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+--- Thread: La Triste Epoque (/showthread.php?tid=159267)
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RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 04-14-2018
28th of October, 727 AGS (812 AS), Berlioz Hall lounge, Ecole Navale Royale d'Amiens
Comtois' leg was stuck in the air as he leaned far across the pool table. He fell into a precise, precarious balance and slid his arm back across the table. Alaric just shook his head in disbelief, putting up his own cue.
Luc shot his arm forward, striking the little white ball under its equator and popping it over a triplet of Alaric's wayward striped balls. It reached its target with a clean smack which resounded throughout the entire basement. The eight ball dropped squarely into the corner pocket.
He slid off of the table, holding his cue beside him like a farmer's fork. He tipped an imaginary hat.
"Good game, Alaric."
"You didn't tell me you were so good at pool."
"And you didn't tell me you were so bad. That makes us even."
Alaric scoffed. He picked up his briefcase and straightened his shirt.
"I'm just messing with you man," Luc put his hands up. "Four left isn't so bad."
"It's pretty bad," a new voice declared.
Cadet] Deschamps stepped into their dormitory basement, with Payet a little troupe of other noble cadets behind him.
"What can I say? I'm good at pool," Luc scrambled to defuse things before they started.
"It's a commoner's bar game, so I suppose I can't blame you."
Alaric locked up his jaw.
"Not just bars, Deschamps. We had an old table in our attic. Made for some pretty good fun."
"And he hides in his attic, too." Payet could not resist joining in.
"If you want to use the basement, go ahead. Favager and I were just leaving."
"You're right. You are leaving. Studying trumps peasant games." Deschamps' amateur mockery somehow earned a few laughs from his entourage.
The lock broke.
"Be careful, Henri. You wouldn't want to get some glossy brown on your dress shoes again, would you?" Alaric crossed his arms.
"So it was you, you little dirt-eater."
He shrugged. "I have no idea. I just see a trend where you talk out of your ass and suddenly you get the wrong finish on your shoes. I'd be careful about that."
"That took four hours to wipe clean, Favager. You're lucky that watching you scamper around here with that false hope of yours of commissioning is revenge enough."
"And who says I won't commission?"
"Hey," Deschamps raised his hands innocently. "All I'm saying is that I just see a trend where important nobles, some of whom run this place, talk about you when you get uppity."
Alaric's gaze could burn holes in steel. He pointed spite at the higher-born cadet. "If you have problems with me, Cadet Deschamps, we can solve them."
"What ever do you mean?" Deschamps placed a faux-innocent hand over his heart.
"Hey, hey, come on man..." Luc tugged Alaric's shoulder, dragging them towards the door.
"If you have something you need to straighten out, you can come right-"
"Hey. Shut up. Let's go."
Luc pushed them both past the little gang of important men and up the stairs. He grabbed Alaric firmly by both shoulders once they stepped outside of Berlioz Hall.
"What was that bull, Alaric? You're gonna solve problems with him?"
"I hate that smarmy bastard!" His blood heated and his knuckles strained white.
"Stop it. They're assholes. Forget it. Don't think about it. Do not do anything. Understand?"
Favager took a deep breath, unclenching his fists and stretching his fingers out.
"I know."
Luc stared at him sadly, casting his eyes down and patting his friend on the shoulder. He shook his head, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
"I'm off to study traitor languages with Fosse."
"Oh yeah?" Alaric's face lit up.
Luc wore a lecherous grin and put both thumbs up. "Yeah. Turns out we both got assigned the Rheinland. We're doing our culture studies, our language lessons..."
"Yeah. Ironic, huh?"
"You know it," Luc snickered. "Studying them like little kids in school so we can shoot them all better."
"Well, that's what traitors get."
"It is, indeed," Luc mused, saluting with two fingers and starting off towards the library. "I'll see you later!"
"See you."
He made his way promptly to Satie Hall, bounding up the gentle incline to the hilltop dormitory cluster. The air was hefty with chill today, and although it was uncharacteristically so, it was the harbinger of winter creeping in.
Cadet Saint-Cyr was already waiting in the basement. She was flipping lazily through a volume of ancient noble protocol, and on the table in front of her was a stack of thin colored paper strips. She glanced over when the report of his loud arrival down the wooden staircase echoed into the room. Yvette placed the tome gingerly on the table, careful that any tough impact might disintegrate it entirely.
"I thought this material would be a bit difficult for you, so I figured we could cover it earlier rather than later." She scooped up the colored strips in her hand.
"And what's that?" Alaric tossed his bag to the side.
"Something a little more along the lines of social graces. Interpreting color schemes, making polite conversation, recognizing families. Some of the more fine details."
He clapped his hands, assured that the talents of his tutor would carry the day. "I say we get to it, then. Where do we start?"
"Someone's confident," she scoffed, placing a purple strip behind her ear.
"Why wouldn't I be when you're tutoring me?"
She opened her mouth to say something, and instead sated the urge to counter with a slow shake of the head. "You are tutoring him, after all. What's wrong with him being confident?" Yvette chided herself silently. There was no reason to be anything but encouraging, yet some immutable part of her seemingly found his enthusiasm and confidence to be grating. Once more, she forced down any feelings contradictory to their shared success in etiquette.
"I'm a noble lady. Comte's daughter. Walk with me."
Alaric offered her his arm with a flourish, and in an equally flowery style, she took it. They walked wide circles around the room.
"As you know, noble sir, we courtiers and noble ladies often mean to convey something by the colors and styles of our dress," Yvette guided him. After a moment, she flicked her head to the left in indication of the purple strip on her ear.
"Such as your... flower?"
"Exactly. This flower."
"Ah, I see, mademoiselle."
She chattered felicitously as some enchanting young noblewoman might. Her words came in gentle tones and were adorned with the loquacious and flowery language expected of one born to the means of high-class education. Yvette's dulcet tones, even in a practice, were mesmerizing in equal measure in terms of their authenticity and harmonious appeal. For some it came naturally, and for others it was a years-honed skill. Alaric neither knew nor cared where his study partner had sourced that particular affinity from.
"Monsieur..." she started.
"Bisset. Brennus Bisset," he declared as he puffed out his chest. She had encouraged him to take on a fake identity for the purpose of immersion into their little role-plays. She now felt deep regret at allowing him the latitude to pick his name himself. It oozed a cartoonish, adolescent masculinity.
Yet just as curious to her was the tittering laughter she simply could not subdue in time.
"Well of course, Monsieur Bisset, please excuse my manners."
"Bien sûr, mademoiselle."
"I trust you have taken notice of the color behind my ear?"
He bit his lip, drawing on the duller chapters which he might have skimmed economically through.
"A brilliant purple. Of course I see now what you intend to convey."
"I am delighted, sir. And that would be...?"
"Oh, well... you are... royalty?"
She pinched his arm. "Purple represents youth, new love, and new beginnings. It has long passed being the staple of royalty."
"Perhaps you were going for an older meaning."
"I am not quite so antique, Monsieur Bisset."
"Forgive me, I was distracted. It is such a lovely aster. Cut in season, too."
She blinked.
"Yes... yes I suppose it could be an aster."
"Or an orchid. Maybe a lilac or zinnia..." Alaric mused.
"I think an aster would be... quite fine."
"Aster it is."
Inspiration struck her imminently. This would be the secret to a successful lesson.
"And perhaps if I had an Orleans blood dahlia behind my ear?"
"Mourning a death," he replied without a second thought. "Nearly all of the good blood dahlias get sold for mourners and funerals."
She "uhum'd" in bemused agreement.
"If I had a yellow tulip?"
"Probably looking for friends." Alaric rubbed his chin. "Or maybe you're looking for allies. You're trying to make a deal."
"That's... exactly right," Yvette marveled. "Did you study the flowers ahead of time?"
"Well, I was going to, but Luc told me he was bad at pool..." he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.
"How do you know all of this, then?"
"I like flowers. My mother grew them for the market. Sometimes the servants from manors on the coast would come looking for big arrangements," he looked over at Yvette. "You probably had a huge garden where you lived."
"I had a bit of a green thumb growing up. I know my father hated it when I came back from the yard with my red sundress just buried in dirt," she chimed.
"Was it nice?"
"The gardens?"
"No, just..." he reached for his own meaning, "...the good life. It was a big house, right?"
"I suppose it was."
"How big was it?"
"Oh, let me see," Yvette counted on her fingers. "We had four floors and ten bedrooms. Some of them were for guests and servants, but there was obviously a lot of room left over."
"You had servants?" Alaric's eyes gleamed, and he perched voracious on every word.
"Just a few. My mother would let me take care of the plants with them when my father wasn't around."
"You must have had some incredible flowers."
"We really did..." Yvette sighed. "Was your father around much?"
He sighed back. "Not as much as I would've liked. He had to work, but we all could've done with less to keep him around more."
Their stately rounds fell slowly apart. Their arms became untangled, and their hands drifted unconsciously together as the moments passed by ambling from one end of the room to the other.
"Is he the corporate type?"
"Not really. I don't think he's too loyal to the mine."
"He's a mine manager?"
Alaric laughed. "No, just a miner."
Yvette made a silent "oh" and shriveled up in her embarrassment. "Sorry."
"No, no, I get it. A lot of cadets here tend to be pretty well off."
"Well it's... good that you made it, then."
Alaric peered over at her and smiled. She returned it, sheepishly and off-balance.
"Truth be told, I wasn't really unhappy that my own father wasn't around so much. He didn't like the gardening, then he didn't like the sports, and then-"
Her hand was bathed in an emergent warmth that crept up her fingers and trickled into her palm. It pooled, tingling and startling her. She tore away, making a beeline for the sanctuary of her study material on a table across the room. Her cheeks flushed from self-diagnosed anger, and she stuttered an excuse.
"We should keep at it. You can't pass without doing well on the next test," Yvette ordered.
"It's in two weeks," Alaric countered, now experiencing a peculiar chill embrace his calloused hand.
The rest of their practice was uneventful. Yvette remained at a distance, taking on roles of different families in different styles and colors of dress without taking Alaric's arm like some bright-eyed debutante. He remained focused on the lesson and absorbed the knowledge fed to him through character. Her eyes were distant, and her delivery was at times dispassionate.
He felt curious at what made her interest in practicing suddenly flag, ultimately endeavoring not to waver himself. Perhaps some of his own energy would bleed off to her.
The minutes passed slowly in tens, then in fives. The clock was all too aware of the sudden discomfort and relished in its extension.
Alaric quietly collected his things once the lesson had mercifully concluded.
"You know, the flowers out by the front entrance aren't doing so well."
Yvette tapped her chin. "I sent a message to the groundskeeper's office about that."
"It's the soil. Too compacted."
"I know! There are always little puddles there after the rain," she gushed.
"Want to take care of it?"
"Well..." she shuffled in place. "I guess we could. Do you have a shovel?"
His answer came in the form of raising both hands. "These will do."
"Your hands."
"Nature's trowels."
She threw her on hands up.
"Fine. Let's do it."
They spent far longer that afternoon gently aerating and tilling the soil with their hands, trading common points of gardening and empty pleasantry.
RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 04-15-2018
2nd of April, 723 AGS (808 AS), Monsieur MacMahon's classroom, Les Plaines Regional School, Saleux, Planet Amiens
Most of the usual suspects weren't problems anymore.
Alaric's self-overhaul was unmistakable to the few friends he had and the far greater number of pestering antagonists. Once a prime target and veritable piggy bank, he now looked the part of a young man not to be trifled with. His eyes were sharp, scanning every room for trouble.
But even as the number of hostile encounters with his schoolmates plummeted, no corresponding reduction in paranoia took place. The walls of classrooms seemed to cloister him in with the overcrowded, poorly-supervised human sea. They hemmed in like the barbed edges of a cage, or the concrete surfaces of a bunker.
In some ways it was even more torturous. He looked the part, and often felt the part. But as each day passed without a "moment of truth," his fingers twitched a little bit more when doors opened. His eyes, although bold, darted from person to person, scanning for malicious intent in a non-stop frenzy.
He had never truly fought. Oh, there were times where he had fought back, certainly, but these brief verses in a tragic poem ended with all the same theme. A broken nose or a black eye, and a bloody mess of a headache to take care of.
Alaric longed for peace, for liberation from the shadow of violence which he lived perpetually under. But his thirst for harmony would not be quenched, for all he had drank was a saltwater promise of open battle.
How many could he fight at once? Could he win? Could he even put some hits in before he was jumped? Would he be jumped? Would he have to jump someone?
Cosette tapped her pencil nervously on the wood desk they shared. She was one of those once-in-a-lifetime people who caught others' emotions like a sieve. With one look she could understand, and with a caring gaze could make one feel more understood and cared for than anyone in Sirius.
That was why her pencils were riddled with mousey bite-marks. Why she drummed out the same rhythmic tone on her desk at the end of each day. Her awareness of it made it no better. It was impossible to suppress, so long as the daily trepidation of decisive conflict rolled off of Alaric like storm waves, ceaselessly.
He fumbled with the turret on his model Lynx fighter. The little shieldbuster clattered down the hand-painted plastic wings as it fell from the top mount. The prescribed dollop of glue was half-deformed. Alaric's fingers shook brittle as he made the second attempt to place the last attachment.
MacMahon droned as he always did. His repetitive and confusing recitations were like a misty white noise, which lulled some into peaceful slumber and others into chattering civil conversation, as if there was no school in session and no chaotic formulas to commit to memory.
"I think today's the day," Alaric mumbled. His third attempt failed. He applied more model glue.
"You say that a lot," Cosette intoned sadly.
He shuffled in his seat. "I really feel it. Deep in my gut. I think it's gonna happen."
"You sound like you want it to," she complained. Cosette turned her chair and faced him. "Why do you want this to happen?"
"I don't... I don't want to fight anyone. But I need to-"
"You don't need to do anything Alaric. If they leave you alone, they leave you alone."
Alaric shook his head slowly. The turret finally squished into the glue drop, sealing to the dorsal surface of the model heavy fighter.
"You don't understand. I see the way they look at me. They don't take my money anymore but I know they watch me. They can't just let me go."
"It really seems like they have, Alaric."
"No, Cosette..." he sighed. "It's not just that I was weak. It's that it made them feel strong. I'm a target."
She pursed her lips.
"Do they look at you?"
He shivered. "Constantly. Jacques, and Richard, and Pierre, and Quentin. I know it. I watch them do it. It's like they're trying to convince me to fall back in line. They want me to keep my head down again."
"Wouldn't they just ask for your money?"
"It's not about the money."
"Alaric, please, I really don't think-" Cosette reached out to touch his arm.
"You don't know what it's like."
She withdrew as her lips curved down, their healing attitude shot from the sky.
"They bullied all of us, Alaric. You don't remember?"
"They didn't hit you like they hit me."
She took a deep breath and looked towards the front of the room for any new notes. it was still the same mess of examples and characters in atrocious handwriting.
"Why do you think it's happening today?"
"Because..." Alaric strained. "I saw them talking. And Richard usually doesn't talk to them. They pointed at me."
"But what does that prove?"
He sighed and shook his head. "It's happened so much to me. I can tell, now. My gut can tell. You'll see."
Cosette had no further comforts but the placement of a gentle hand on his shoulder. Class was soon dismissed, and in familiar fashion, Alaric let the masses pass him by before he left. He packed up his little Lynx fighter in his backpack.
His head swiveled like radar once he left the classroom as he walked the familiar sites of past torments. He walked the right walk, looked the right part, and was built with the right build, but the mental evasion of an honest hearty confidence could not be thwarted.
He was almost at the front doors. The crowd was thin.
He froze. Just to his right, his skull had smacked against a pillar and dripped blood. The report of that spill was faintly visible for someone looking for it. Little pieces of a model kit had smashed and scattered here.
He clenched his fists. Footsteps left, right, and behind.
He drew on every last memory, from his young childhood to even recent months. Every blow. Every suffering. Every tearful comfort with mother, and every disappointing talk with father.
And he threw it all away. He tossed his bag to the floor.
All it took was a decision, and now he was free.
"Jacques."
"Well, look who it is. You owe me back money."
"I guess I do," Alaric mused.
"What?" He thought, panicked. Was he playing sharp now? What stupid game was his mouth going to drag himself into?
"Then it's time to pay up!" Jacques's voice oozed with venom. Richard was behind him. Quentin appeared to the left. Pierre was on the right.
"Shove it. Lick someone else's boots if you're too poor."
His heart flew. This was some incredible, novel sensation. His very extremities felt airy, almost floating. He knew not where those words came from, but they filled him with an incredible vigor. Alaric spun around on his heels and took a few steps forward.
Sweat chilled on his forehead. His fists clenched. He soaked in the adrenaline and craved desperately for another exciting taste of risk. He was finally free.
"That was the wrong answer you fu-" Jacques spat.
His arm wound back. He shot a tight fist in a wide arc.
Sloppy. Slow.
It took Alaric no thought to whip to the side with his upper body. The rogue fist sailed safe inches in front of his face. Jacques' face morphed in shocked slow-motion.
It crumpled under Alaric's flawless haymaker. With a resounding crack, Alaric's knuckles drilled artfully into his enemy's face. Blood spouted from Jacques' nose and he toppled back with a yelp.
Quentin charged forward with outstretched arms, intent to grab Alaric and shut him down immediately.
Alaric slipped forward on his toes as if floating, driving a punishing right deep into Quentin's stomach. He coughed and doubled over, opening up his jaw for a straight knee which sailed home with a tight, bony thud.
Richard came next. A quick one-two combo. The first missed its mark. Alaric caught the second on his arm, raised in front of his head. He opened up to strike.
Another crack. Alaric stumbled and his jaw burned. His enemy's next punch missed out of the mercy of chance, and he again slid on his feet, shuffling deftly back. He drew Richard in, blocking a few competent punches. He was on a different level than the last two tormentors.
Alaric ducked and weaved in. He connected two straight fists to Richard's jaw.
"Guh!"
Richard stumbled back and brought his fists close to his chin. His eyes blinked quickly and his pupils drifted in the wind from place to place.
Alaric buried his fist in a wide left, connecting flawlessly to the kidney. Richard crumpled over, and took another straight blow to the chin on the way down.
His blood was on fire. There was no feeling in his arms or legs. His fists were electrified and held always at the brink, like loaded weapons eager to fire. Sights and sounds of the school fell away. Alaric calmly assessed the next target. He floated on the linoleum tile like a dancer, shifting over to Pierre with a newfound hunger surging in his veins.
He flashed like thunder. He spat rage and savored the sickly report of iron. Pierre inched back as terror struck his features.
Alaric bolted forward. He dodged, whipped, bobbed, weaved, each motion an unnecessary taunt.
Finally he was free. He was in control.
He fired a nasty roundhouse kick which cracked like a gun against the side of Pierre's head.
He was finally out. Not one was left on their feet for him to strike. But his appetite was not sated.
Jacques stirred, moaning and desperately trying to staunch the crimson river streaming down his face. Alaric fell upon him in an instant, locking him in place with his weight as he threw one fist after another into his head.
He said nothing. A feral, steaming growl and the sharp whips of breath were the only sounds not buried under the rhythmic smack of hard knuckles to face.
By the time a pair of teachers had torn Alaric away, Jacques' handsome face was reduced to a warzone of black and purple bruises.
Alaric's mother was there in under an hour.
And all the way home, she decried his action. She cried, and begged, and pleaded to know just what could overtake him.
Every time, the answer was the same.
"They had it coming."
And she refused it with each issue. No reason, and no rationale could bring her to grips with her new son.
He stared out the window, taking in the virgin sights of a new world. A world where he made his own decisions.
The air was sweet and it was new.
RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 12-04-2018
5th of November, 727 AGS (812 AS), Satie Hall basement, Ecole Navale Royale d'Amiens
Alaric, in the form of his indefatigable alter-ego, swept away the sleeve of his fur-lined pelisse to reveal a shoulder bag of pastries nestled within, its warmth preserved in this manner from the oven just an hour before.
Yvette clapped and smiled prettily, herself professionally ensconced as an unmarried vicomtesse at a fellow royal's dinner party. "Oh, monsieur, you didn't forget!" she chirped encouragingly. "You're getting quite good at this."
And from the alcove of her own mind a pinprick of her nerves. He was doing so well now. This man from low places, for whom others in his stead might write themselves off to maudlin despair, now playing the part of an officer and a gentleman.
"Shouldn't I be proud of him?"
With a dramatic flourish, he bowed deeply to the hips, careful at first introduction not to tap his hat which would seem far too presumptive and familiar as to be proper for meeting a lady of high standing.
"Brennus Bisset, Chevalier du Marne, mademoiselle. It is my distinct pleasure to meet you." Convincing Alaric to play the role of a swashbuckling rake for their practices had taken some convincing, but now his studies - at least in etiquette - had become not merely a chore, but a joyful diversion to bring his character further to life.
"It is good to meet you, Chevalier Bisset. I am Elaine du Pont, Vicomtesse du Champagne. What have you brought us?"
"Ah, playing the coquette again."
"For such a distinguished event, only a rare and distinguished treat," he gently pulled open the top of his pastry bag, letting a puffy wave of heat carry its mouth-watering scent into the air, "these are petites madeleines I have made for the occasion. Airy little cakes... and just a hint of honey and vanilla."
Integrating Alaric's other hobbies for which the academy had no other outlet also brooked successes. That sometimes it was just an excuse to eat was something mutually understood, and mutually unsaid.
Yvette could not resist the instinctive urge to lean in and take a deep whiff. The fragrant notes of vanilla danced with the burly scent of honey, generating great want and appetite as it supercharged the cool basement air.
"It smells excellent, Monsieur Bisset. Please, be seated. We shall begin shortly."
Their grand dining table was a plastic dining hall table missing one of its supports. Yvette had recovered some dignity from it by laying a tastefully-embroidered off-white cloth the top, and placing a stack of naval engineering textbooks in place of its absent leg.
They had their elaborate function with pretend guests and pretend food - except for the madeleines - for just under an hour. In conversation, Yvette as Elaine du Pont was sometimes cordial and sometimes short with him. Alaric assumed that it was a natural decision to get him used to venerable figures who may not be so polite.
For Yvette, however, such treatment was erratic. Any curt note her tongue delivered shocked her far more internally than it did Alaric. Her self-chastisement did no good and so, inexplicably, she was embarrassed by herself in the presence of what was just another pupil to her.
But ever the upright student and etiquette master that she was, this turmoil churned under the surface and did not manifest in any way but the odd biting comment. And in fortunate short order, their "feast concluded."
"Good lesson." Yvette sighed. "You're catching on faster than most people do, believe it or not."
"It's different," he remarked casually, folding and packing the table cloth. "It's just utter suffering with madame. But it's a lot fun with you, Yvette"
Yvette huffed. And smiled. And lifted a duffel bag over her shoulder. She needed to be doing something different.
"You going to the gym?" Alaric looked over.
"Arms today."
"Me too. Mind if I join you, Saint-Cyr?"
"Absolutely not. No. Not happening."
"I don't mind at all. Could use a spotter today."
Alaric nodded blankly. He normally went in the evenings, but for whatever reason an hour had felt too short.
"Then... I'll meet you there. "
"Don't make me wait too long."
In good form he hadn't. He had the longer walk to his own dormitory and over to the gym, but she was the one who had to change out of an elaborate Gallic dress. That had put him ahead of her by a minute, and he stood outside the entrance to La Salle de Gymnastique de Capitaine Cassard.
Cadets were strictly forbidden from walking the grounds in exercise clothes, and so both stepped inside and diverged to the locker rooms to change. So many times during the week they were forced to wear the same uniforms in group exercises, so when going to work out on their own time, most cadets opted to wear their own clothes.
Yvette came out in a nondescript grey polyester shirt tucked into baggy shorts. Alaric's choice had been a bit more idiosyncratic, and it took herculean effort for Yvette not to burst into laughter upon seeing it.
His baggy tank-top was emblazoned with the overly-muscular cartoon hero Superdupont with text reading "TEMPS DE DEVENIR ÉNORME" underneath. He grinned, making the same heroic pose that Superdupont was making.
"Is that who you're trying to look like?"
"A man can only dream..." Alaric trailed off. He flipped through a palm-sized workout journal. "Poitrine, les biceps, les deltoïdes, les triceps."
"It's early in the afternoon," the female cadet lazily stretched her arms behind her back. "Room in the back should be pretty empty."
And true to her word, it was. There was an old professor on a rowing machine and a cadet deadlifting off in the corner, but in all, this weight room was prime real estate. The perfunctory stretches and warmups took only a few moments, before their work began and Alaric loaded up a bench press station for his new partner.
"Fifty kilos?"
"Fifty kilos."
Yvette slapped her thighs and gripped the bar with white knuckles. Her rhythmic up-down lost no pace until about the tenth rep, at which point she flagged and racked the bar.
Next up.
"Sixty kilos."
"Alright."
Above the clanging of iron plates was a curious silence, one broken immediately on its discovery.
"So I've never actually asked, what are you trying to commission into?" Alaric huffed from under the bar at its fifth ascent to full height.
'Intelligence," she elucidated pointedly. "The Saint-Cyr family has a legacy. Good that I was born one, after all. I find the business fascinating." Her lips curled into a rare smile. Not that it was a rare occurrence, but Alaric noted the peculiarity of this one. It wasn't rehearsed or diplomatic. It was present. And she smiled at him.
"If anyone would do that, it would be the famous Cadet Saint-Cyr. I've heard they don't commission too many intelligence people from the academies."
The barbell fell into its hangers with a loud clunk.
"Fifty-five kilos."
"Aye aye."
Yvette slid onto the bench after the weights were changed, readying for another set.
"Only four or five from each academy."
"Even Ile-de-France?"
"Ha!" She grabbed the bar. Alaric kept it steady as she lifted it over her torso and went down for the first rep. "A few dozen from Ile-de-France. We outer academies get the scraps."
"We outer academies, with such distinguished members as the heiress Saint-Cyr, you mean. I'm surprised they don't just hand you that billet now."
Yvette racked the bar and shot back. "You and everyone else. I don't want it if I can't earn it. And I know I have the marks, and the evaluations, and the fitness to make it so far. I've done all the math a thousand times."
"Seventy kilos."
"Seventy kilos it is. But you don't understand. When and if I get it, there will always be that doubt, no matter how good I was..." she trailed off.
Alaric slid under the bar. "That they gave it to you for your name?"
She nodded, and helped him lift the bar.
"Well... if it makes you feel better, you deserve one of those billets more than any other cadet I know. Maybe Comtois. But I just want him to stay out of the private sector. He'd die out there."
Yvette chuckled. "You're lucky, you know. Coming from peasant birth, there will be none of those doubts for you."
"Peasant birth, huh? Is that supposed to make me feel better" he droned back sarcastically.
"Hey, I-... you know what I meant."
Alaric completed his sixth rep and racked the bar.
"I'm used to it. I know you didn't mean it."
"Fifty-five kilos again. And I'm sorry."
Alaric quietly swapped the weights and went around to the back of the bench to spot.
"I'm not ashamed of it. My parents worked hard to raise us all and they're good people. I just don't like some of the rat-bastard nobility here sometimes who can't respect that."
"Trust me, I respect it-"
"I'm not talking about you."
Yvette fell silent and did not rise from the bench when she completed her set. She drew her arms back and rested her head on her hands.
"Who cares if they don't respect it? Just like you said, you have nothing to be ashamed of. They worked hard... and you worked hard to be here. You deserve to be at the academy, Alaric, and more than any of those bastards deserve to be here either."
Alaric caught his breath.
"You think that?"
She slid off of the bench and shook out her arms.
"I've seen it," Yvette shrugged. "No titles, no legacy, no money. You got here and you stay here because the Crown knows that too. Even if you suck at etiquette."
Alaric saw her as if for the first time.
Loose brown hair stuck to her forehead, and her face just a bit flush from the sweat and the workout. It wasn't a forced or rehearsed or political smile. She was now no longer Cadet Saint-Cyr.
And Yvette was...
"Intoxicating."
"One hundred and ten kilos."
"Woah, okay, just getting up there now?"
"I'm all warmed up."
He swapped the weights and slid into the bench, his tank top bunching up and revealing his lower torso. Yvette stared down at a newly-revealed scar which tracked across his abdomen as he strained and huffed in his set.
His face was contorted from the effort, and he strained and writhed with each rise and fall of the bar. She swept some of the hair from her face, and took a deep breath. Her collar was warm.
"A-all done?"
"Eight and done... that was my last set," he sighed.
She crossed her arms pensively. "You never told me you had a scar."
"Was I supposed to?"
"How did you get it?"
"Just my peasant birth." With a "hup" he sat up and off of the bench, stripping the weights off the bar.
"Interrogation is part of my course work, Alaric. Don't tempt me."
He rolled his eyes.
"Stray bottle."
"A stray bottle?"
"Some salaud from Coisy."
Yvette tapped her chin. "Coisy?"
"It's not too far from where I lived in Saleux."
"Saleux..." she mouthed silently. A brow curled up in surprise.
"Yeah. We were that poor."
"Were you in a fight?" Yvette quickly moved on.
"Yeah."
"Was it bad?"
"Yeah."
She pursed her lips as they moved on to some dumbbell workouts. They stood side-by-side as they alternated between hammer and regular curls.
"Were you in a lot of fights growing up?"
Alaric put down his weight and looked over. "What's it to you, huh?"
Internally, she recoiled. But ever the disciplined cadet she remained visibly nonplussed. "I was just curious. I'll leave it alone."
Alaric sighed, picking the twenty-kilo up again and going back to his work.
"Sorry."
"Listen, don't be, it's just..."
"Just what?"
His arms fell slack at his sides, and his eyes drew into the distance.
"It just wasn't great, right? I mean..." He shook his head. "There wasn't a whole lot to do, you know? So we got wrapped up in a lifestyle. And before you know it, shit like that is happening every day. And you're drinking. And experimenting. And going around, and around..." Alaric spun a finger in the air to make the point. "And you don't realize it, but everyone's kind of circling the drain, and we were all too caught up to see where it was going."
Alaric shook his head.
"And... and everyone's just circling the drain together. And nobody's looking ahead. And sometimes things change. We were just a bunch of dumb kids, you know? And we were so cool, when it was fun... but you're getting closer and closer to the drain."
Yvette stood in lithic silence there, for a few beats.
"And you got out?"
He looked over at her.
"I guess I did."
There were no words, no signs bonded to what he felt, and what she knew he felt. But he soldiered on. They finished their workout, at that point notably absent of any more interesting conversation. But in much the same way Alaric had seen a new Yvette, she could no longer look upon him as the same thing that had walked in with her.
They were about to leave for the lockers, and part ways for the day. Alaric waved and offered a polite "see you."
Inexplicably, Yvette's face was hot. She was upset. Upset at him. She did the only thing she knew at the moment.
"Just leave before it gets any worse."
She pulled him into a tight hug.
He froze in place, returning it once sense had returned in kind to let him know exactly was was really truly absolutely taking place.
She withdrew and slapped his shoulder. Good care not to let him feel too familiar.
"I... I hope I didn't dig up anything too painful."
He rubbed the back of his messy, sweaty head. "Honestly? It can be good to talk sometimes." He was still cerebrally paralyzed at what had just occurred and stuttering on the odd word.
They looked at each other.
"Well, if... you ever want to talk..."
Alaric smiled. "Thanks Yvette."
RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 12-04-2018
9th of January, 724 AGS (809 AS), at a house in Saleux, Saleux, Planet Amiens
Geneviève leaned in and grinned ear-to-ear. A racy black top did its minimum effort and Alaric's eyes slid up and down whenever there was a generous chance. "Oh, monsieur, you didn't forget!"
Somehow he was here. Somehow, tonight and now and in that house he was here. Bass pounded aft of his skull. Ghostly blue and purple lasers trembled in the embrace of a fog machine, and in the effect the silhouettes of half-ghosts gyrated in the dark.
"We had nothing else going on." Alaric winked and pushed his way inside. Felix was close behind, slicking back his oily, black mop kept in place with a half-pound of slick wax. He wiped his scraggly chin with veiny arms not yet accustomed to their own size.
Victor and Cosette followed, the former taking a long and awkward drag of a cigarette while the latter clasped her right arm with her left. Geneviève looked furtively out the door before slamming it promptly.
"Make yourself comfortable, boys." Geneviève disappeared into the mass of active phantoms. Alaric longed to break his form in the same sea.
Felix dragged him over to the kitchen. Half-full bottles of alcohol and mixer covered every available surface, some spilled or broken from prior chaos. Alaric glanced at his friend. Their hands both trembled. He hoped. Felix's weren't, truly.
"Come on," the pomaded rake chided. "Just have some." He poured a tall concoction of something orange with something clear into a red plastic cup. It was unceremoniously shoved into Alaric's face.
The bigger friend hesitated.
"Don't ruin this for us."
Cosette shuffled over to them. She stuck close to Alaric's side, a reticent arm snaking around his. The ochre sea in his cup drew Alaric in, begging him to set sail in new waters.
With his arm the davit of this new vessel he tossed it back, clasping his jaw to keep the repulsive slurry down. Felix tilted the cup higher with his hand and hooted.
"Here we go!"
Victor leaned over from the other side of the counter. He snuffed his cheap cig on an ersatz ashtray - a soaked paper plate - and beckoned a drink for himself.
Alaric matched this one, and ignoring his gauche form he threw back the next round of vicious mix arm-in-arm with Victor. What was a good night not for a little venial sin?
27th of January, 724 AGS (809 AS), at a house in Saleux, Saleux, Planet Amiens
Felix and Cosette watched from the couch. Alaric's closest man hollered and shouted and mimicked the song which scored his new conquest.
Even as a cup occupied his left hand, Alaric's right adroitly navigated the clandestine curves up and down Geneviève's skintight dress. His vision was hazy. It took Dutch courage to fly by feel only.
She leaned forward and drove her aft on his course. Lost as he was the man was visibly blasé over the whole thing. The last of the rum slid peacefully down his throat and he had a generally warm mien about it all. He tossed the empty cup on the floor and planted both of his hands on Geneviève's hips, supporting her like the spars of an airplane.
Suddenly she stood back up and turned around. She stepped into his frame and pulled him in by the shirt. Her fey little tongue pushed through his lips and commenced its sloppy attack on his mouth. His eyes flickered wider for a moment. he couldn't overcome how importunate she was.
They ignored where they grabbed each other.
16th of March, 724 AGS (809 AS), at a house in Coisy, Coisy, Planet Amiens
He drank deep in the scent. Woman and nox were married in the air like the most toxic siren. The world around him fell into a static rapture. Time itself quit to smell the flowers.
Everyone in the room was at least half naked. The air hung a light purple between the nox mister and the disco lights, illuminating pornographic scenes halted in flagrante from corner to corner. Alaric watched the fingers on Geneviève's outstretched hand flick back and forth in slow motion. Her chest seemed to heave once every hour, and atop the table she lay on she offered a days-long lustful glare.
Alaric resolved to give her what she was asking, once he figured out how to move, and whether up was down or vice-versa. He looked past his temptress stripped to the waist on the oak table, watching Felix slide his hands up Adele's shirt at a glacial pace.
Her hands were locked and motionless in his hair, grasping the jungle of grease and pomade pulling his face into her chest.
Alaric looked down, all at once shocked at the speed his eyes responded. He wasn't quite sure when he became naked. Was it recent? Somehow Victor and Ines were sitting on his legs at the other end of the couch. Somehow he still felt light as a feather.
Somehow time stopped smelling the flowers. He wriggled away from the couch and became a puddle on the floor. The ceiling lights appeared in ones, twos, and threes. Dragging himself to his knees, four Genevièves surrounded him with Cheshire smiles wrapped entirely around their faces. A thousand hands pulled him forward. He dry-heaved. One of those hands was real.
Somehow he was on the table. The alpha Geneviève shouted at him. "Come on, come on! We'll be too tired if we wait!"
They were together there, surrounded by visions of themselves and each other bathing in more sinful rivers. Up was still down. But at least it was everywhere.
23rd of March, 724 AGS (809 AS), at a house in Saleux, Saleux, Planet Amiens
He breathed. One... two...
"Damn it! Damn it all! Do it now!"
His fist crashed through the window. He pulled up Victor by the bedsheet rope he dangled from.
"Glad you could join us!" Felix screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Having fun yet!?" Alaric yelled to Geneviève. The music was too slow. It wasn't loud enough. More more more more.
He backpedaled from the window and fell into a chair. His hand dangled like a rapid-fire crane into his pockets. Alaric gripped the little capsule until the glass shattered in his hand. He followed the ley lines in his palm in circles, around and around and around.
The blood trickled down his face and from his nose as he shoved it, glass and all, up to his nostrils for a deep sniff. He stood at the edge of the gangplank and dived back into the sultry air.
He fell up. Geneviève looked at him. She was hyperventilating. Its dulcet tones set him off growling like a sibilant boiler. The bloody callouses and burrs in his hand stuck to her and roamed criminally around her body. She attacked his face with blitzes of carpet-bomb kisses and bites.
"Right here?"
"No. Not right here. Fast."
"Huh?"
"I don't know. Now? Later?"
"What?"
"Enculer," she attacked his face again in desperate plea for some outlet from the euphoric energy. Her dress was soaked red where Alaric's glass-studded fist roamed.
Blood drained from him as quickly as the cardamine invigorated. Her face, her hair, her hips, her body, her legs, her body, her body, he wanted it and he wanted everything. He couldn't breathe. He needed more air.
He couldn't breathe. He needed more air. And he wanted more. Blood streamed into his mouth from twin rivers. He teetered back onto the floor. More more more more.
"Hey... hey! Who's got more!?"
He choked. He heaved and vomited. Alaric rolled over. His brain hummed. His nerves sang along with the beat strumming in the floor.
Suddenly there were no more lights. Just water.
He saw himself at the end of the sea. He reached for just one little lifeboat floating in the brine, which tossed as hard as the sea tossed him in its wretched tantrum.
He retched. The blood ocean threw him to the highest highs and then shoved his head into unbreathing tides. Back and forth. Back and forth.
He reached for the boat.
The Commission des Narcotiques Gauloise reports seventy-eight percent of cardamine overdoses among Gallic youths are fatal. And some people are born lucky.
RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 12-05-2018
12th of November, 727 AGS (812 AS), Satie Hall basement, Ecole Navale Royale d'Amiens
Brennus Bisset had deftly cozened a dance with the Vicomtesse du Champagne with barely a word. Behind his and her ears were the proper flowers - both were yellow tulips, indicative of a willingness to make new friends and allies. But peculiar streaks of red spiraling from the petals to their blossom ends left ideas in the air of something more than friendship.
But in all, their meeting was meant to just be one corpuscle of a grander political event. It would be bold to press or even acknowledge what so plainly hung over their ears. But boldness was the essence of a character like Monsieur Bisset.
Yvette, as the royal lady, was taciturn with a raised chin, its angle resembling the swell and peak of a samovar. Alaric feigned a breathless sigh, not so much feigned, showing just how acutely sideways he was left in the sight of her beauty.
In fairness to him, she had been particularly attentive to her appearance for this exercise. Chestnut hair fell in two long braids down her back against the backdrop of a deep blue gown. Her eyes were tastefully amended with shadow, and she laced her fingers together with eager energy, playing with the hems of their white silk gloves. Any notion that this was some cobbled menagerie was staunched once gentle notes of oak and citrus transited the gulf to Alaric's nose.
"I feel a bit silly," he whispered hoarsely, so conscious of the bare cold-weather leather workout gloves and ribbon-less cadet's dress jacket he wore. He kicked himself for not taking the promise of a "live fire test of ballroom skills" seriously enough. Of course it would mean looking your best!
But Brennus Bisset was not the type to be waylaid in particles of concern.
"You're fine. Come," Yvette whispered back, alone as they were in Satie Hall's storage basement.
Alaric let the waves of gentle waltz flowing from speakers in the corner push him his partner for the "evening," discarding his gloves and offering an outstretched palm in one fluid, rehearsed motion.
"Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse, would you do me the grandest honor of partaking in a song?"
"Oh, with you, Monsieur Bisset?" She tapped her chin and looked furtively from side-to-side. "Oh, why not?"
She matched her dainty hand with his own and let herself be pulled out to the dance floor, old carpet scuffed and stained from years of heavy use. He bowed with a wide sweep of his right arm, maintaining eye contact, while she dipped into a shallow curtsy.
They stepped once and twice together into a basic waltz. Just getting used to it, Alaric led them across the room in more-or-less a straight line at first. His shoulders moved up and down to the swelling rhythm of the horns.
"Excellent. Keep going."
Brennus Bisset took the encouragement as a challenge, and Alaric resolved to test his advancing knowledge. He led them into a whisk, stepping forward with his left foot diagonal to the wall and pushing his right foot forward and to the side. He swayed left, crossing his left behind his right. Yvette followed with expert care, leaving them in a flawless promenade, in a V-shape joined at the hips.
"Ma Vicomtesse, please, what should I call you?" Alaric bid with a growling baritone. He twirled his partner out, letting her swing at the extent of his arm, before pulling her back in with an accomplished turn. In three more steps, they were waltzing back across the floor.
"Quite bold of you, Monsieur Bisset. Are you above calling me by my rightful title?"
"Oh no, not above it. I am below it."
"And what am I to suppose you mean by that?" She nudged him, correcting a minor flaw in his form. Alaric huffed and twirled her, as if to show that he wasn't so novice as it seemed.
"Perhaps I am no esteemed and noble main, Vicomtesse, only a wretched imposter come to sully the hands of women of better birth."
Yvette drew her cheeks tight in vain to not half-chuckle her reply, "And that was your plan tonight?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Let's just find out, instead." Alaric flung her into a wide twirl, drawing her back in and catching her fall deftly on his left arm. No small feat at the speed they progressed. Yvette beamed and laughed. It was like bells chiming his victory in dance.
"Fine, so you can waltz, Bisset. You have my attention for now."
"Perhaps that's all I wanted," he slithered in hushed tone.
Her hands trembled. Yvette felt her heart beat against the confines of her chest and willed it impudently to silence. What game was he playing now?
She put on a frown, which Alaric must have seen as cartoonish, since he laughed and smiled from ear to ear. His warm, soulful eyes lit with joy and it was obvious his mind roamed in no other place than their own fictitious ballroom. Even if they were just Brennus Bisset and Elaine du Pont.
She couldn't help but feel the coarse warmth of his hands through her own gloves. The genuine glow of his face, strewn under a tightly-regulated black cut. They were close. So unprofessionally close. Devilishly they had pulled together, and his poorly-fitted dress jacket which strained against his chest and arms brushed and caught the frills of her own clothing.
Yvette looked up at him. The peasant cadet, lost in their waltz and genuine in his cause, radiated energy back at her. An all-too-familiar warmth of the collar rendered extinct all other thoughts in her mind. She hated him for it, in that moment. But the more she frowned, all the sillier it appeared to be, and the happier it made him and by that fashion the happier it made her, denying it all the same.
Yvette grinned.
"Then it is our time, Monsieur Bisset."
"Our time. Please just call me Brennus."
"Alaric..." she teased.
"And so I should call you Yvette? Or la Vicomtesse de Gouvion Saint-Cyr?"
"You can always just call me Yvette," she giggled.
She laughed even more once she felt the tremor of her own partner's hands shaking, then. He straightened up and cleared his throat.
Alaric looked down at Yvette. Her grip was confident and sure, the softness of their movements not betraying the reserves of alacrity and power he knew she held. Her face was presented wry, her lips and brow half-curled up in recognition of just how much the balance of power had shifted.
They took another corner turn. Her lithe swaying mystified his sight. Their bodies pressed together, Alaric felt the enormous simplicity their movement as they glided with and across each other. Yvette's every motion teased him from tranquility, frustrating his mind and heating his cheeks. Even the suavity of Brennus Bisset would buckle against such an onslaught.
"Yvette..."
"I feel so rude not to have asked. What are you trying to commission into?" Her acute questioning forgave him the herculean task of some roguish line.
"Space Warfare Officer. Ideally with the cruiser-destroyer fleet. It's been my dream so long as I can remember."
"For the son of a miner?"
"The Marine have always been our heroes. They saved us when we left Marne and they protect Gallia today. Heroes in the fleet... adventurers who hop from planet to planet, who don't let anything stop them or get in their way," he share ebulliently. "Who wouldn't want to be a man who touches the stars?"
"Quite the romantic notion."
"When I was a little boy I always built ship models. I would look at the stickers I placed for portholes and windows and just... wonder in awe at the kind of men who would be inside them. And I wondered that maybe, someday, I would be just like them. Being free. Serving the Roi."
Alaric felt a hand squeeze his. "For what it's worth coming from me, I think you are just like them now. You're just the kind of man all the young boys should be emulating."
He blushed. "What it's worth coming from you? That's an endorsement if I've ever heard one."
"I'm the eighteenth in our class," she rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Out of... considerably more than eighteen."
She pinched his hand. "Come on. Song's over. Show me one more good move."
"Okay then... that flip you showed me."
Yvette double-taked. "I've never seen you practice that."
"Luc helped me. Come on, come," he gently pushed her away, and beckoned for her to come closer again.
Alaric's partner took a piteous deep breath. Her visible lack of confidence strove Alaric to strain the sinews of his own arms, chomping at the bit to receive her.
She darted forward. Alaric pivoted at the hips, swinging in and taking her right hand with his left. As Yvette passed him by, swinging her legs up, he swept his left arm under her back and thrust up her hips, letting her pivot around his left arm in mid-air.
And it all happened at once. Suddenly she had flipped over his arm, and was now firmly back on the ground, intact. Her hair flew stray and she panted in shock.
"Roi save you, Alaric! That wasn't half bad!" She choked out between surprised laughs.
"You're a lot lighter than Luc."
"So, you guys taught each other?"
They pulled closer, unscrewing their hands and limbs wrapped in the aftermath of the flip.
"Maybe. I just credit a great teacher is all."
She... gulped. "I had quite the student."
"Really, Yvette, I can't thank you enough..."
Her cheeks burned. Magma pooled under them. Her stomach did flips as radical as the one she had just performed.
"M-maybe so, but you could always..."
She was cut short by the imminent distance between them. They had meandered off course, their lips so close that their hot breath was mutually felt.
Yvette pushed him away, stopping just short of force that would be rude.
"I... you're welcome. I'm always happy to help a fellow cadet."
Her voice quaked. Alaric rubbed the back of his head.
"Yeah, I..."
They stood there, aflame at the awkwardness of their own attempted sin for a moment that was strained into a visceral eternity. The toxic air felt heavy with pause. Breathing was suddenly beyond deadly.
Yvette turned sharply on her heels. "We're both cadets. We should stay professional. Right?" She pleaded.
"Right, right, I understand. We're cadets. Same class." He placated with artifice and eagerness.
"Well, in that case..." she tossed together all of the things they had brought for their practice into her duffel bag, towing it behind her partially zipped with streams of cloth and fabric dragging on the carpet. "Good practice. I'll see you later."
"Good practice. See you later."
He stood.
He fiddled with the buttons of his jacket.
He thought about his schedule for the day.
He toyed with his gloves, bouncing them back and forth in his hands. He decided to just throw them in his bag. Leather would sully the bliss her hands left behind on his.
RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 02-19-2019
5th of April, 724 AGS (809 AS), at a house in Saleux, Saleux, Planet Amiens
Alaric's head lolled back, rolling drunkenly on the stained linen couch whose rustic brown patina was now blotted with the scars of spilled drinks and extinguished cigarettes. His right hand slithered around next to him, looking for his beer.
Cosette yanked it away, and Felix soon laughed at his friend's fruitless search for the drink.
"I think you've had enough," Cosette equipped her voice with packaged confidence.
Her generic focus melted, and sweat trickled down her brow. One pale, freckled arm grabbed the other. Victor and Felix chattered in the corner, nursing their swill every few minutes when the memory of its vile taste had passed.
Victor's ancient gramophone poured its melody into the air which slipped into the spaces between the group of friends. It was the anthem of easier times. Cosette looked down at the game board scrambled on the low coffee table, half of its pieces missing and the other half strewn all over the floor. She brushed aside a messy, ginger strand and trembled.
Cosette had stunning ivory skin, which shone under any light. It seemed just as fragile and sequestered as her, a complexion so glassy and smooth that it appeared imminently breakable. She was tall, and her legs were drawn awkwardly underneath her on the sofa in the sake of comfort.
Alaric peered at her from across the couch, tapping his fingers on the armrest out of time with the song.
"Heeey... what's got you looking so off?" He grumbled.
"Alaric... you... you..."
"Come on, don't be shuch a-"
"Alaric, I know what you've been doing with Genevieve," the words marched out of her mouth as had been practiced a dozen times before in her bathroom mirror.
She clenched her arms and pushed her shoulder-blades together. Through the haze in his eyes, he glanced suspiciously.
"What's that sh'pposed to mean?"
Tears welled in the corner of her eyes. She looked over at the game board again. His game piece lay on its side, having spilled out of an empty red plastic cup.
"I thought you wanted to date me."
"Aww come on, what're you on-"
"Shut up!" She squealed, pounding the chair with her fists. "Just shut up!"
Sobriety was returning to his addled mind, bringing with it laced realizations and concerns.
"Cos-"
"You know how I feel! How many dates did you take me on? Just because you never said what we are doesn't change the fact that this is all fucked up!"
Alaric sat up, straightening his head. He grabbed his drink back and shuffled it between his hands.
Cosette sniffed and heaved, sobbing. "You told me *hic* all these n-nice things, and now all you do is sometimes drag me to y-your *hic* stupid parties... you never come over anymore."
"W-well... why not just tell me what-" Alaric began, lurking a sip of his whiskey.
Cosette slapped it out of his hand, splashing what remained of the drink all over his shirt. Set off, he shot up to his feet and cursed.
"What the fuck was that for!?" He spread out his arms and shouted imperiously from his height. Cosette refused to shrink, not anymore.
"You know what? I'm not dealing with this. I'm done." She planted her hands on her hips.
He blinked. "And... what the hell does that mean?"
Cosette spun around on her heels.
"It means I'm done. Whatever you want to be? You can be that. But do it without me."
With that, she marched out of the house towards nowhere in particular, only to be away from the toxic little den of "friends" which had done nothing but drag her like an appendage to every disgusting party in Les Plaines. The sickly, biting air full of sex and sweat and alcohol was burned so viciously into her nose she'd have had it cut off to banish the memories.
"If you want to run away into this shit, that's fine with me! But I'm not going with you!"
Alaric stumbled after her, too slow and disunited to give pursuit. Instead, he rubbed his increasingly pulsing forehead and ambled back to his own crowded homestead.
He rapped on the door, pushing his way in once one of the little brothers unlocked it. Strewn greasy hair framed his sullen and bloodshot face. A school jacket hung off of his shoulder like a cape trailing the dark clouds which had accompanied his return.
Father was home. He had completely forgot. A House of DeFrance calendar hanging from the wall was marked in red with the week of his return. Oh well.
The son's warpath up the stairs was blockaded. The father stood blocking the first step.
"What in the name of the Roi is wrong with you? Why do you look like shit?"
He sniffed the air. His thick, black beard twitched as his lips curled into a baleful scowl. Father drew his thick coal-stained arms across his chest and puffed up to full height. "Where have you been, garçon? You smell drunk," he growled. "Again."
Alaric barely acknowledged him. With stunning alacrity he slipped an attempt to grab his shoulder and casually slid past the blockade, storming up to his room. He expected fervent pursuit, but all he heard behind him were the sharp whispers of his mother begging calm, begging for no more fights.
He locked his door, and nearly broke his whole fist on the wall.
RE: La Triste Epoque - suppy - 02-26-2019
15th of November, 727 AGS (812 AS), Satie Hall basement, Ecole Navale Royale d'Amiens
Step one, two, and three. A turn. Weaving to the left and right, gliding across the floor from end to end. Their every movement meshed into magical syncretism with the music. Gone were the days of anxious, flavorless box-stepping and cold sequential waltzing at a snail's pace. Alaric and Yvette journeyed through the basement with their eyes turned forward, riding effortlessly into any complicated maneuver they willed.
It was a repeat of a rehearsal of what had already been amply covered. "We should make sure you're good at it. No harm in running it again," Yvette would say. And Alaric would casually remark that it was a good plan. Their instructor's exam guides had been released, and all of the complex footwork and dancing the students could expect to be tested on at the mock ball was at least a quarter of the provided material.
Such was the excuse to dance when there wasn't any other material to cover for their appointments.
The dancers parted and bowed. Alaric returned all of the tables and chairs to their original positions while Yvette packed up their books and review materials. The next stop, as had become habit, was the Cassard gym.
Early in the afternoon, the sun languished high above the trees and so close to the winter season still maintained a cozy jacket-free air.
"You'll be maxing out your score, right?" Alaric probed casually.
"As close as I can. Not that you'll be far behind."
In fact, Yvette was struck with morbid curiosity that somehow the burly cadet might surpass her in the upcoming courtesies exams. Naturally, she had entered the academic period on the right foot; her first examination clocked in a cool ninety-five, and the next two were almost perfect. Anything that wasn't review was easily learned and committed to memory the day before in casual review sessions with Janvier.
In contrast, Alaric had demonstrated just how out of his depth he was out of the gate. A very pitiful seventy on the first - and easiest - of the examinations, followed up by a high fifty. Le Commandant of the academy had a dearth of patience for academic failure, and two poor tests in a row always caught his eye. If those questionable performers couldn't fix the problems themselves, the punishing "incentives" in the academy's correctional toolbox would. And as such, Yvette expected to see Alaric standing frigid midnight sentry duties in skivvies and locked in the "study enhancement hall" three days out of the week.
But that third examination was an eighty-four. And the fourth was a ninety-four, just three points below Yvette's own score. What began as tutoring for a lost cause quickly became a study partnership of equals. While the fifth exam showed that Alaric still had not surpassed her, the sheer rate of his improvement left some question that the grand finale might not be the triumph of the most likely cadet. In fact, there were whispers of cadets betting on which of the two etiquette students would receive the highest mark. It would turn out that a great deal of that betting was by Comtois against his own best friend, but he was nothing if not prudent.
The rumblings of competition had stirred Alaric and Yvette both, igniting newfound passion in their studies. Every review and every mock dance was an opportunity to examine the other - now a rival - for any weak areas they might have and to scope out holes in their own knowledge which might be filled.
This had been particularly invigorating for Yvette, long starved for a credible rival in her studies. There was absolutely an element of pride to it as well, that it was a rival she cultivated in the first place. She wasn't just Alaric's helper anymore, but a friendly enemy in study. It drove her to study extra hours, extra subjects, and extra materials before their sessions, which she believed would give her the edge. Of course, across the dormitories Alaric was doing the exact same thing on their study mornings.
His evolution from an etiquette dimwit into a refined student of high standing in that particular area had enabled Yvette to view him in a new light. And as they studied, and danced, and went to the gym together each week, something imperceptible gnawed at her. Something waltzed at the pit of her stomach in-time just as she waltzed with him, and the warmth at her collar was a frequent reminder not to stare while spotting his bench press.
They split off to the gym's locker rooms to change. For Yvette it was laundry day, and all she had to work with was the standard-issue academy blue and silver PT gear. Alaric, on the other hand, had yet another corny superhero tank. Superdupont's inspiring form pointed over the caption "OUI NIDE YOU... POUR SOULEVER GRAND." As was routine, Alaric dramatically reenacted the pose and repeated Superdupont's order to his gym partner.
"Come on. Jour des jambes," Yvette half barked, half chuckled.
Their first stop was a room of open mats to stretch and do some perfunctory exercises on the leg machines lining the wall. The hard work truly began in the weight room to the rear of the gym, none too crowded as was usual for the time of day. After a bar set to warm up, they went to work.
"Starting easy. One hundred kilos." Alaric ordered, loading two plates on his side while Yvette loaded the requisite pair on the other.
He ducked under the bar and pressed his shoulders into the metal, tapping his fingers on the bar grips and taking a deep breath. He knocked out five reps easy, then slipped out and switched off the weights to Yvette's preference.
Their lifting cage was up against a full-wall mirror, letting them chat and keep eye contact in addition to watching their own form.
"I'm excited to see how well you do on the final examinations, Monsieur Bisset."
Alaric laughed and stripped the bar as Yvette finished her set. "One-fifty kilos. Is that so? I bet you I could get perfect marks on everything if Madame de Dijon lets me stay in character."
"What, you think you'll forget everything? Maybe you only know what you're doing as your alter-ego. You might just need to change your name if you have the time."
"Oh, I think it'll all work out. I can have the paperwork in tomorrow morning..." Alaric trailed off, starting his first real set. He huffed and hissed at the trough and peak of each squat respectively, gritting his teeth through the drive. Yvette cleared her throat and looked furtively to the side as she spotted him.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about. Cadet Favager has it all under control I bet."
"Well... I appreciate the vote of confidence, Cadet Saint-Cyr."
"You make a good rival, you know. Seventy kilos."
Alaric grunted as he pulled off the large plates on his end. "What do you mean by that?"
"It's good competition. Knowing you'll do so well on the finals gives me all the more reason to study harder."
"Oh!" Alaric feigned a dramatic gasp, "Is the unparalleled Yvette Saint-Cyr worried she's gonna get out-etiquetted by Favager?"
Yvette shot him a wry grin. "So you know exactly what I mean."
She dipped under the bar and knocked her set out of the water.
"I guess so. You're a good rival too, for what it's worth. One-seventy."
"You're too kind. Sounds a bit dramatic though. We get along pretty well for rivals."
"I guess we do..." Alaric sank under the bar and pushed out another set, slowing down perceptibly since the last one.
"Eighty-five."
They racked up Yvette's set in silence. She dipped under the bar.
"I... have a lot of respect for you, y'know." Alaric wiped his brow as he followed Yvette up and down with her reps. Involved as Yvette was in her form, he kept his eyes level to avoid any risk of being spotted if he was too attentive.
"Oh?" She hummed.
"I mean... you're fit, you're dedicated, you're good at what you do. I think people look up to that. I wouldn't be doing as well as I am now without you, that's for sure. One-eighty."
"Hmph," she pursed her lips and ducked around the bar to set it up for his next set. "I appreciate it. But I think you might be overestimating how well liked I am. You, on the other hand, outside of some of the nobility..."
"That's a real big group you're glossing over there," he laughed in reply. "People don't all have to like you. But they know to emulate you."
"Oh, come on, I-"
Alaric put his hand on her shoulder. "No, really. I mean it."
Yvette stopped in place, resting one hand on the bar and nervously flexing the fingers on the other. She took far too shallow of a deep breath, eyes locked down the corridor of her partner's. His short hair framed his face, rough and with a thin sheen of sweat from exercise. The moisture glued his tank to his body, and it hugged the lines of his chest and shoulders.
"I... I believe you." She replied curtly.
Neither could bear to make eye contact in the mirror in the next two sets.
"Son of a bitch," Yvette thought to herself. She scurried out of that situation with the most thoughtless, inauthentic reply she could've mustered. She was equal parts flush from embarrassment at her own cowardice and from her interest. "No wonder he's gone silent," she chastised, "if all you're gonna do is say the dumbest thing you can come up with at the first hint of being genuine."
Alaric cursed under his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. Somehow, someway, he had taken the wrong step. It burned him, like swallowing hot tea, and he struggled to choke down the loss of face. He couldn't help but watch Yvette now, her hair loosely braided and snaking down her back, face red and chest heaving with exertion. And watching her was all the worse now.
They finished up their workout promptly with a few stretches, making pathetic small talk along the way. They walked out of the rear weight room and towards the lockers down a narrow corridor.
"You're a great cadet, Alaric."
"Thanks."
"N-no, I mean... I'm sorry I'm being weird. I don't know."
Why was this hallway so long?
"Don't worry about it, it's fine. We all have an off day."
"It's not that, I just..."
Alaric sighed. "Don't worry about it. Really. I should probably be apologizing to you."
"And why would that be?"
"Just... because..." he rubbed the back of his head. His fingers tapped against his thigh. "We're both cadets. I get that. You already said so, and..." he trailed off quietly.
Yvette clasped her hands behind her back.
"Oh, right! Yeah, no, I-I know. Cadets."
"And rivals, too."
"Friendly rivals."
...
"I think I left my log book back there, you go on ahead. See you next week?"
Yvette nodded silently. Even as she heard his quick steps echo faintly down the corridor, she couldn't bring herself to keep going. She clasped her arm. Such was the meek embarrassment and shame at failure that warmed her neck.
Alaric stopped. He thumbed the log book in his pocket.
He wasn't going to lose.
Not after so many years of avoiding defeat and pursuing some kind of victory.
He had come this far.
And if he was going to lose, he would go out on his feet like a man.
He turned on his heels and ran back down the corridor.
He met Yvette's wide-eyed stare.
"I'm not running," he swooped down and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Not any- mmph!"
She cut him off with an almost violent kiss, throwing her arms around his neck to keep from pushing him back from the force of it.
"I hate you so much right now..." she muttered, breaking off for just one moment until she dove back in, locking her lips with his.
His arms snaked around her back and waist, pulling her tightly against his body. He dipped lower, letting her fit like a glove on the contours of his form. Yvette sighed gleefully, stroking his face once they at last parted for air.
"I guess I was wrong about you wanting to stay professional, huh?"
"You..." she chastised, "are the worst. And I recall that being your idea anyways."
"That is... no, that is not what happened!"
"No- you know? I don't care. Just shut up and kiss me."
They exchanged a few moments more of embrace pressed up against the wall.
"Maybe someplace better than the gym? Maybe after a shower?" He mumbled.
Yvette tapped her chin. "As romantic as the Cassard is, you do have a point. And if I recall, Janvier is out training until late this evening, sooooo..."