A Tear In The Seam

[Juliano Ramires]

Evening
41 Ymiden 720

"You're a soldier, now, aren't you?" asked Juliano's sister, Luiza, in Vahanic. She sat with him on the exterior balustrade that led from the upper floor door to the rigid-lined brick path of a Gleam street. She leaned against the railing, long braid drifted in the evening wind while the sun set behind the spires and steep towers of Quacia. "Don't see why you can't clear out the block for us? Get some of your unit buddies to help."

Juliano dragged an inhale of the rolled-up smoke. He sat on the railing beside her, legs hooked around the narrow iron posts to keep himself balanced. The fall would be far enough that he'd break something. He knew this because he'd done it when he was a kid. Though, he glanced once or twice at the bricks... if he did break his arm, he wouldn't have to run drills with the Dragoons anymore. It'd been over two seasons of practice now, but somehow he still felt sore after drills.

"How bad can it be? They're just some squatters. Can't be worse than the neighbors before." He handed the smoke over to her. Luiza was only younger by a couple arcs, but she seemed far younger than that with how round her face was and that she'd remained short and plump like their mother.

"Stay here tonight, you'll see," she said in an ominous tone.

He snorted and shook his head. "No way, Luiza, no way. Stay one night and ma will think it's forever."

"That's not true, you always say that." She handed the smoke back to him. It was just tobacco but she glanced over her shoulder in a nervous way in the brief moments while it was visible from the side window of the home.

Sure enough, as Juliano took another drag, the glass window creaked open and a familiar high-pitched voice shouted.

"Are you two smoking?!" Lino, the younger brother of Luiza and Juliano (by a handful of years), appeared. A clatter of dishes could be heard in the background and the faint muffled What? called from the kitchen. Juliano could smell mushrooms and pork (just enough of the latter for the scent) cooked over the stove. Lino turned back and answered as loud as before. "Luiza and Juli are smoking! Lair drugs!"

"It's not drugs!" defended Luiza. She rushed at the window, and tried to grab at the older boy. Wiry, and far more agile, he laughed while he dodged.

Lino fled farther into the home, to the kitchen where he informed their mother of the smoking. There was another clatter, and some exchange of conversation, before their sister Josefina walked over. Between the ages of Lino and Luiza, her body seemed intent to take the lean wiry quality of their father instead. She climbed through the narrow window with ease.

"Mama says you know better," she relayed. "And also, supper is almost done."

Juliano didn't want to put out the smoke, though. He placed it between his lips, flipped around, then started on his familiar path to climb down the balustrade post until he reached the ground rather than just taking the stairs.

"Where are you going?" asked Luiza. "You haven't even eaten yet."

"Can't," he said. "Got things to do. I'll check out that house, later, okay?"

"You're gonna make mama sad again," tried Josefina while she leaned over the railing to watch him climb.

Distracted for the moment, his shoe slid out from the iron and he accidentally fell the rest of the way. Juliano landed first on his heels, as if everything was fine, but then his body rocked back and he landed on his rear instead. The bricks were smooth, at least, unlike the cobblestones in Shanty or jagged stones like in Lair. He had set his hands to help soften the blow though, which left red stings on his palms.

"Serves you right," said Luiza and she turned away with a flip of her long braid.

"Xau, Juli," Josefina waved, then followed after her to return to the inside of the home.

"Xau," he muttered in return, though she'd already gone. He lifted himself back to his feet and brushed off his pants. Juliano hadn't changed out of his soldier attire yet, but most of the armor had got left in the barracks - as it wasn't his, just borrowed for drills. Eventually, he supposed it'd be smart to get his own like some of the soldiers but he'd rather think of ways to get out of infantry and into the mage divisions...

...this was on his mind while he snubbed out the paper smoke that had landed to the side during his fall.

The young man got around the corner before he saw his father at the back door of the shop.

His father noticed him, a thin cigar pinched between his fingers. The man cleared his throat, then said, "Watch the shop for me, Juli?"

"Aren't you closed yet? Mama's made supper," returned the eldest boy, arms crossing in prepared refusal.

"Not these trials, if we want to keep having supper..." his father didn't elaborate, but made a pointed gesture toward the door.

Juliano tilted his head and groaned with a heavy exhale, then trudged through the back door. He let the door lightly slam behind him. He went to a small cabinet in the storage room, found his hiding spot, then took out another smoke, a book, and a journal. These things collected, he left the backrooms and went to the front of the tailoring shop.

At the front counter, he sat in the stool and used a nearby chair to rest a foot in a wide stance. A few bloodlight lanterns illuminated the shop from the outside, and on the inside, with a deep scarlet red. The sky darkened while the sun was on its last rays down. Juliano used a nearby candle to light the smoke, then leaned against the counter while he opened the journal and scribbled with a pencil on a page. Nothing much, just some lines.

He didn't pay attention to the wide bow windows that allowed him to see the main street, nor the iron-grate front door where a strip of tiny bells would jingle if opened. The biqaj didn't expect anyone to come for late night tailoring like his father seemed to hope for. Still, he knew the late-night open was because of taxes. It was only due to his parent's arcs-worth of savings that they had managed to stay in the neighborhood so far, living above their shop. The rest of the shops on the block had already gone under, unable to sell the properties but unable to pay the guild fees or the king's taxes, and customers were fewer and fewer as the seasons went on. Now, with the Creep back, he supposed that'd only be getting worse.

Juliano didn't care much for all that. It hurt his head to think of business, economics, or politics. He just hoped that mages would keep fleeing from other parts of the world to Quacia. Maybe there'd be one who might initiate him... there had to be someone, eventually. He sketched a little more fiercely, doodling outfits he'd seen some mages wearing the other day while they'd joined for a drill with the infantry. Their armor was so much cooler than infantry's, and they got cooler weapons too, even with their magic.

[Vito Rossau]

41 YMIDEN, 720. EVENING

“You’ve ruined it!”

“I have not ruined it. Check again.”

“I’ve got it right here in my hand! I can see the tear, you’ve ruined my skirt!”

“A little tear has ruined nothing, would you calm down?”

“Oh, I can’t believe you’ve done this! I’ll be the shame of His Grace’s service, oh, how could you?”

Vito shook his head. He did not look up from his shoes as he pulled them on and laced them tightly. “You are worried more for your damned skirt than for the entirety of Quacia,” he muttered, “take it to a seamstress. Get it fixed, if it matters that much to you.”

Pushing himself up from the dining room chair, he rose to his full height, standing just a few inches taller than Cosme. She stood beside the table with her hand on her hip, and the other holding to the torn hem of her skirt. “That is hardly appropriate for sacrifice in the first place,” said Vito with a subtle frown, and Cosme glared up at him.

“What does that have to do with anything? You wanted me at the service, didn’t you?”

The dark-haired human followed the Tribunal as he gathered his things from the kitchen counter. A pair of glasses, a small keyring, a bag. He could feel her inquisitive stare. “Your husband,” he clarified. The glasses were unfolded and set upon his nose. “I require it of your husband when he returns. Herald Guiomar wishes to speak with him. His residence in Viden has been extended?”

It was a question, though it did not quite sound like one. Vito glanced over his shoulder and raised a dark brow.

Cosme nodded without a moment’s hesitation. Twice. He looked away from her after the second nod and set his bag over his shoulder. Her husband had left the city at a rather convenient time, only a ten-trial before the first draft. His rumored connection with a group of recently-reinstated veterans made it impossible for the Tribunal not to consider that he had been warned beforehand. Vito turned around and Cosme was there, one hand still holding her skirt.

“I thought you weren’t here on official business,” she sounded disappointed. Or was it… worried? He could never tell the difference. In any case, he had not stopped by the woman’s home for idle chatter. He had visited to question her about the whereabouts of her son –

“Are you staying for dinner, Tribunal? I would have made myself a little more presentable if I had known.”

“It would be most appreciated, Miss Sereno. Will your son be joining us?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not, you see he’s been so busy with training - to serve our holy city, of course - that he has hardly found the time to visit, but I’ve heard that he’ll be back around in a few trials…”

“Of course. He will attend the next service with you, then?”

– but thus far she had neither made him dinner nor answered his more direct line of questioning. He thought it pointless, then, to stay any longer.

“I am not,” he assured, “but I do hope that Mister Sereno is able to return soon. It would be unfortunate if his continued absence causes speculation.”

Cosme was quiet for a trill. Vito met her dark gaze, with his own a deep green and slightly obscured by a red glare against his circular lenses. “It would be,” the human agreed.

A husband and son, both dodging their duty to their home. It was disgraceful. Vito looked the woman up and down, clearly unimpressed, then said, “take off your skirt.”

“Excuse me?” her eyes widened, “I – Tribunal Vito, I–”

“I am going to have it repaired,” he interrupted before she could continue. “I would not wish to see you squirming during sacrifice. Where shall I take it?”

“O-oh. Of course. Thank you, Tribunal,” Cosme took a step back. “Uh… there’s a place on the other side of Gleam. I’ve had them take in a few things for me before, it’s a nice little place… here.”

And so it was that Vito stepped into the only opened shop on the street, carrying a woman’s red skirt over his arm. It had taken him longer than expected to get there, as Cosme had not told him where exactly the tailoring shop was, but it had been rather impossible to miss once he found the right street. Dressed in all black, in a turtleneck tucked into high-waisted trousers, he nearly blended into the dark scenery before he entered the illumination of the bloodlights scattered around.

The door jingled when he opened it. Or, the bells attached to it did, and he did not care for the sound.

Vito did not waste time looking around the interior of the shop. He went straight to the front counter, looked through his spectacles at the young man sitting (lounging, more like) behind it, and then set the skirt down on the surface. What was a soldier doing, sitting in a tailoring shop? And smoking?

“I need this fixed.”

His tone was not unfriendly. He just did not make any effort to make the greeting sound pleasant, either. Without his uniform, Vito hardly felt the need for excessive politeness. It wasted time. Green eyes narrowed subtly as he observed the soldier and his cigarette, and he continued, “it belongs to Miss Cosme Sereno. She said she has been here before.”

Admittedly, he was not certain if that would affect anything at all. It merely offered an explanation that had not been asked for.

“Do you remove stains?” he asked then, in the same calm tone.

[Juliano Ramires]

Evening. 41 Ymiden 720

The bells on the door jingled, and Juliano heard them... He just didn't care. For he'd gotten lost in sketching the poorly combined lines to try and approximate what he could remember of things that the mages had worn. He slouched over the counter, one hand on the top of the journal to hold it steady and the other to hold the pencil. His cigarette curled ash in a small dish meant for lost buttons. There were some buttons in it, anyway.

"We're clo-" he stopped mid-sentence, upon remembering that they were actually open. It was old habit from when he used to watch the shop as a kid, and sundown meant the shop closed. He gently bit his tongue to keep himself from finishing the statement. Instead, he looked up with a slight look of annoyance for the interruption.

The interior of the shop was a simple affair, with measuring tape and cutting boards, a few benches and chairs, a couple long tables, and a desk off to the side for longer business dealings. A cluster of dress forms were in the corner, with one set up at the window with a partial outfit that his mother had pinned to sew together in the morning.

He barely had time to look, or say much of anything else, before the skirt came toward the counter. Juliano picked up the journal quick, and shut it with a snap, then set it aside while he moved his foot off the chair. His dark brows skewed while one raised and one furrowed, in curiosity of the red skirt laid over the space. Regardless, his gaze didn't linger on the skirt but slid up to survey the man instead. Sharp-dressed, with nice black fabrics that fit the stranger well. He didn't recognize this customer.

Juliano picked up his smoke and took a quick inhale to refresh the embers before they burnt out entirely. It failed, though, and he found it to have gone cold to ash. He leaned over and used the candle flame to bring it back to life... only it got a little too hot, too quick and started to burn up the paper smoke. Juliano swore and blew the flame out, just as it neared to burn the tip of his nose. Half of the roll-up had gotten ruined and a thick bit of ash landed on the counter. His gray eyes turned a little more blue in a pastel hue and a silvery flush dappled over the peaks of his cheekbones.

"Fixed, you said?" he tried, returning their native Vahanic language, after a quiet clearing of his throat. He cleared his throat again, though. Then frowned while he looked at the skirt, as if in determined concentration. Juliano did his best to steadily bring (what was left of) the cigarette to his lips, like none of the previous fumble had occurred.

The younger biqaj glanced up, but the glance didn't remain long once he got a hint of those narrowed green eyes. He scratched at the back of his ear, then fidgeted with one of the three steel hoops along the pointed edge. "Oh, Miss Sereno. Yes, yes. Uhm..."

"Wh-when do you need it done by?" he asked, then grabbed a pad of paper from under the counter. He set it down and scribbled out Torn Red Skirt - Cosme Sereno on the pad. He frowned, then got an instinct to add an honorific, "...sir?"

"And yeah. I mean, yes. We remove stains." Juliano paused to look over his shoulder at the door that led to the backrooms. Where was his father? He hadn't gone up to get supper and left Juli to care for the shop in the meantime, did he? If he had known he was going to stay this long, he would have just stayed to eat too.

He inhaled a long drag of smoke, then snubbed the cigarette in the button tray. Juliano felt an unusual confusion about how polite he should be with the newcomer. It'd been a while since he'd watched the shop like this. Usually his sisters took care of it.

"Sorry... sir," he mentioned about the cigarette smoke with a wave to clear the smoke away from the space between them. Just in case. He leaned forward, elbows against the counter, and placed his hands over the red skirt. His tone turned conspiratorial in a playful, but also nervous manner. "Uh, we don't usually stay open this late or... so, please d-don't tell my papai, okay?"

[Vito Rossau]

41 YMIDEN, 720. EVENING

The soldier kept smoking. He picked up his cigarette from the odd little tray he had set it in, and he brought it back to his lips as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Vito’s expression did not change as he watched the little mishap with the burning roll-up paper, but he did wonder if the man was always so clumsy. How could he run what was apparently a reputable tailoring shop, if his fingers fumbled so? So casually, too, did he return the remnants of the smoke to rest at his lips, even if the demeanor surrounding it was… awkward. Or nervous. It was another one of those things that he could never quite tell apart.

He seemed to be one of them, though. Awkward or nervous. Most people he came across were the latter, when he was in uniform. It was hardly out of a fear for Vito himself – not many souls truly knew him well enough to be afraid, outside of his stony exterior – but for the symbol of it all. The message, and warning, conveyed through a uniform of black and red divinity. But at current, he wore none of them. So the soldier could not be afraid. Not of him. He was blushing – Vito recognized the silver-toned flush to his cheeks – but that was only embarrassment for the mishap itself. What had caused the little fumble was of more interest to the Tribunal.

“Fixed, you said?”

“Yes.”

Why did the soldier keep clearing his throat? Vito did not look away from him, though he was aware that he was staring. He did not mind the potential discomforts it caused; if he needed to look at something, then he was going to look at it, and the clumsy soldier’s presence in the shop confused him. At least the uniform meant that he was not dealing with another draft dodger.

His green gaze flitted to the side for a trill, caught on the movements of the other biqaj’s fingers at his ear. Pointed, like his own, but pierced. He watched the soldier fidget with his earrings, expression unmoved, before he looked back to his face. Vito leaned back slightly, taking his hands away from the skirt so that he could slip them into his pockets. As the other man grabbed a notebook and began writing something down, he finally allowed himself a moment to look around the store.

It was… alright. It was nothing that seemed to impress him all that much.

“...sir?”

Vito looked back to the front counter. Smart boy.

“I need it fixed as soon as possible. It must be returned to Miss Sereno in two trials at the latest,” he did not think that such a tear would take any longer than that. He had never sewn or repaired anything himself, but surely it could not be that hard. Judging from the emptied-out street, he did not think that the shop would have too much business getting in the way of it either.

There was no response to the confirmation that they did, indeed, remove stains. Vito did not have the stained items in question, not with him, but if they did a good enough job with Cosme’s skirt then he would seek their services for himself. He would prefer to know that they could keep things discreet beforehand, but he was not sure that this clumsy man at the counter was the right one to ask.

He kept smoking that damned cigarette, too. Vito was half-convinced that he was trying to test his patience. Especially once the smoke was waved away, and apologized for, as if it was a mere inconvenience rather than anything truly unlawful. The Tribunal’s stare did not falter as the other biqaj leaned forward, arms on the counter, nor did he take any steps back and away from the odd little conspiracy.

Don’t tell my papai?

How strange. Perhaps it was because he was dressed in such casual attire that someone thought it safe to share secrets. He did not mind, so far as he did not mind being privy to all the information that he could.

“Seja cuidadoso,” warned Vito, voice low, “your father might be kinder than a man you hardly know.”

Despite the words, he could not help but find amusement in the fact that the other man was so naïve. It was a short-lived, undisplayed amusement, but it was somewhat felt. His eyes flicked down to the skirt beneath the soldier’s hands, and then back up to his face.

“If you wrinkle that, I would ask that you correct that as well. What is your name? Miss Sereno only spoke of an older man. Your father?”

Perhaps he would know more of the father than the son. He had not seen this one at service – not in any way that he would remember, anyway, and that was an issue in itself with most of the people he met. Vito preferred the ones he could remember – the ones that made themselves known to the world through their sacrifices to the Wounded God. But from the looks of things, this man was a better fit for Lair, and Vito decided he was rather lucky to have been providing a required service.

[Juliano Ramires]

Evening. 41 Ymiden 720

Smoking was one of those things that Juliano didn't think much of, anymore. In the past seasons, it had leaked out of the confines of Lair as readily as wine and beer seemed to. When the draft and the taxes came around, so too did the people of Quacia grow bold in their insistence of freedom for personal choice in such matters. There were even some people in Lair who took to the dens to stand on a box and speak about such things. Juliano had listened to some, about how in other cities that things weren't like in Quacia. There was even another city that encouraged the citizens to drink as much and as frequently as they could. He couldn't remember the name of that city, but he'd remembered the description of clean taverns and household wine stores.

Times were changing, after all. Of this, Juliano felt certain. There was no possible way that Quacia would remain the city his parents had once known. It couldn't be. It had already changed enough! When his parents had opened the shop on Gleam, the entire block had been bustling with life and commerce. There had been a tea parlor on the corner of the block that he used to visit as a boy, where he'd sometimes get little hard candies.

No more hard candies, though. Just cigarettes. Most of the soldiers he knew smoked now too. When others would make comment of it, they'd scoff and then spend the next break in a rush of complaints that ranged from the drills to the draft itself: Go 'head, throw me in the clink. Won't have to fight there.; They care so much for our souls, why don't they finish the Creep once and for good?; They want me to tear someone's head off?; Whatever, I've seen Dragoon Melo drinking from a flask behind the barracks.; Y' think they'd have time for something worthwhile? And on, until the drill routines wore them out and they had to focus on breathing instead.

Besides what was smoking compared to the Heaps that squatted in the abandoned buildings across the way? Or the people that had started to store huge barrels of liquor in basements? Or the any number of crimes, petty and more, that occurred in the turbulent city. No one bothered to enforce that particular law anymore. So, by this point, smoking didn't even register to Juliano as anything to think of. Except maybe the other man might not like the smell.

Seja cuidadoso...

It felt like an ice-cold beetle skittered up Juliano's spine. He froze, to try and not show the unexpected tremble that wanted to burst through his body. His shoulders quivered for a trill, in want to roll away the instinctual sensation. The fading blush returned on his freckled cheeks. He turned his gaze down to the pad of paper and avoided eye contact while he jotted down ASAP - delivery

His lips parted, as if to speak, in response to the comment about wrinkling. Of course, they would iron and press the skirt before returning it! The very comment that they wouldn't think of it struck him as insulting. But instead of say that, he held quiet when asked for a name.

Still, he refused to look up again. He kept his pale blue-eyed gaze locked onto the notepaper. It was a sign of respect that he'd used the notepaper at all. Papers made from from plants or timber were expensive in the city. It's why the pages of his journal were made from other sources and gave them a light dappled beige tone.

"Juliano," he muttered his name, then he nodded with a small gesture toward the lettering that had been painted on the front windows. "Yes, sir. My father and mother run the shop. Ramires' Tailoring and Sewing... He's, uh... busy."

Juliano pulled at the hoop in his ear again, glanced up, and mentioned, "Could go get him for you, if you wanted? What's your name then?"

"You look like an Armando," he added with a hint of a smile but it looked a bit awkward with the way his lips twitched at the corner. His blush worsened, but he tried to keep his gaze up. The blue faded in his eyes, warming instead to a hint of amber to the gray. "or... Vicente?"

His gaze lowered quick after that, though. Nope, he felt the heat in his cheeks but tried to act like it wasn't there. He cleared his throat again, while his hips drove back as his posture leaned deeper with his elbows still flat against the counter. The stretch felt nice, even if it was hardly professional. Juliano ripped the page off the pad, then folded the skirt while he said, "So... how's Miss Sereno?"

He didn't care, it was just small talk while he pinned the paper to the skirt so that the ticket would stay with the clothing. Juliano set it to the side, then rested his chin against his palms while he cradled his own jaw in the lounging posture. His canine tooth lightly bit against his lower lip and he dared for another glance, then he asked (most seemingly out of nowhere), "Sir, are you a mage, sir?"

[Vito Rossau]

41 YMIDEN, 720. EVENING

It was a nice change to have someone so easily give out the information he wanted. A name likely did not mean much in most contexts, and in fact he realized that his request for one could have even been taken for politeness. It was something he supposed he should have tried more often, if it meant making the other person more comfortable – and oh how people liked to talk when they felt comfortable. Vito’s green gaze was unwavering as he stared through his thin, circular lenses; there was a small smudge at the bottom left corner, but he dared not remove them to clean it.

Stains everywhere. The world was a filthy place. Juliano Ramires and his dirty habit, however, seemed unbothered by that fact. Vito committed the name to memory, along with the face – it was not hard to do, with how the freckled features twisted awkwardly and blushed further. He had assumed it to be from embarrassment. Now he could not tell what it was for.

Vito’s head tilted slightly to the side as Juliano glanced up at him again and fidgeted with an earring. He did not need the father to be present, but the offer was well-received, if the Tribunal’s lack of a glare said anything. Ramires… he knew the name somehow. He could only hope that it was a sign of the father’s devotion to the Church, rather than one of his moral failings.

You look like an Armando, claimed the soldier with an odd little smile. Vito was not sure what he meant. He did not look like anything but himself, did he? Still, the comment went relatively ignored, and the only sign that he had heard was the subtle raising of his brow.

“Or… Vicente?”

Closer, but still wrong. Vito shook his head and debated leaving it there. His name was unnecessary, when the skirt would not be returned to him, and the payment would not be made in his name. Even so, he had nothing to be afraid of – he did nothing wrong after all, so what did it matter if the awkward young soldier knew who he was? He simply gave, “Vito.”

His dark gaze shifted for a trill, looking to the door behind Juliano. He wondered what the father was so busy with that he could not attend to his own shop. Surely he did not have so much business that he had to work through the night and leave his son in charge of the front.

“And I do not need your father disturbed,” Vito finally replied, “unless you are incapable of speaking to me yourself.”

With that, he looked back to the younger biqaj. If it was intended as some sort of joke, it did not sound like one. Juliano had taken to… stretching? Was that what that was? Vito did not bother looking away, though he could not help but feel that he was looking at something he was not meant to. He was asked about Miss Sereno, but in truth he did not have a real answer. He found it rather difficult to pay attention to the woman at length.

Leaning slightly forward again, Vito set his hands against the counter. Miss Sereno was…

Insolent. She was insolent, and she hardly even knew that she was. So, the older biqaj could only say, “Miss Sereno is… well. It seems.”

“Sir, are you a mage, sir?”

He felt like he was looking at something he was not meant to, again. Vito narrowed his eyes at Juliano. “No,” he replied, “not yet. Why did you ask me that?”

While his tone was far from defensive, the Tribunal wondered what the soldier was getting at. Was he implying that he looked like one? Slow and subtle in their shift, the golden flecks across his gaze covered the green until it was left a light hazel shade. It was a change slow enough that, if one was not looking at him during the process, they might have simply assumed his eyes had always been that color. “You are not a mage either, are you?”

His uniform suggested that he was not, as far as Vito was aware, but he thought it rather strange to simply ask that of anyone that walked into the shop. Did his papai know? It was not rude, not to Vito anyhow, but it felt invasive, coming from the man lounging and stretching against the counter.

[Juliano Ramires]

Evening. 41 Ymiden 720

Juliano found it difficult to place the other man's age. He didn't look old, but not as young either, though it was tough to figure out with the spectacles. Definitely the visitor was closer to his own age than his father's age, but something about the way he carried himself... the way that his vague warning hadn't sounded frivolous or flippant, but enough to drive a shiver into Juliano. The sort of voice that only men were capable of, not those who still had boyish manners like so many of his infantry buddies. His "brothers", as the drill instructors like to say, but Juliano never felt that about them. He'd been practicing drill for over two seasons but he felt no closer to any of the other soldiers than he had with the neighborhood gangs when he used to run off to Shanty. Regardless, he'd been around Quacia enough to know the difference between the juvenile affectations of his peers compared to the way that most older adults tended to handle themselves.

So much did Juliano want to consider himself away from his peers. He wanted to act mature, and sound like that too. The damn blush burned at his face though, and he felt an awkward flutter in his chest when he felt the other man's stare return to him. Living on his own for five arcs, but being back in the shop made him feel far more like the kid that used to live with his family. This was one of the myriad of reasons why he didn't like to help out. For how it made him feel like a twerp kid again.

"Vito," he repeated with a rather bold glance over the older biqaj. Like he had when he'd first looked, in a sweeping survey of the attire and face and hair, then he nodded and said, "Not as good as Vicente. You should change it."

His smile flickered away. He looked down again, and his tone hadn't been playful in the comment but rather matter-of-fact. As if he sincerely believed that.

Maybe it'd simply been a monotone return for the suggestion that Juliano might be incapable of speaking to the man on his own. He had only offered to get his father because Vito seemed keen on potential other services - what with the inquiry about stains and all.

The younger man stretched some more, hips back and spine curved. He rolled his head to stretch his neck as well with a quiet exhale of appreciation for the release of tension that the movement provided. The small talk about Miss Sereno bored him. That showed obvious on his features for a moment before he bit at his lip and dared another glance, then inquired if the relative stranger was a mage or not.

“Sir, are you a mage, sir?”

He kept his chin cradled between his palms, while his glance turned into a stare when those narrowed green eyes started to slowly change color. Living in a household of biqaj, Juliano was well-acquainted with such things and he suspected it had to do with whatever possible feelings the other man held toward mages.

“No,” Vito replied, “not yet. Why did you ask me that?”

Juliano exhaled in a dramatic sigh that motored his lips in an audible noise. He lowered his gaze while his eyes slowly shut closed and he tilted his head downward against his palms. His fingers poked into his freckled cheeks, squishing the skin up into plump blushing rounds over the otherwise sharp bones. A few wavy curls bounced down in front of his brow and curtained his eyes from easy view. His bottom lip slid into a pout.

From interested to disappointed, within a few trills.

He even turned his head away with a tilt of his neck to rest the side of his face against one of his hands. When he opened his eyes again, he stared at the nearby wall rather than Vito. It was as if he hadn't heard the question... or the following one either. He neither explained why he had asked, nor confirmed whether he was a mage or not.

At least at first. Until finally, he shut his eyes tight again and responded as if he had to force out the word, "No."

His pout worsened, while his dark brows furrowed into a frown. Juliano nearly fumed at having to have said it. He added with a snappish edge to the tone of his words, "Not yet, anyhow."

"Did you want something else, huh? This was it?" Juliano looked back over. He made a slight gesture to the red skirt, then glanced toward the door in obvious direction that the not-a-mage visitor should leave...

...until he recalled how the older biqaj had answered. He lifted from his increasingly slouched and leaning and stretching posture (of which, he had started to nearly lay just right on top of the counter for how much he'd lowered his upper body) and he shot up back to his tallest height. His eyes widened, the warmth in the gray starting to cool into a dull purple. "Hold up, you said not yet too? Are you looking to get initiated?"

[Vito Rossau]

41 YMIDEN, 720. EVENING

“Not as good as Vicente. You should change it.”

“It is on the list,” Vito returned, deadpan.

Brat. The soldier boy was a brat. Even in his agreement – as the Tribunal had long hated his name and did, in fact, wish to change it in time – Vito could not ignore the attitude with which it had been said. It was set to the side, however, to be dealt with at another time. As much as he would have delighted in putting him down, the other biqaj was still of some use to him, until he had repaired and returned the skirt to Miss Cosme Sereno.

The boy’s expression (for that was how he appeared to Vito, in his childish demeanor) only soured further with the knowledge that the older man was not a mage. Vito supposed that Juliano was fortunate for all the restraint he had learned since beginning to deal with the public, as otherwise, he might have smacked the bored pout right off of his face. Imagining it, at least, helped keep the Tribunal’s face calm, and his exterior unbothered – even if he could do nothing about the very slight magenta-shift to his hazel irises as he stared.

No, Juliano seemed as if he had to force out the word. An interesting reaction, but not a particularly enjoyable one for Vito. The soldier was behaving like a petulant child because he was not a mage? Such a snappy tone, all of a sudden, and close enough that he could still smell the smoke on his breath. It almost made him want to somehow provoke the boy’s irritation further, just to see how far it would go. How much more would he so willingly lay out for him? How much worse could he get?

The gesture towards the torn skirt, as well as the obvious glance to the door, did not seem to bother the older biqaj. His gaze had lost the pink-toned tint in the meantime; gone as quickly as it had appeared. There was no use in letting Juliano annoy him, not really.

“That was it,” was his easy confirmation, and he said nothing else of the stains for now. Not yet. He did not want to run home and fetch the uniform in question, if only for the fact that he did not yet wish for the soldier to know what he was. One tended to behave differently when they knew they were in front of an agent of the Theocratum, whether they appreciated that agent’s presence or not, and it seemed so much easier to hide that away.

Vito only leaned back from the counter once Juliano’s posture changed. The younger biqaj stood up with a start, and though he seemed to be a little shorter than the Tribunal, the quick change had him on edge. His eyes narrowed for a trill, and he noted the shift in attitude, the return to something more… friendly. Or not. Interested, he decided, and not quite in the man himself, but in the topic of magic in general.

It was not a subject that he was all that well-versed in. Plenty of his fellow Tribunals had sparks, but he was yet to acquire one himself. He had not gone out of his way to get one, and it likely had something to do with the fact that… he did not care for most of them. Why was Juliano so keen on getting one? Vito considered the apparent interest for a trill, and then he said, “Yes, I am. Soon, in fact.”

...And he considered, too, how easily he had stroked annoyance in the younger man. Glancing down to the skirt and the note pinned into it, Vito moved his hands so that his fingers interlocked behind his back. He wondered what would be more effective… saying more to gather interest, or leaving Juliano in silence with whatever curiosities he might have had. With another look at the other biqaj, he made his decision.

"You seem rather young for that."

Just a comment. That was all he gave. Vito lifted a hand and removed his glasses for a moment, and cleaned the little smudge with his black sleeve. His eyes squinted slightly as he looked down at the spectacles, and he informed, "I require nothing else of you."

His glasses, now cleaned, were returned to rest upon the bridge of his nose, and he stared at the younger biqaj.

"See to it that the skirt is returned to Miss Sereno in time for sacrifice in two trials," requested the Tribunal, and he began to turn away from the counter. Before he looked away entirely, he commented, "you should attend, Juliano."

[Juliano Ramires]

Evening. 41 Ymiden 720

Not only did Juliano find it difficult to place an age to the other man, but he found it increasingly difficult to figure out whether Vito was serious in some of his replies, or if he was simply doing that thing that some people did - when they thought Juliano too stupid to notice when they were making fun of him. Or maybe not. Juliano wasn't sure, and either way, he didn't worry about it. His mind was far more preoccupied with the thought that the man might be a mage. What would the chances be...

Fairly decent in Quacia. It didn't hurt to ask every person he met, because he only needed one. Just one mage willing to hand over a spark for him! That's all it took. If it meant being rude to a hundred people, just to find that one, he didn't care. He'd be horrendously rude to a thousand people if it meant he'd get the spark because of it. After initiation, any enemies he made along the way, he could just obliterate with magic! Such was the power of mages, or so he believed.

Anxiously, he waited for a response from the other man about what he had meant by "not yet" and if he was looking to get initiated too.

"Yes, I am. Soon, in fact."

Yes, I am.

Soon...

...in fact.

Soon.

Soon.

S O O N
^{soonsoonsoonsoonsoonsoonsoon}
SOON
soonsoonsoonsoonsoonsoonsoon

Sure enough, the irises of Juliano's eyes gradually lost the gray hue as warm plum colors bled forward in tiny dots until they gradually took over the dour shade. He stared at the other man, in quiet but obvious expectation for more to be said. Might he share when, exactly? Or where? Or by who? What spark was he going to get initiated in? Who was going to teach him? Juliano knew most of the mages in Quacia, maybe he knew which one... and if he did... maybe he could pressure them as to why they would consider initiating Vito when Juliano was a FAR BETTER candidate for an apprentice than... he glanced over Vito again, trying to figure out how he could shine the serious older biqaj in a poor light that would make Juliano seem like a superior choice.

When the slightly taller man looked back at him, Juliano's dark brows raised with unrestrained anticipation. In hope for whatever more might be sh--

--shar---

-- "You seem rather young for that." --

--shared.

"Excuse you! I turned twenty yestertrial!" blurted out Juliano without a pause of thought between the other man's words and his own.

The blush returned to his face when he realized how it must have sounded, having been said so quick and defensively, and... So, it was exactly like how it sounded. His blush was for the realization of how easily the statement had fled from him. It was true, and one of the reasons he was hanging out around his family's home. His twentieth birthtrial had been mostly uneventful, and he'd spent it sulking about and trying to eat all the food that his mother insisted on because he looked too scrawny.

Flustered, now, he tried to play it off like he had just gotten offended. It proved difficult when the other biqaj cleaned off the glasses and informed him rather coldly that Juliano wasn't required for anything anymore. The younger didn't understand why that made him feel even more frustrated, but he gathered a modicum of discipline to keep his mouth shut - out of the slightest respect to not ruin business for his parents' sake (at least, not anymore than he might have already).

Though he wanted to, he couldn't match the stare when it returned to him. Purple eyes glanced aside and he stared at the wall instead. His arms crossed, tightly folded in front of his ribs and a different pout showed on his lip. A pout with an angry attitude rather than the disappointed one from before. He maintained the childish sulk while he listened to the repeated instructions: Yeah, yeah, two trials. See to it? I'm not a godsda-

"You should attend, Juliano."

The comment interrupted his thoughts. A lesser chill scuttled over his neck, an echo of the one from before. He glanced over. The other man had turned away. Juliano knew he should keep quiet and just let him go.

He tried, and failed to sound sincere, when he dryly replied, "Oh, yes, sir."

Something nagged him though... that instinct again. Why would this man care if he attended or not? Wait, was he going to be there? Was he... would he... did he want to talk about magic more? Maybe he just didn't have the time anymore tonight. Juliano eased, then winced when he realized how he'd sounded.

In a hurry, he moved to get around the counter. So rushed that he accidentally slammed his shin into the stool. It fell with a clatter and he tripped over it some, dancing on his feet in an odd array of steps to avoid an actual fall. Juliano's slender body bounced against the nearby shop wall with familiarity (as if he'd tripped like this many times before) and then he sprinted past Vito to reach the door first. He opened it with a dramatic bow - but not out of mockery, but rather out of enthusiasm.

"S-sorry," he offered, this time succeeding in a sincere tone. He lifted some while he held the door open for Vito. The cool early night air leaked into the shop. Juliano flipped a hand in an overly casual gesture that turned nervous while he continued, "I'm hungry. And tired. and I shouldn't smoke. Was like sparring all morning. And they wanted me to learn a spear, but ugh, I don't like spears, so like-"

Juliano leaned against the door frame, elbow above his head while he combed his fingers through his curly hair. He did his damn best to look nonchalant and ignored the burning heat that covered his whole face with dusted silver blush and spread out to the points of his ears. His voice deepened, accidentally, before it pitched high again while he added, "I didn't mean to get... you know, take it out on you. It's not 'cause of you. Sorry. And sure, if you want to uh- If you'll be at sacrifice, I guess... yeah, I could probably find the time. If you wanted me... too. That is. Too. I- two trials, the skirt, Miss Sereno, yes."

"Uh, perdoe-me. Adeus, Vito," he offered in an attempted weak conclusion to get himself to shut the fuck up.

[Vito Rossau]

41 YMIDEN, 720. EVENING

What an explosive mouth this Juliano Ramires had on him. Twenty arcs, born on the fortieth of Ymiden in the arc… seven-hundred; son of the owners of Ramires’ Tailoring and Sewing; most likely only a soldier since the first draft; he liked to smoke and doodle things in his sketchbook and he wanted to be a mage. Vito said nothing of the sudden outburst. The other biqaj was only around three… three and a half arcs younger than the Tribunal, and yet the passion of youth did not seem as if it had ever driven the older in any form.

He simply continued, restating what was required of Juliano or his father or whoever did the actual sewing and repairing, lest the childish soldier forget. Vito would not have been surprised, despite the note he had scrawled and attached to the skirt. It was enough of a hassle just bringing the damned garment to the shop, and if Cosme did not find her son and bring him to sacrifice, well – she would have to bleed twice as much. He would make sure of that.

Juliano, though, was one that he could not recall seeing in service, and he was curious as to whether the boy would show up if he requested it of him. Or perhaps it had not been a request, as Vito’s tone had certainly not allowed that much room, but his… suggestion. He wanted to know if the soldier would comply, or if he would write it off as some strange response. So when Juliano replied in that dry, insincere tone, Vito was inclined to think that he would not be seeing the youth again, and did not turn around to acknowledge his reply. He walked towards the door, hands held together behind his back…

...until a rush of movement and noise turned his head, and bright, cyan irises watched the soldier stumble over his fallen stool and bounce awkwardly against the wall. The bright color faded within a few quick trills, but Juliano’s sprint forward only confused the matter further. What in the fuck was he doing? Barring the door? It was Vito’s first assumption, and his body tensed with anticipation until the door was not locked, or barred, but opened for him.

Vito’s gaze narrowed again. He watched Juliano give a deep bow, and did not reply to the apology that stumbled out of his mouth afterward. Apologies… awkwardness… something must have occurred to him in those few short trills between the Tribunal’s turning away and the dry agreement to attend sacrifice. What exactly the younger was thinking, or wanting, Vito was not sure. He stood in place and blinked, watching the other man lean against the doorframe and offer explanations that he had never even asked for.

Still – he would not complain. Whatever Juliano wanted to tell him, he would accept.

Awkward though, so awkward. Vito could practically feel the heat radiating off of his silver-flushed cheeks and pierced ears, and he wondered how the hell anyone managed to blush so much over nothing at all. Part of him was tempted to shoot down the line of thought that he might have actually wanted Juliano to attend sacrifice, but the other part of him kept a tighter hold on his mouth. He did want the soldier to attend, and he had prodded him enough already.

“I will be there,” he confirmed, and approached Juliano and the door. “I do hope you can find the time. I will be looking for you there.”

That much was true. Vito looked him over once again, in a clear sweep from head to toe, before looking over his freckled, silvered face again. In the same low tone from before, he returned, “até mais, Mister Ramires.”

He looked away and stepped through the door, head held high as it ever was. With that out of the way, he supposed he could go back home, yet the thought of it bored him. There were plenty of other things to do, after all. Vito left the tailoring shop, walked the emptied street, and once he had gotten far enough that the darkness of his hair and clothes merely blended into the shadows around him, he removed the circular spectacles and slipped them back into his bag.

He had plenty of things to do before the world awoke again.