one means somebody's lonely, company means there are two... Who: Pyr & Juliette What: A whole mess of awkward Where: Around Emillion, mostly the guildhalls When: Starting around the last week of May until today Rating: A for Awkward Status: Complete
one
The first time Pyr sees Juliette after their disastrous spar―which, he concludes after going over it in his mind for days, was a total giveaway on top of a social failure―it is in the corridors of Bahamut, when he is on his way back from kitchen duty. The moment he turns the corner and sees her walking in his direction, he experiences a strong desire to both run towards her and as far away as he can. He can’t make up his mind which to choose, and so he settles for walking a little slower, because he doesn’t think she’s seen him yet, so it’s a perfect moment to turn tail and find a rock to hide under, but then he skips a couple of steps, because it’s been almost a week since their spar.
One of the instructors walks by him and shoots him a weird look, but Pyr has bigger concerns. Juliette has just looked his way, inevitable because they’re almost level now, and he is not ready, and he should have run, but he waves at her and tries to keep his grin to a socially acceptable level of intensity, but he’s missed her and he knows there’s nothing he can do to avoid looking like an idiot.
“Hi,” he greets her. “What’s up?”
She is not sure what to think of him these days -- there has been silence since their spar, and now this beaming grin as though he is the happiest squire in all of Bahamut Hall. She has to wonder whether he’s pulled off some spectacularly ill-advised prank, to be grinning that way, but at least he seems a bit more like his normal self than he was last time they spoke.
Her smile in response is a bit more tempered, but she answers, “Hello. I am on my way to a lesson -- a spar -- with Councilor Liu.” Her chi blast is improving very slowly; she can still barely knock anything down with it, but it’s coming more often than it isn’t, these days. “And you?”
“Good, good,” he says; then, realising the strangeness of his answer, adds, “I was just, uh,” (the word escapes him for a full second) “in the kitchens. I had kitchen duty today.”
The twinge of annoyance as he processes the rest of her words is quickly suppressed—it’s not any of his business who she trains with, and Drake is a really good Monk anyway. She needs all the practice she can get, to learn from all the best, so she can keep herself safe next time she goes out into the field. That matters more than that stupid jealousy that comes on at the weirdest times, or his goal of becoming stronger than her.
“Is your training going okay?” he asks.
She has the strange urge for a moment to comment as the silence descends -- but what is there to say about kitchen duty other than, everyone has to do it sometimes or I never minded it? Luckily, he speaks again before she can consider the merits of that statement, and the conversation is back to rote responses: “Good,” she tells him. Then, a moment later, “But I will be late if I do not hurry. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” He glances down the corridor and is about to suggest walking with her to the grounds―he has some time until his training starts, and he hasn’t seen her in a long time―but then a strange kind of panic floods him, and he blurts out, “Well, that’s all right, I actually have to go too.”
He’s inwardly cursing himself the moment the words leave his mouth—it could be weeks until they get their next chance to talk―but it would be too weird to take them back now, so he has no choice but to step away and turn to go.
“Ah,” she says, thinking nothing of it, “in which case, I hope your… training goes well.” Not that he’s said it is training -- for all she knows, he needs to muck out stables -- bit it seems the thing to say in the moment. “I will see you soon, I’m sure. Good luck.” With that, she turns to go, not considering that soon has become vague lately, and weeks can bleed together when they’re not paying attention.
He waves as they start walking away in opposite directions, and manages to make it to the end of the hallway before he turns to look over his shoulder.
two
It seems all he does lately is scrub pots and dust shelves, but today at least he has the company of an older squire, and the pirate song Sky’s been trying to teach him keeps both squires entertained. Rolan is eighteen, training to be a Holy Knight, and he keeps correcting Pyr’s lyrics and adding words Pyr’s pretty sure were not in the song, but that makes it even more fun, and the contributions come in handy when he forgets a verse.
And somehow, whenever they’re singing, the work seems to go faster. Before they know it, the larder’s in perfect order and every surface is spotless. The best part is Pyr doesn’t have anywhere to be for another hour.
“It’s real nice out today. Perfect day for a nap in the sun,” Rolan says, and Pyr grins. His own mind is chasing that train of thought—until he sees Juliette come in, carrying grocery bags, and forgets what he was about to say.
He can feel Rolan’s eyes on them, and the grin spreading on the older boy’s face. The pointed look Pyr means to give him comes out pleading, and Rolan raises his eyebrows and says, “Well, I just remembered I should be at training. Have fun, hmm?”
(If only the shining floor would make Rolan slip―but he makes it safely out, that same knowing grin fixed on his face, and Pyr knows this is only postponing the inevitable teasing.)
“Hey,” he greets Juliette, and hopes he’s not blushing. With a nod at the bags in her hands, he asks, “Are you going to cook?”
It is not so surprising to see Pyr here -- she wonders sometimes if they give him kitchen duty preemptively now, before he has the chance to misbehave -- and Juliette is pleased to see she will not have to tidy before she sets to making her cream sauce. It is a rare afternoon of freedom -- her next spar is tomorrow, and the weight room can wait for her -- but the thought of going home had brought about melancholy when she considered it earlier, so she’d chosen the grocer’s instead. She has said she will practice this until she gets it right; someday, she will serve Lord Finch his own perfected recipe.
Perhaps today.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “I hope you do not mind. I will clean up after myself.” She knows some people leave greasy counters and floors littered with vegetable peels, but she cooks the way she does most things -- with meticulous attention. Leaving a disaster area behind is unthinkable, and years of kitchen duty taught her to clean long before she started learning to cook.
“I don’t mind,” he says automatically. The old impulse to flee is back in full force, but this time he’s determined to try and make the most of however little time he can spend in her company, even if he can’t appear as unaffected as he’d like. “I can clean up as you work, if you like. You’ll go faster that way.”
Cleaning after her is probably easier than helping her prepare the ingredients (which he’s done before, quite a few times, following her instructions—and maybe that’s what he needs, something to do to keep himself busy, but he has a feeling he might end up paying more attention to the sound of her voice than the things she says, and he doesn’t want to mess up.)
It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him it isn’t fair, but he offered, after all, so all she says is, “Thank you.” and begins to take ingredients out of the bag, There are quite a lot of them -- there’s a good reason why she has never gotten this recipe exactly right.
She begins to measure and mix as she says, “Rolan seemed in a good humor.” She knows him a little -- they are close in age and trained together once upon a time before it was discovered that he was gifted with a sword and she abysmal. They rarely speak anymore, but her recollection is of someone good-natured, if a bit… lacking in diligence. Not unlike Conan, really, she supposes, so it is no wonder he and Pyr get on as well as they seem to.
Pyr cringes. “Yeah, he’s in a good mood all right. He’s been like that a while.”
He doesn’t specify, because he feels like he’s already said too much. The last thing he wants is to explain why Rolan was in such a good mood, and so he puts his faith in Juliette’s politeness and the fact that she can’t have seen Rolan wagging his eyebrows behind her back before leaving. He’d find the whole thing amusing if it weren’t happening to him, but he’s too terrified of Juliette finding out he has a crush on her and maybe thinking he’s weird and never talking to him again.
“What are you making?” he asks, trying to steer the conversation back into safe waters.
“Shrimp in a lemon cream sauce over risotto,” is the immediate answer. “The shrimp and risotto are for later; the sauce is rather… time consuming.” She has set herself no to making lemon zest, grating the peel of the bright yellow fruit into a small bowl fetched from under the counter. “It is a specialty of Lord Finch’s, but I have yet to duplicate it to my satisfaction. I have… several hours before I am needed at the estate, so I thought today as good a day as any.”
And in the end, cooking provided a much-needed calming influence before she returned home to deal with yet another uncomfortable family dinner.
Pyr can’t keep the sense of wonder out of his voice as he says, “How many times have you made this before?”
Her hands seem to move of their own accord, as if they already know what they need to do; he watches the flakes of lemon peel fall into the bowl for a few moments before shaking his head and moving to get a glass of water, just to mask that moment. He gets two and fills them both from a jug, then leaves one on the counter next to her with a small smile.
“A few,” she says absently, her focus more on the ingredients than on him for the moment. “It always lacks something.” She doesn’t notice the glass at first, but realizes after a moment that he has left it for her. “Thank you.” She quickly slices two pieces of lemon, dropping one in her glass and offering the other to him. The lemon will end up wasted otherwise, once the rind is gone -- why not use it? The look he gives her in answer makes her wonder if she hasn’t somehow committed a misstep (she can’t entirely read it, but it is certainly… very queer). “Unless you do not want it.”
He gives a small shake of his head as if to clear it, then says, "No, I'll take it. Thanks, Juli." His fingers almost brush hers as he takes the lemon from her; he drops it inside his glass and tells himself he's being stupid, but he can't stop smiling. It doesn't matter that he's never been a huge fan of lemons; he sips his embittered water as though it's his favorite drink in the world.
“It is no trouble.” To her, it is just a lemon.
She returns to her cream sauce, feeling oddly like she is being scrutinized, which is probably why it doesn’t turn out this time, either.
three
Juliette is shocked (and perhaps a little bit impressed) at Pyr’s ability to sleep literally anywhere. On the one hand, relaxation is a key factor to meditation but… sprawling under a tree at the edge of the Ashwyrm Hall grounds really seems to be taking it a bit far. He’s clearly been there awhile, because the angle of the sun has shifted the shade of the tree away from his face, but the brightness against his eyelids seems to be no deterrent.
She walks up and stands over him, hands on hips. Her shadow falls across his face and though he scrunches his nose, he still seems quite content to sleep on.
She leans over and shakes his shoulder slightly. “You’re going to get a sunburn,” she tells him.
Her voice seems to come from far away, seeping in as whatever he had been dreaming starts to slip away, turning into shapeless blobs of light and color across his eyelids. It was a nice dream, that much he is certain of; he tries to cling to it, to no avail. "Five more minutes," he murmurs.
“Don’t you have training?” she asks, pursing her lips at his frankly lackadaisical attitude. Then, “You are already looking pink, you know.”
"'M not," he protests on principle. The word training stirs something in his memory, however (he does have something like that, doesn't he?). He opens his eyes blearily, just a fraction; Juliette's face comes slowly into focus. She's frowning at him, but the first thought that comes is this is the best thing to wake up to. "Hi," he says, smiling.
She gives him a mildly exasperated look and says, “Hello.” Then, “Perhaps we have different definitions of the word ‘pink.’ In any case, if you are free enough to nap under a tree, perhaps you would like to spar?” It has been awhile, she thinks, and maybe today he won’t be quite so distracted. Despite all of her advanced training partners, she finds she has missed matching her blows against someone roughly at her own level.
Pyr stretches―the temptation to go back to sleep is there, but this, he decides, is more important. “Sure, I’ll spar.” The last word is drowned in a yawn, so he nods his head to clarify. “I don’t have anything to do until way later. I’m training with Jareth but that’s not until like, four.”
Her expression turns alarmed as she looks at her communicator and tells him, “I hope you are training here,” though she does not know why he would when he never has before, “as it is presently three fifty-six.”
In an instant, he is fully awake.
“Crap,” he breathes.
He is not training at Ashwyrm―he thinks, with that brand of amusement born of panic, that it may well be time to test his newfound endurance by running to meet his mentor.
“I have to go,” he says to Juliette, picking up his bag-slash-pillow and giving her a hasty wave before running off. As he leaves, he calls, “I’ll catch you later!”
“I --” but he is already gone. She sighs and finishes, “suppose we will spar another time.”
She feels a bit annoyed, which is ridiculous, she tells herself. It is a good thing she woke him when she did, and it isn’t as though a spar with him was initially in her daily plan. She has other things to do.
She feels a bit lonely, though, as she finds a practice dummy and sets to work.
four
It is a bit strange to be in the Bahamut Hall kitchen without cooking anything. It has taken some time to accustom herself to the lack of chores, but even without kitchen duty, she’s come here with some regularity for months now, whether in the company of Lord Finch or alone, planning a surreptitious visit to Councilor Liu’s office.
She sits on a stool and her hands itch for something -- anything -- to do. She has nearly decided to tackle the pots in the sink when Pyr at last appears in the doorway. He smiles when he sees her, and makes his way over.
“Hi,” he says, withdrawing a tupperware from his bag. “I’m going to heat it up and get the rice, okay? It won’t be long.”
Without waiting for her reply, he turns and withdraws two sizeable bowls from a cupboard above the sink. There’s a lonely rice cooker on the counter, tucked in a corner; he opens it to reveal the rice he made that morning to avoid keeping Juliette waiting, and scoops out a generous amount for each of the two bowls. All that’s left is the curry―and as he’s going to put the tupperware inside the microwave, a crazy thought occurs to him.
How many times has he seen Peony use the warmth of Fire to heat up water or food? And how much of an idiot is he going to look if he can’t get it to work just right?
But he’s already at the table again, placing the tupperware on the wooden surface and trying to ignore the sudden nerves. “Want to see something cool?” he says.
She looks with some confusion at the (cold) food before her. She can’t imagine it’s going to be particularly appetizing this way, but she is too polite to comment. “Certainly,” she says instead. “Show me.”
"Okay," he says--and realises, in that instant, that he has no idea if the chant has to be adjusted when heating up food instead of summoning fire. Peony never chants out loud when she does this, and it's too late to back out and message her to ask. He's come this far; now he has to go through with it, whatever happens.
(He certainly hopes full-fledged flames won't be it, though starting a fire in Bahamut Hall might be impressive in its own way.)
Juliette is distracting, so Pyr closes his eyes before beginning to chant under his breath. He feels the tupperware begin to grow warmer under his palms immediately; then, it gets unbearably hot and he stops chanting at once. He opens his eyes to see that, thankfully, nothing is on fire. And he's certainly achieved his goal of heating up the food, if the bubbling surface of the curry is any indication.
"Uh," he says. "I think I overdid it a little."
“I think,” she says, looking at the roiling brown surface of the curry, “that we may wish to take our time before eating, lest we burn ourselves. But… that is rather… cool. In a less than literal manner.” The word feels odd on her tongue, but it is the one he used. “I did not realize you could do that.”
Perhaps she ought to have, however, considering his sister’s occupation.
He preens.
“It’s the first time I tried to use Fire for that,” he says, grinning. “My sister does it all the time, to heat up water for tea and stuff. She’s been teaching me that spell. And I’m learning Cure from Ridley.”
Perhaps the experiment wasn’t a complete success, as they are now going to have to wait anyway, but Juliette’s praise makes that seem like a meaningless detail.
“Interesting,” she says. “Perhaps I might consider elemental magicks for my next foray into magickal studies after all.” She had not thought of such applications, but why not, after all? Fire to heat, ice to cool, and as for the other elements…
She pulls herself out of the intellectual exercise (or perhaps she ought to honestly call it a daydream) and said, “I suppose I will get us drinks, then, while we are waiting for that to cool.”
Lemonade is not particularly complementary to curry, but they enjoy their meal anyway.
five
"You are becoming stronger, Pyr," Storm says, smiling, and lets Pyr help him to his feet.
He's right. Pyr has improved since their last spar (in leaps and bounds since he came to Emillion, almost a year ago now) but he is having more trouble staying ahead than he should be. Storm is by no means weak; the training he's been doing to fulfill his dream of becoming a Holy Knight has put incredible weight behind his kicks and punches, but he is only sparring with Pyr to keep up his hand-to-hand skills; for Pyr, who spends every day perfecting just those skills, beating Storm should be far easier.
But he can't focus properly, and the reason for that is just a short distance to his left, beating a practice dummy into submission.
"She is quite dedicated," Storm comments, following his gaze. Then, "Would you like a rematch?"
Juliette moves to perform a roundhouse kick that makes the dummy's belly cave in under her foot; as she turns, her ponytail is like a brushstroke of black ink across the air.
"Sure," Pyr says with a smile; then, he squints and jabs his thumb to the right. "But let's move over a little that way. The sun's in my eyes."
It isn't, but a few feet farther from Juliette there's a tree that blocks her from sight and he doesn't have to think about anything or anyone that is not Storm and his next attack.
Juliette sends the practice dummy rocking with a jumping kick and concentrates, gathers her energy, pushes. The chi blast is brighter now, if not very strong yet, but she cannot fully appreciate the improvement because there is a crawling sensation between her shoulderblades that has persisted for the last hour, as though someone is watching her.
She finally turns, exasperated, but sees no one of note. With an annoyed sigh at her own overactive imagination, she turns and makes for the showers.
six
She holds the scrap of parchment tightly in her hand as she makes her way to the stables in the gray light of pre-dawn. It is a small paper, insignificant, but to her it represents more freedom than she has ever been granted.
She is actually going.
The interior of the stables is lit with magicite lanterns which dispel the gloom. There is a lone young man mucking out one of the stalls -- she realizes a moment later that it is Pyr. “Good morning,” she says, offering a hesitant smile (he has been decidedly odd lately) and shifting the weight of saddlebags borrowed from one of the Countess’ grooms over her shoulder. She could have borrowed a chocobo as well, she supposes, but the guild approved her request to requisition the resource, and she did not feel right asking her guardian.
Thus, here she is, holding her paper out to Pyr as she says, “I have Councilor Liu’s permission to requisition a chocobo until the third of Cancer. Could you please sign one out for me?”
"Morning, Juli."
He stares at her for a moment, then takes the paper from her--not because he thinks she's lying, but merely because she's holding it out to him and it seems like the thing to do. He looks at it--it doesn't say where she is going, only that one of the guildhall's chocobos is to be released to her.
"Well, do you have any that you particularly like or that you've borrowed before?" Behind him, Jerome the chocobo gives a loud cluck; frowning, Pyr mutters, "No, not you, Jerome, you're mean."
She gives the chocobo he addressed a curious look. “Does he bite?” she asks. He looks about like the other birds in the stable -- sturdy and plain and very, very yellow, likely to be commended for his endurance rather than his beauty.
"He makes desperate bids for freedom when he thinks no one's looking," Pyr says, giving the chocobo a resentful look. "And he's easy to spook, he's not cut out for the Outlands."
“I have no particular preference,” Juliette says then, answering his question from before. “As you seem quite familiar with the inhabitants of this stable, perhaps you will choose for me?”
He is familiar with the guildhall chocobos; mucking the stables was a privilege reserved almost exclusively for him during his punishment, and he has heard his share of anecdotes and complaints from guild members coming to return a commissioned chocobo. Even so, being asked to choose one for her he feels oddly pressured. He feels as though none of the mounts in the stable is good enough for her, but he knows he is being silly. After a few moments' deliberation, he crosses the stables to where a female chocobo is curiously peering at the new arrival.
"This is Chuckles," he says to Juliette. "She's one of the fastest, and she doesn't scare easily, so even if you have to fight something on the way you don't have to worry about her trying to bolt. She likes to chew on cloth, though, so watch out for that." As if on cue, Chuckles starts sniffing his shirt, and Pyr takes a step back.
“Chuckles,” she repeats, scrunching her nose slightly at the name. Who thinks of these things? The thought of calling the chocobo to her by name is embarrassing. But the bird seems friendly enough when Juliette reaches over to stroke the feathers of her neck. She has to pull her arm out of the way a moment later as her tunic elicits interest, but she supposes that on the road, the issue won’t be insurmountable.
“No,” she says, firmly, as she would to Boris. The chocobo seems to at least consider her demand. That’s all right, then. “I’ll take her,” she says. As he opens the stall door, she adds, “I can saddle her myself if you like; you seem to have a fair amount to do yet this morning.”
“I don’t mind,” he says at once. He does have a fair amount to do, but this, at least, gives him an excuse to talk to her.
It is not the first time he has had to saddle a chocobo for a guild member; he fetches the saddle and a treat for Chuckles to chew on while he adjusts the straps. He makes his voice as casual as he can as he asks, “You’re going on a mission somewhere?”
“Training,” she says, stepping back as he seems determined to do his job to the fullest. She can appreciate the diligence, even if it seems a bit uncharacteristic (in training, he seems to have become more serious, but in chores?). As he saddles the chocobo, she adds, “It is based on the recommendation of several monks I have been sparring with. I suppose I must have forgotten to mention it.”
She’d talked about it with Esther, perhaps someone else, and had simply assumed that somehow her friends were all aware.
“I suppose,” Pyr says. There is a brief moment of annoyance, but he knows there’s no point to it. She’s busy. Why wouldn’t she forget to mention she was going on a trip? “It’s okay.”
He can only drag the moment out so long; saddling a well-behaved chocobo does not take longer than a few moments, and so he eventually has to hand the reins to Juliette and say, “She’s good to go. Do you need anything else?”
“Nothing,” she says, quickly affixing the saddlebags to their rightful places and taking the reins. To Chuckes’ credit, she does not attempt to eat Juliette’s tunic again; perhaps the stern tone will dissuade her long enough to get out of the stable, at least.
He’s giving her another strangely unreadable look which makes her feel self-conscious and awkward, so she says, “I should be going, lest my escort leave without me. I wish you a speedy completion of your chores.”
And that, he supposes, is that.
“Have a safe trip,” he says, scratching Chuckles on the neck before stepping aside. Juliette nods and turns away and, as she walks out of the stable, Pyr feels incredibly lonely. Once she is out of sight, he shakes his head and returns to his assigned task with renewed vigor, as if by making the stables spotlessly clean in record time he can make the third of Cancer arrive faster.
As for Juliette, she mounts the chocobo and directs it towards the city gate, wondering why lately, her friendship with Pyr, which has usually gone better than she anticipated, has been so uncomfortable and, frankly, frustrating. She’s attempted to exercise her somewhat limited patience, but his odd, distracted vagueness has it wearing thin. The only time he seems like himself is when he’s eating or sleeping in unlikely places.
Well, no matter. If he’s decided he’d rather run around with Rolan and the like, it isn’t her problem at all.
She nudges the chocobo into a trot, taking advantage of the sparsely populated streets to speed her way. It seems much better to focus on the work at hand. Certainly Pyr has his own tasks to hold his attention -- and if she is going to improve, she doesn’t need to be thinking about him and his odd behavior at all.