts could be put aside as he was ushered into the tea house with the flower arrangement. He swore inside his head to punish Faram and everyone responsible for this holiday. Despite that, he flashed his best smile, intending to give a good impression to Mathieu’s guildmates. Life worked in mysterious ways after all. |