Juliette Coulombe (clearyourmind) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-02 13:20:00 |
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Since his punishment had ended a few weeks ago, Pyr felt as though he had all the time in the world. He no longer ran through the hallways to make it to the next class or task on his schedule. Now, he strolled. If he ran into another squire, sometimes he even stopped to chat. He was liberated, a free spirit, with license to nap and snack to his heart’s content. It was with a spring in his step that he walked into the kitchen at Bahamut Hall, already rubbing his proverbial hands together at the thought of free food after scrubbing down the counters—maybe, if he was really lucky, Finch had been in there cooking earlier and there were still leftovers. A pot was on the stove, and Juliette seemed to be using the cutting board. These days, seeing Juliette cook was an increasingly familiar sight, and perhaps that was why he noticed something was off right away. Her frame was shaking ever so slightly, and though she was trying to be quiet, as he approached he could hear the minute sobs, and saw the tears running down her face. “Hey.” It was a half-second after greeting her that he realised maybe she wanted to be alone. But the damage was already done. Awkwardly, he asked, “Are you okay?” It was all she could do not to sniffle. She’d thought the hall might be empty -- it was a weekend -- and the thought of being at home and explaining her despondence to Alys or, heaven forbid, the Countess, hadn’t borne thinking about. She’d escaped for a solitary run, for once leaving Boris behind, and had followed this up by wandering through the shops of several now-familiar grocers and finally winding up here. She’d had half a mind to make pasta sauce, the kind that simmered for hours and took a great deal of concentration. In this hall, food was never wasted -- surely someone would eat it. That she’d wound up crying into her vegetables had perhaps not been unexpected, but it was still shameful to be caught thus, especially by Pyr of all people. “I… onions,” she said, grasping at the first lie she could find, feeling guilty even as she spoke it. “You had better keep back, lest you, too find your eyes… watering.” “Okay.” He hesitated for a half-second, then moved to gently pry the knife from her fingers. “You shouldn’t be using a knife if your eyes are all teary. Here, I’ll do it.” “But the…” The word onions died on her lips; obviously, he was not fooled by her transparent attempts at explaining away her current state, even if he was apparently kind enough not to dwell on it. “All right,” she said helplessly. Most of the vegetables were done anyway -- there were only the onions to finish. She stood looking at him for a moment before reminding herself that doing something was probably best; she went searching for a bowl to fill with cold water. May as well start on the tomatoes, since her knife had been confiscated (a fighter, deemed unfit to hold a kitchen knife; what a disaster she was today). “Thank you for your assistance.” The words came out rather dull, but politeness was bred into her very core, forgotten only in fits of temper. Pyr suppressed a wince at the stiffness of her words, but he wasn’t about to comment on it when she looked so out of sorts. He considered the knife in his hands for a moment, decided if he could use knives in sparring he could use one to cut an onion into more-or-less regular slices, and set about his task carefully. “Sure, no problem,” he said with a minute shrug. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her work and wondered if he should say something, then thought better of it. “How come you’re here cooking on a weekend?” he asked instead. “I… felt like cooking.” It was perhaps the most honest answer she could give. Still, after she had lapsed into silence for a few moments, she felt the need to explain herself, at least a little. “Lord Finch has long recommended cooking as a means of… attaining mental clarity. It is a different sort than that which is gained from meditation.” Her mentor had recommended it for anger, but why not sadness? She couldn’t begin to hope to clear her mind of dark thoughts. Better to chase them out with measurements. The water chose this moment to boil, a blessed respite. In went the tomatoes, one by one, the plops loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen. She was meant to carry on a conversation, she knew. Say something, Juliette. Use this as a distraction, too. “Why are you here?” she asked. “I thought your intensive training had ended.” “I’m taking over other squires’ chores and stuff,” Pyr said. “I’m trying to get owed as many shifts as possible so when my birthday comes I can sleep for a whole week.” The idea was so absurd that she nearly laughed. “Do you think your mentor will allow it?” A pause, then, “I didn’t realize your birthday was coming up soon, too.” “Aries 12th. So I have to rack up a lot of chores now to get freebies then.” He hadn’t factored Jareth into the equation, but he shrugged. He’d worry about that when he came to it. “It’s not like I’m going to be slacking off. I just did all the work in advance.” The new subject seemed to have dragged Juliette’s attention away from whatever she’d been thinking about before that had made her cry, so Pyr rolled with it. “And what do you mean, too? Is your birthday coming up?” “Aries 16th,” she said. It wasn’t the same day, but even so, the coincidence seemed a bit strange. She’d never even thought to ask him for his birthday prior. She was still very new and inexperienced and frankly terrible at this friendship thing (and that, the insidious little voice piped up in the back of her mind, is why it’s so easy for people to forget about you). Her knuckles whitened around the handle of the slotted spoon as she removed the tomatoes from the pot and dumped them rather forcibly into the bowl of water, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. This was not the time. “How odd,” she said, trying to cover it up. “I did not realize they were so close.” Pyr looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then shrugged. “I guess we’ve never talked about this. I didn’t know yours was coming up too.” He grinned then as an idea formed inside his head. “We should have a party. With cake. It’ll be great! We’ll invite everyone. Storm, Conan, Morgayne, everyone who wants to come.” Juliette bit her lip, so hard that it was surprising that she did not taste blood. He meant well, of course, but… “Perhaps,” she said evasively, thinking that maybe she could change the subject, talk about the sauce, ask if he was finished with the onions… “You would be expending your time for naught in inviting Morgayne,” she blurted out instead. Another pause as she set herself the task of removing the skins from the tomatoes. “Regrettably, she appears to have left the city.” It took a moment to process her words, and he put the knife down as he turned to look at her. “What do you mean, left? Like on vacation?” And as soon as the question was out of his mouth, he realised he shouldn’t have asked. This was probably why Juliette was upset. He hadn’t been particularly close to Morgayne, but Juliette and she had always got on well, as far as Pyr knew. “It’s cool if you don’t want to talk,” he added lamely. “There isn’t anything to say,” Juliette said, though her tone would give away the lie. “She has left, for an extended period of time, with her mentor.” A beat, then, softly, “At least, that is what I was told when I asked. I am afraid I only have secondhand knowledge of the matter.” The words hung, unspoken: she did not tell me herself. And this was not a topic she could really converse on with any eloquence. “I am certain Storm and Conan will come,” she said. “Ridley as well, perhaps Perdita.” Pyr felt a pang of disappointment that Divina had not mentioned anything—she’d been helping him train with claws not a week before. But he supposed she’d never been the talkative type. For the moment, he was more concerned with how hard Juliette seemed to be taking Morgayne’s departure. “We can invite anyone you like. It’ll be cool.” He picked up the knife again and finished chopping what remained of the onion, then asked, “Is this good or should it be smaller?” “The size is not the most important thing.” Her own slices were hardly neat and uniform either. She drizzled some oil in the bottom of the pot she had drained and set back on the stove. “It all goes in,” she told him. “Go ahead.” Strange, she thought, as she took back the knife and began cutting the softened, boiled tomatoes into chunks. She had come here to be alone, but cooking together wasn’t bad, either. Even if the subject of conversation was not a pleasant one. “I was not planning on celebrating much,” she admitted, moving on from the tomatoes to uncorking the bottle of wine she had purchased. “I will take my exam the following Monday.” He watched the bits of onion sizzle as they touched the heating oil and felt the rise of something ugly within himself. Frustration, that in a few months' time she would be class, and he would remain a squire for a year longer. It didn't matter how well he held his own against her in their morning spars (but in truth, had the percentage of victories to his name not been decreasing lately?). He had never really thought about when their spars would end, had just assumed they would continue indefinitely, but now he realised that was a dumb way to look at it. Soon he wouldn't be a challenge for her any longer, and then those spars would go from being matches between equals to being just another lesson, from her to him. And by that point, they might as well be over. He pushed those thoughts aside. The spars were still happening, she still had to work for it, and there was nothing wrong with lying to himself that nothing would change, at least for a few weeks longer. "You could just have one big celebration after your exam," he suggested with a smile. "To celebrate your birthday and your first class. You could have one cake for each." “Two cakes? How indulgent of me,” she said. But she offered him a ghost of a smile. Little by little, the ingredients went into the pot. It started to smell good. Now it just had to simmer. “Perhaps,” she said, picking up the conversation though she had once more allowed the silence to stretch as her hands remained busy. “For today, however, I will content myself with pasta. It should be ready in time for dinner.” The sauce would simmer for hours, but in the meantime… “Do you prefer to rest on the weekends, or would you be interested in a spar?” She couldn’t leave the hall, but they had plenty of time. And maybe a fight would help where cooking had failed. Singleminded concentration would keep Morgayne’s departure off her mind. Technically, Pyr still had to clean the kitchen and do dishes, but he figured he might as well do it later one they were done. It wouldn’t take all that long to go along with her request, and he wanted to spar with her as much as he could now, while he could still hold his own against her. Before beating him became too easy for her. “Sure,” he said with a grin. “Let’s go.” |