[Mature] Haven't You Ever Wondered?

[Juliano Ramires]

Late Afternoon + 46 Ymiden + Arc 720

Juliano opened the door to his home upon the very first knock against the cheap plaster. Almost right before it, too. Enough that the Tribunal would find the second rap of his knuckles breezing through thin air rather than landing against the door like expected.

But Juliano couldn't contain himself. He'd been watching from the window for the past break or so, ever since he'd ran from Fortress to his residence after a long drill that consisted mostly of their instructors whispering to one another and ignoring the drafted infantry soldiers. Juliano didn't mind. He barely put any effort into the drills, anyway, with how his side still hurt from the poorly-drawn stitches and the bruise on his hip. The Creep had advanced, his fellow soldiers had bandied about, one of the keener listeners having passed the information around the group. Advanced all the way to the outlying edges near the city walls. Was his unit ready to go to war? It didn't matter. They would or they wouldn't. It wasn't up to him.

What was up to him, however, was allowing the Tribunal into his little shabby home so they could discuss magic.

Minimal damage had occurred to his studio-sized apartment, though the other side of the rickety tenement building had taken a beating with flooding that had completely ruined the basement floors. Still, he'd placed a couple clay bowls and pots to catch the drip of rainwater that continued to seep through the leaky edges of the ceiling.

Once he'd arrived home from the trial's drills, he had changed out of his soldier attire. He wore something a lot closer to his preferred outfits, compared to the stuffy tailored suit that his parents had him wear for prayer. Pale white fabric, soft but cheap, hung over his lanky body in a mildly sheer long shirt and a pair of fitted trousers. He had layered a few dozen chains of cool-toned metal necklaces and matched them to the piercings in his pointed ears. Juliano had, also, taken some time to hurriedly paint a prominent red along his eyelids that streaked out toward his temples. The dye hadn't settled in the powder correctly, though, and instead ended up a pale pink. He used charcoal to smudge around the shape of his eyes, and then drew little hatchmarks on his nether lip that crossed down and over his chin with geometric design.

Juliano decided he didn't like that, so he tried to rub it off, which resulted in smudges of gray along his chin and lip. He painted over his lips with a thicker red paint that he'd gotten from Lair. It stung the rubbed flesh somewhat, but it covered it up and made his lips reflect light with the cherry-tone. His chin was a different issue, an odd shadow created by the charcoal with the silvery-blue blush from how much he scrubbed at it. So, he tried to compensate with dusted white powder... but that only looked weirder being just on his chin. So he dusted his cheeks too, then his nose, and then he had no idea what he was doing so he tried to use a cloth and rub it all off-

-but accidentally ended up also smearing the charcoal around his eyes, and so it looked as if he'd been crying for how much the dark gray streaked down over his pale powdered-white cheeks. He gave up for the moment, when he noticed a figure below from the window ledge where he sat. Juliano lowered his hand mirror and recognized the silhouette enough. It had to be Tribunal Vito.

He had left a little note with one of the other Tribunals, before he'd left the citadel with his family once the storm had cleared. In the note, it had described his address and the general times in which he was available for a visit. Juliano wasn't sure if Vito would show, but he prepared as if he expected it - and he felt ready to do that for several trials if needed. He hadn't stopped thinking about the older biqaj's agreement to initiate him into a magic.

That statement stuck with him through every waking moment, and even every sleeping one, and Juliano couldn't silence the echoed voice saying those words.

So, he watched the figure disappear around the building side to enter through the front doors. His heart rapidly thudded against his chest. Juliano checked his reflection one last time, then huffed at how much he'd ruined it all but there was no time to try and fix it, so he tossed the mirror aside onto his narrow bed. He fluffed his hair, the dark strands curlier than usual due to having recently dried from the trial's light rain. While he waited, right beside his door, he continued to adjust his necklaces and some of his bracelets -

- and then the knock finally sounded. Juliano didn't even try to pretend he wasn't right there, waiting, when he threw open the door. The irises of his eyes were filled with vibrant purple shades. He smiled and unknowingly revealed that the ruby red paint had smudged along the edges of his front teeth.

"Afternoon, Tribunal" he greeted in Vahanic. He stepped aside to make room, gaze averted and smile faded. "W-would you li-like to come in?"

[Vito Rossau]

46 YMIDEN, 720. LATE AFTERNOON

House visits were not his thing. Vito disliked the public very much, and never more so than when he was invited into the comfort of their homes. People were more comfortable in their own environments, as if they had some better sense of safety and security within the confines of four rented (or occasionally owned) walls. They failed to realize that the location made no difference to a proper Tribunal. He did not care if he was sitting on a pew or sitting on their sofas; he was an agent of the Wounded God and he would carry out His will wherever he was. The fact that some of them thought it safe to confess more, to get closer, to treat him like anything other than the devoted, faithful figure that he was, he found it difficult to tolerate.

The idea of visiting Juliano Ramires’ residence in Shanty had not left his mind since it had first been implanted there, even so. It was odd, the way that the tailor’s son kept invading his thoughts. While he worked, while he bled, while he went about his life. Vito tried not to allow anyone all that much room in his mind when it could be helped; there were more important things than other people, and though there were certain figures that he kept close out of both the need to keep an eye on them (Cosme Sereno) and the approximation of familial bonds (Father Vilar), he did not care to spend his time thinking about anyone but himself.

Juliano provided nothing for him. He was somewhat entertaining, in a curious sort of way, but he had nothing to offer the Tribunal. If he needed (or wanted) the tailoring shop gone for some reason, then there were other, better ways to go about it than by conversing further with the owner’s son. If he truly wanted to know more about magic, there were other people within the church that he could ask. So it confused him, deeply, when he found himself unable to direct his thoughts away from Juliano for long. His own curiosity over it was perhaps the only reason why he actually bothered to visit – there had to be something he had not noticed, some reason why his mind had fixated on the young soldier.

The first half of his trial was spent in Lair. Another trial, another raid, another few criminals pulled away from their work in order to receive the proper guidance and punishment they needed. Only after they had been detained did Vito realize that he did not even know what they had been accused of. It did not matter; it took more of his trial than it had needed to, and by the time he had made it back to his home in Gleam, he had almost stayed there and forgotten about visiting Juliano at all.

He changed, both in mind and attire, and within the break he left his home. Uniform left behind, his chosen outfit was not all that different from the one he had worn the night he first met Juliano. All black, well-fitted, and his tucked-in button-up shirt covered all but the top of his neck. His hands were gloved in fine leather, and his circular spectacles rested on his nose. He did not bother with anything else; he thought it was enough that he had taken off his uniform.

As he had expected, Juliano’s residence was not difficult to find. The younger biqaj had left a note with one of his fellow Tribunals with the address, and Vito already knew his way around Shanty. Much of it had been affected by the storms, as had parts of Gleam – his own residence had suffered, even if not as badly as those in Shanty – but he did not expect for anything to improve anytime soon. After all, it was only Shanty. If the damage had been done to anywhere else, it would have mattered more.

Vito twisted a strand of dark hair around his gloved finger as he walked. It was an idle habit, one that he only allowed himself when he was not surrounded by other people, but one that he often did not realize he was doing in the first place. He continued to twist at it as he approached the building, and when he let go, it remained slightly curled over his forehead. Around the building, to the front – and when he reached the door, his gloved hand rapped against it in a firm knock.

The door was opened so quickly that his hand was left raised in the air. Green eyes widened and then narrowed again, and his arm returned to his side while he looked over the man in the door. Juliano looked so different each time he saw him, but why did he look as if he had been crying, or as if he had rubbed something over his face? The little red marks on his teeth did not go unnoticed either, though Vito made no mention of them. His eyes flitted upwards from Juliano’s mouth, but the younger man had already looked away.

“Afternoon, Mister Ramires,” returned the Tribunal, his low voice calm and steady against the light pitter-patter of rain. “That would be preferable to standing in the rain, yes.”

Vito stepped inside. His eyes wandered the room in a casual survey, while his hands came together behind his back, fingers interlocked. “You were not affected too badly by the storms, I see,” he noted with disinterest, before glancing back at Juliano. “Forgive me if I skip the small talk, I find it terribly dull. You wanted to speak more about magic, did you not? Is there a place for us to sit?”

[Juliano Ramires]

Late Afternoon + 46 Ymiden + Arc 720

Juliano's home was on the third floor of the apartment building. It was one modest-sized room with a closet-sized washroom curtained off. Most importantly, it was cheap. Chipped stone, stained floors, mold in the corners, Juliano had lived in the same place for about three arcs now though he often considered moving elsewhere. When he'd first moved out, he'd lived with many people - even closer than his neighbors who he shared a kitchen and larger washroom with - but it had been filled with arguments and thievery.

At least this way, he knew someone would have to break through the locks on the doors to steal anything he had.

With the Tribunal on the other side of the door, he quickly let the older man inside. His canine bit into his lower lip - still stained cherry-red from the paint he'd brushed onto his lips - and he gnawed at it until he remembered the flesh was more sensitive than usual. A slight glance of pain and he licked at the spot before leaving it be.

Vito looked... good... black suited the Tribunal, and his clothes fit well (being a tailor's son, he naturally had an eye for that) and he glanced at the waistband where the shirt neatly tucked in. The gloves were of fine make, and those spectacles again. Juliano couldn't keep his gaze in survey anymore and sought reprieve by looking at the floor between them instead.

His throat felt dry, all of a sudden, and his face warmed. He closed the door, though he didn't link the chain locks though he did lock the main bolt. Juliano nodded in agreement about not getting too bad of a hit from the storms. He opened his mouth, to mention that the lower floors had gotten hit worse, but before he so much as inhaled to draw enough breath - Vito had already dismissed the idea of small talk.

"O-oh. Uhm... okay, sure?" offered Juliano, in an attempt to seem agreeable. He brushed off some dust from his bed, then gestured if Vito wanted to sit down. He didn't have a table or chairs, after all. Just his narrow bed, a wide window ledge, an old stone dresser that was partly chipped away, and a stand where parts of his soldier uniform were meant to be displayed (though at the moment, they'd just gotten haphazardly thrown on the T-stand). A pile of socks and undergarments sat at the edge, but Juliano quickly kicked the fabrics to hide under the dresser. He cleared his throat.

"Y-you can sit here, i-if you want," he said in assured offer that the man could sit on the bed if he wanted. "S-sorry, it isn't much."

"Sorry, is that small talk?" he scratched at the back of his head, then shrugged. He nodded. "Right, yes. Let me..."

Juliano opened one of the drawers from the dresser, with a bit of a struggle as it didn't slide easily and he more had to yank it out from an awkward angle. Inside was some clothing, but he moved the wrinkled fabric aside to bring out some books and journals. He said, "I have some... some of these, and- I... you wanted to talk about... any magic? That's a lot... Are you sure?"

"Do you know how much magic exists?" Juliano paused, and he looked directly at Vito for a moment, a metallic sheen to his reddened irises. They glistened like the remaining paint on his lips. "No one does! There could be more disciplines and sparks than anyone even realizes! There are sparks that I've never even met mages for but have heard or read about. Most of these books are useless, though. M-most mages are useless too..."

[Vito Rossau]

46 YMIDEN, 720. LATE AFTERNOON

If he had any strong opinions about the room that was Juliano’s home, Vito did not voice them, neither did they show through his neutral expression. It was a place to live. For as much as he hated doing it, he found himself in the homes of the congregation rather often, and he had long ago cast aside whatever judgements he might have held in his youth. Outwardly, that was. He stepped farther into the room and glanced about while he heard the door lock behind him.

His eyes followed Juliano as the other biqaj moved to the bed and dusted it off. He was to sit… there? Vito blinked, and remained still for a moment while he seemed to consider the offer. It was a place to sit, like he had asked for, but it still felt strange to sit on Juliano’s bed. Like everything else in regards to the younger soldier, it felt somehow inappropriate, like something that he probably should have simply refused to do out of principle.

The Tribunal shook his head and said simply, “no. Do not worry about what it is or is not.”

He just held no desire to speak with him about the weather, or about his training, or about whatever the fuck else people liked to talk about when they could be doing more important things. Vito walked forward and seated himself at the edge of the bed, only looking a little unsure of himself as he did. His gloved hands came to rest over his lap while he surveyed the room again, green gaze flitting from one thing to the next while Juliano dealt with the difficult drawer.

“That’s a lot… are you sure?”

“I am sure,” he replied easily, “my night is yours.”

It sounded more pleasant than he had intended, he thought. He only meant that he had already designated the time for his visit with the tailor’s son, and if he went home now, then he would have to find something else to do. Made uncertain of himself by the odd arrangement (he did not typically sit on anyone’s bed), he leaned back slightly, hands pressed into the blankets. Vito took a silent breath – he found that he still smelled faintly of fire and smoke – and let his green gaze finally return to Juliano.

What was all over his face? Vito stared at the other man’s freckled features as he tried to figure it out. Some sort of makeup, but… the Tribunal did not suppose that he had been crying, so he ruled that out. Smudged then, or rubbed away, or like he had been pushed against something and it had come off in the meantime, or perhaps not quite like that but Vito decided that he was partial to the look. The dark green of his irises lightened slowly – but considerably – as he listened to Juliano’s claims, and he tilted his head to the side.

“Useless. What makes you say that?”

It was quite a bold statement, especially from someone that seemed so fascinated by mages and magic as a whole. “And you are welcome to speak freely about whatever magic you wish. I do not know all that much,” he admitted, “and I would appreciate the education before my initiation.”

He was not afraid of admitting that he was not well-informed, after all. There had never been much of a reason for him to learn, and if he had not suddenly decided to acquire a spark, he likely would not have cared to do so now, either. Vito continued, “and I would like to know your opinions, Mister Ramires, as someone that has studied the subject extensively.”

[Juliano Ramires]

Late Afternoon + 46 Ymiden + Arc 720

The bed of Juliano was a small but not simple affair. Longer than it was wide, just enough to allow for someone of his height to lay comfortably (alone). Set against the wall, there was only one way onto it. The sheets were wrinkled and of a faded gray color. A bundle of blankets were shoved into the bottom corner, partly tucked into the iron frame. The frame itself had rust in spots that'd eaten away at the metal. From the frame hung various jewelry and similar trinkets, of cheap metals and little precious stones, alongside swaths of black and red lace fabrics.

At the head frame, the garnet necklace that he'd worn to prayer hung in the central arch of the iron, right above a much-abused and worn-out pillow. A few leather belts of varied width and length also hung from the top of the frame, positioned opposite one another. The bed was not made, in the slightest. Also, along the crease at the wall, several soft objects stuck out. If pulled at, one would find them to be sewn plush toys of mythical creatures. Some were more worn out than others, with frayed strings and faded colors. On the wall, a woven tapestry hung to cover the dour stones. Riddled with tears and holes, it otherwise appeared to be a design of a maze sewn in red against black.

Juliano tried to act polite, and not burst with all that he had thought to say once they saw each other again. Since he couldn't gnaw at his lower lip, instead, he took to pulling at it and gently scratching at the skin with his fingernails.

Yet, all of his attempted focus fled when the easily said words repeated in his head: my night is yours.

What kind of phrase was that?!!?!? Juliano felt the heat mercilessly gather on his face while he blushed. He tried to avoid being seen while he searched the drawer. my night is yours my night is yours my night is yours my night is yoursmynightisyoursmynightightyoursmynightisyours. Juliano shook his head, dark curls bouncing from the motion.

He took out the books, spoke about magic, and did his best to ignore the buzzed repetition in his head.

In the small enclosed space, beyond the damp scents of mold and the heavy tobacco smoke that rose up from the neighbor who lived below his flat, he could sense a different kind of smoke. Vito had brought it in with him. Juliano didn't ask. He simply grabbed a string of dried flowers and set it on top of the dresser so that a dull floral scent gradually smothered other scents in the room.

Metallic red of iris, a glimmered ruby bounded in the circles, he stared at Vito when the older man asked, “Useless. What makes you say that?”

Juliano hesitated, then, as if he just realized what he'd said aloud. He took out a few more books and stacked them in his arms, cradling the tomes despite his words against them. He left the askew drawer open, a couple shirts hanging out from the corner. The biqaj walked over and set the books down on the bed beside Vito while he listened to the assurance to speak about whatever he wanted...

...but he didn't like that. Not that he consciously knew why. It frustrated him though, how accommodating that the Tribunal treated him about this particular subject. Not enough to say anything to try and change Vito's mind, but enough that his brows furrowed and he pouted slightly in unconscious show of his unusual disappointment. He shook his head though, like he had before, and his hair bounced. His bangs covered his eyes from view for a moment before he tucked some of the strands behind his pointed ear.

"Yes. I have studied extensively," he agreed with the statement. "Y-you can call me... Juliano, by the way."

Mister Ramires reminded him of his father too much. Juliano added in an even quiet voice, "o-or... Juli..."

"Okay, uhm..." he sat down on the bed. The books created a barrier between them as they slid out of the stack. A couple fell right over onto the floor. Juliano picked one up, while he lifted his legs and folded them in front of him in an odd, but incredibly casual posture while he faced Vito. "Magic is the uhm- study or manipulation of energy. It uh- there are multiple disciplines named after the sparks that impart a certain relation to this energy, called ether."

He cleared his throat, then quickly stood up. Juliano let the book fall onto the bed again, and then he pulled at the hem of his long shirt in a fidgety anxious twist of the fabric. "S-sorry, did you want- did you need something to drink? I have some stuff, maybe. I- uh- not tea or... but... Tribunals don't- you wouldn't want to- no, of course I don't have anything untoward to drink, unless... I mean, no. Just kidding. I- uh- I have water, though."

Juliano walked over, knelt down, and opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. He took out a few undergarments of varying materials (including the same lace that hung from the bed), then lifted a glass bottle. It just had water in the green glass, clean and pure from one of the best wells in Quacia. He said, "So... the first magic I looked into w-was- or the first I knew about- was defiance. There are a lot of defiers in Quacia, it's what h-helps keep Plenty standing and flourishing!"

[Vito Rossau]

46 YMIDEN, 720. LATE AFTERNOON

Juliano was… pouting? At least, it looked like a pout. Vito stared at the expression but he could not determine what had caused it. Something he had said, perhaps, but he could not place what, or why. He straightened up where he sat, looking down to the various books that the younger man had set between them, and he reached out and let his covered fingertips smooth over one of the spines. The fact that Juliano knew how to read at all was a step up from plenty of others in Shanty. Vito did not know how he would have survived if he had grown up without access to reading materials – not that he had read a real variety of books.

The suggestion to simply call the soldier by his first name went unacknowledged at first. His eyes trailed over the books, and darkened again as he watched one of them slide towards the edge of the bed. o-or… Juli… he almost did not hear the words, but a low hum rumbled from his chest a few trills later. Juliano sat down on the other side of the books, but Vito did not look up at him again just yet, simply murmuring, “Juli…” while his fingers pulled back from the books.

He could have told Juliano to call him Vito, he supposed. The other biqaj knew what he was, and the title was spoken out of respect more than any true need. But its removal tended to break down the barriers that Vito did not often enjoy losing. It gave the impression of closeness that, while sometimes useful, was sometimes more trouble than it was worth. What would Juli do with that, he wondered – would he appreciate the notion of something more than a simple visit? If pressed, would he stammer and blush ever more?

He watched a few of the books finally fall onto the floor and raised his hand, already falling back into the habit of twisting his hair. More thoughts that felt entirely unproductive when the boy was so useless to him, and yet they took up space in his mind regardless. He was yet to find any reason that forced his attentions to cling to the pouty soldier, but he could think of plenty of ways to see him blush. It never did him much good to try and figure out why his curiosities strayed, so he stopped trying and simply let them wander.

Vito knew what magic was, of course. He knew the basics of how it worked, and he had ideas of what most disciplines were, but that was not what he had asked for. What he did want to know, however, was why Juliano had felt so compelled to invite him over to discuss all of it. What could he say here that he could not have said in the church? His dark green eyes wandered the room, followed the scarlet lines of woven tapestry, the soft shapes that stuck slightly out from the crease between the bed and the wall… and returned to the tailor’s son when he stood, to look up at him with a veiled curiosity.

“...I don’t have anything untoward to drink, unless…”

Unless. How forthright of him. Vito could still recall his recent confessions; he wondered if Juliano thought he had forgotten, or that he sincerely believed that it was just a joke. It did not matter either way; it gave the Tribunal something to latch onto, as he leaned forward and watched Juliano go through the bottom drawer. In a slow, steady shift, Vito’s green gaze was overtaken by a scarlet shade similar to that of the tapestry’s maze. Such curious fabrics pulled forth from the drawer while he searched for something to drink, but he did not focus on any of those. He pushed away from the bed, approached the younger biqaj, and set his hand over the glass bottle to take it from him. His gloved fingers covered Juliano’s for but a moment in passing, then Vito examined the green glass and the liquid inside.

“Standing and flourishing,” he repeated, and his tone betrayed his lack of confidence in that particular statement. “Certainly it sounds useful, and we owe much to those that keep our holy city afloat. But I am not interested in working in Plenty, or wasting my life doing anything else like that, are you?”

His bright red gaze narrowed slightly as he inspected the colors that powdered and painted the other man’s face. He could not imagine that he had worn all of that for his drills with the Dragoons… or perhaps he had, and that was where it had gotten smudged. “Unless you are. That would be awfully boring of you.”

The Tribunal spoke plainly, only because he suspected that it was not the case. It could not be, given the way Juliano had spoken so passionately about it before, but he wanted to make sure before he wasted any more thoughts on someone that could possibly be that dull. Vito looked down to the green glass bottle before he handed it back over to the other biqaj.

“Do you have anything else to drink, Juliano?” asked Vito, as he moved back to the bed and sat back down. He leaned back across the narrow bed until his shoulders hit the wall. His tone shifted slightly as he continued, and he dipped his head a bit to look at Juliano through his spectacles.

“What did you want to tell me that you didn’t want to say in the church?”

[Juliano Ramires]

Late Afternoon + 46 Ymiden + Arc 720

From the ceiling, light footsteps could be heard that crossed the flat above them. To the side, a faint murmur of conversation. Along the windowpanes, the droplets of rain thickened into loud patters while the late afternoon sky darkened with storm clouds. Juliano felt as if his heart might crawl right out of him, for how quick it thudded, and why hadn’t he expected this reaction? He had spent so much time musing about what he might say, or how he’d say it, that he hadn’t included what he would physically feel nor that his body would try to communicate everything to his guest regardless of Juli’s consent.

If only he could rid himself of the blush, then maybe it wouldn’t be so obvious. Because it was obvious, wasn’t it? Juliano felt more and more certain that the Tribunal had to be toying with him. As much as the optimistically resilient youth wanted to believe Vito’s expressed intention to initiate him, plenty of things barred the path to the reality of a spark coming into Juliano’s soul. For one, Vito had to survive an initiation himself. The likelihood of an uninitiated mage surviving, only to initiate another? Rare. So rare, Juliano had only heard about it twice. One had resulted in a horrific monstrosity for the second initiate, though not proper death. Did Vito know this? Maybe. He couldn’t tell if the Tribunal pretend not to know about magic, or if some other ploy was involved. Just because he was of the priestly class didn’t make him free of such manipulations, and Juliano knew this because he’d seen Tribunals in Lair before… hiding in plain sight, few but there. How many people he’d seen in Lair, during his first ventures into the taboo district, still surprised him even though his initial foray had been arcs ago. It had changed so much in his mind, when he’d seen that there were lots of Quacians who indulged in vices. It made him question the Theocratum, too, and the way his parents preached complete abstinence from sins. Even when his father smoked on the sly, and he knew his mother had some wine squirreled away (for cooking, she had claimed but Juliano hadn’t believed it).

Juliano wondered if Vito ever visited Lair. If he visited while dressed like that, out of his vestments and looking like any other Quacian without the slightest hint of his faith until he took off some clothes… he recalled the cuts in the hands that he’d seen, and Juliano wondered if they had healed or not, but he couldn’t see past the fine leather gloves. He tried to focus but somehow, the other man’s voice echoed even while they shared a room and conversation. Incredibly distracting but his mind mashed together the enchanting phrases: my night is yours. Juli. My night is yours, Juli.

He wanted to remember every pitch of the murmured voice, every dip and raise along the mostly flat tone, and he wanted to hear Vito say it again. So that he had the same words, in the same voice, but said with different inflections. How many ways could Vito say such a thing? Could Juliano summon the words to be gifted to him again? To accompany those rumbled hums, and the near-silent gentle breaths of a man used to waiting quietly.

Could he call him Vito? Juliano wanted to ask for permission, but he didn’t. He waited, a little less quiet in his own breath, but the offer never came. Did that mean Vito wanted to keep that barrier of respect between them? He supposed he didn’t mind that much… if that was the case… maybe he liked it, the more he thought about it while he went about with an attempt to provide the Tribunal with a proper answer for such a considerably general request as tell me about magic.

While the Tribunal might have seen it as a simple house visit, Juliano saw it differently. Vito didn’t have to visit. He could have told Juli to come visit him at the church instead, or to join him in a proper office after the next blood prayer. The latter would have been a better way to assure that the soldier attended the ceremony again. This, though? Only a couple trials after their odd exchange in the dark… in that cold cramped sacristy… in the storage room where Vito had locked the door so they wouldn’t be interrupted again… what would the Tribunal had said (or done) if Juliano hadn’t fled after that? What if they’d spent the entire rest of the storm, locked together in that little room with the couch and blankets and plenty of floor space…

Juliano had tried to figure out the answer to that riddle for the past two nights while alone in bed.

Maybe that was why he blushed so hot when he saw Vito seated on his bed, and why he couldn’t stay next to the other man for very long. Guilt devoid of shame but guilt all the same. He fled to the dresser like he’d fled to the nave, as if the bed were as uncertain as the storage room had been.

Vito wasn’t the first potential magic mentor that Juliano had let into his meager home. Juliano tried to not let it scramble his thoughts, tried to keep in mind that could all be a lie. It could all be some twisted vengeance to return some upset for when Juliano had laughed at him, or called him weird to his face, or had dismissed the Wounded God… for the younger biqaj had thought of those things too, when he’d pointed his spear in drill practice and tried to avoid other distracting thoughts that weren’t conducive to training for war. He couldn’t remember those moments as clearly, though. He hadn’t thought them much of anything, but he did wonder why Vito had gone from offering to put in a good word for him to offering to initiate him. What exactly had he said or done that had caused that change? Because it certainly wasn’t the laughter or… had it been the closeness he’d forced between them in the trills after that? Juliano didn’t consider himself that lucky to believe it, but he didn’t completely discount the possibility either.

That possibility ran dominant in his mind while he handed the green bottle of water to Vito. Especially when he felt the leather brush against his bare fingers. As soon as the drink had been passed over, Juliano hurriedly collected the undergarments from the floor and sides of the drawer. He shoved them back and covered them with a shirt, the silvery-blue blush competing with the white powder that still dusted his face and the charcoal streaks that lined downward on his cheeks.

“Oh-ah- uhh… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t- that’s-” he stammered in return to the Tribunal’s disdain for the mere idea of working in Plenty, and even calling it a waste of a life to do so. Was it a trap? Juliano considered Plenty so incredibly important, with the way that his parents spoke about it… though when they sat down to eat, they thanked the Wounded God and not the defiers who maintained the underground farms that kept Quacia free from terrible famine. Juliano shook his head ‘no’, no he didn’t want to waste his life working in Plenty. The more prominent curls among the dark waves bounced around his brow. From the shadow of his bangs, he looked up at Vito. The metallic red rippled with rings of lavender. Why was the Tribunal looking at him like that? Like he was trying to figure something out? But what?

“Unless you are. That would be awfully boring of you.”

“N-no!” his voice pitched accidentally in a nervous break of his voice. He shook his head again and lowered his gaze to hide the color of his eyes from the other’s gaze. “I, no, I didn’t mean that- that’s just uhm- it’s one of the most common magics- and I thought maybe- but- you uh- and let me just- find my notes b-b-because I did ha-ha-have a-”

For a moment, he didn’t notice the glass bottle as it was handed back until he heard the question for something else to drink. Juliano took the bottle of water with a concerned furrow in his brow. “Uhm, yeah… Are… or… uhm…”

Another trap? Or… Juliano wasn’t sure. He looked at the water inside the bottle, then set it back in the drawer. With a rough shove, to get past the awkward angles, he returned the drawer to the frame and then lifted. He nearly hit his head on the still-open upper drawer where he’d gotten the books. Juliano dodged, just barely, and stared at the drawer as if confused where it’d come from. He didn’t shut it, though. Instead, he glanced at Vito. His hands gathered the hem of his long shirt and he pulled at the thin white fabric.

Vito returned to the bed, and sat down, and leaned back on it… and looked at him through the round spectacles. Whether the blush had managed to fade or not, Juliano felt as if his entire face and ears and neck and even hands were coated in the obvious heat. He quickly looked aside to the window, where the rain sharply pattered in the start of a downpour. The pastel amethyst hue had taken over the color of his irises.

“What did you want to tell me that you didn’t want to say in the church?”

“Oh- uhm…” Juliano frowned slightly, then turned away so that his back faced the other biqaj. He disappeared past the curtain into the small adjacent washroom. The momentary illusion of separation gave him a brief respite from his rising anxiety. He went to a small cabinet and opened it to look a narrow mirror. Juliano’s eyes widened. So excited and nervous for the Tribunal’s visit, he had forgotten almost entirely about the make-up. Oh, he just looked ridiculous! The young man placed his hands over his face, comforted that the curtain hid him from the Tribunal’s view. He could very nearly cry, so overwhelmed he felt in the realization. But no. No, it was fine. Vito hadn’t seemed put off by it, or given any sign of it… did that mean the Tribunal was just excellent at hiding his thoughts?

“fuck,” whispered Juliano to himself, consistently in the native language of Vahanic like everything else said. He grabbed a rag from the inside of the cabinet and tried to rub at the worst of the spots, so at least it looked a little intentional rather than as if his face had gotten pressed up against a wall or pushed against a floor. Upon discovery of the red on his teeth, he quickly rubbed that off too with a small stomp of his foot. How had he not checked that? He silently stomped his feet a little more, hands balled up into fists, for a dreadfully quiet but quick tantrum for his unawareness. Once finished, he grabbed the modest flask.

Juliano returned, face silvery-blue not from blush but from the fresh scrubbing of attempted removal of the makeup. The powder had set deep in his freckled cheeks and nose, though, and the smudges of charcoal persisted. He tried to act as casual as he could, though it only felt awkward while he sauntered over to the bed and handed out the flask for Vito to take.

“Just this,” he said. “It’s uhm- someone gave it to me- I’ve had it forever… it’s called- uhm- mezcal. I could mix it with the water, though, and… some people use it as medicine so… maybe it isn’t… so bad.”

The younger biqaj picked up his hand-mirror and small case of cosmetics from the window ledge. He glanced up at the sky while there and watched a burst of lightning streak across the horizon and light up behind the pointed slanted spires of various Shanty buildings. He walked back over. Barefoot, like he had been since Vito arrived, he crawled onto the bed and settled into the far corner opposite Vito, side up against the wall while he set the mirror and cosmetic box on the lap of his crossed legs.

“It isn’t that I didn’t want to say anything,” he referenced what Vito had said about the church, trying to act as suave as he could. He opened the cosmetic box and peeled aside the little leather that he’d covered the red pot of lip paint with. Juliano picked up a thin paintbrush, then balanced the hand-mirror between the soles of his bare feet so that he could look at himself. He dipped the black brush into the pot, then redid the cherry-red paint in slow strokes against his lips.

“I just wanted you to visit here,” he said in such a steady voice that it either was a surge of confidence, practiced, or both.

He lowered the brush, while he used the tip of his little finger to fix a small mistake where he’d gone past the perimeter of his lips. The irises of his eyes returned to the metallic red as before. “…s-so, there’s also… if you don’t want to talk about defiance. There’s Abrogation? Or attunement. There’s shapeshifting, too. And a spark that grants you the ability to travel without anything, but magic involved. I like that one… do you… or…”

Juliano lowered the brush, lips partly painted fresh, and looked over at Vito. He asked, “Tribunal Vito, why do you want a spark? S-sorry, did I ask you that already? I should have…”

“Or- uh- that’s what you wanted to know- from me, isn’t it?” he added as an afterthought while he lowered his gaze to the mirror again. He focused on the brush while he continued, finding a certain stability that came from performing the act of painting while he spoke. It helped his thoughts stay on a relatively forward path. “Okay, uhm… didn’t I tell you, though? I’m p-pretty sure I did, so…”

[Vito Rossau]

46 YMIDEN, 720. LATE AFTERNOON

Rather than offer him any kind of real response, Juliano turned away. It was more indicative of the young soldier’s thoughts than anything he could have said to the Tribunal in that moment – or rather, more of a confirmation to him of his own thoughts than of Juliano’s. He was bothered for one reason or another, irritated or flustered or even just nervous for something that Vito had not even been made aware of, and the reaction was all the encouragement he needed. All the confirmation he required, in fact (and somewhat unfortunately), to know that he had not made the wrong decision in visiting the soldier boy’s home in Shanty.

He could have stayed home. His mind and body might have appreciated it, if he had, and he might have maintained a better image of himself in Juliano’s amethyst eyes. But Juliano had been the one to invite him, despite having all the time in the world as they had waited out the storm, to talk about whatever practical and fantastical matters he pleased – and more importantly, to maintain the professional distance the Tribunal required of himself and of the congregation he faced.

It was a different matter with one Cosme Sereno. Vito considered this as he watched the younger man disappear behind the curtain that separated the main room from whatever stood beyond it. Juliano had not even answered his question… He allowed one arm to fall to the bed, rested comfortably at his side, while the other lifted just enough for his fingers to twist the same lock of hair that had been left curled. His visits to the Sereno residence had increased in frequency since the departure of her traveling, draft-dodging husband, but not for the same reason that he had decided to visit the tailor’s son. Not for his own personal amusement.

Was that it, then? Amusement. His head tilted a little to the side as his scarlet gaze watched the curtain and the faint silhouette of the man behind it. Certainly Juliano provided more entertainment than Cosme, but it was terribly different in nature. While the dramatic socialite was fun in her own way, she was predictable. She gave in so easily, to the point that Vito often wondered if she ever intended on withholding herself at all, and yet she still had the gall to act surprised each time he reached for a reaction.

Juliano still carried such a nervous, palpable energy and maintained enough discipline to flee instead of… doing what? He wanted something other than magical discussion. That much was clear by the way he found some excuse to get away any time the Tribunal inquired further about it. He saw the man behind the curtain move, but he could not tell what he was doing, nor had he been provided any explanation. Vito closed his eyes and focused on the room around him instead.

With his dark hair twisted around his finger, he listened to the rain as it poured steadily against the window. If the weather continued to worsen, it would be safer to wait out the storm in the apartment building rather than venture out into the rain to find his home. There were other places he knew about that might have proved safer, still, than Juliano’s home, and close enough to find before a storm blew in. He breathed in the smell of smoke – that which clinged to his dark clothes and hair, and that which rose from the flat below – and the mingled scents of ash and tobacco and burning blood and hair and bone covered whatever moldy dampness he might have noticed otherwise. A dull floral scent sought to cover him, too, and he wondered if it was out of kindness towards the Tribunal or protectiveness over his neighbor that Juliano had tried to cover the smoke. How much did he care for the people he shared the building with? Were they treated similarly to how Vito himself had been, that first night they had met? With disappointment and dismissive disdain, before he had known of his status as a soon-to-be mage. In his defense, Vito had not known of that status himself, until he had decided it then.

Juliano returned with his face rubbed silvery-blue. Vito opened his eyes and let his hand fall away from his hair, but did not bother to straighten up where he sat. He watched the younger man approach, flask in hand, and he reached out to accept the item as it was offered. A neutral green gaze inspected the flask, turning it over and offering but a hum in response. He did not indicate one way or the other, if he wanted for the liquid to be mixed with water or not, but set the flask to the side as if he had no real intention of opening it.

He was still easily pushed to confession, Vito supposed. Juliano might have been a liar for attempting to disguise the offer of anything untoward, but he was honest when it mattered… or had he thought that the Tribunal had wanted to drink with him? Was that what had gotten him so flustered, or had it been something else? He was honest when he thought that he was being given something in return, then. Vito was just yet to figure out what that something was to Juliano.

By the time the soldier sat down again, holding a box and hand mirror, Vito had almost forgotten that he had visited for the sake of magical knowledge at all. It was not a difficult thing for him to forget, amidst all the other things he cared more about… but Juliano did not immediately steer the conversation in that direction again. The younger biqaj opened his case (more cosmetics, it looked like, but Vito did not know why) and began to apply more of the red paint to his lips. The color was eye-catching, was that why he wore it? Vito’s gaze mirrored the shade as he observed, before Juliano continued in a far steadier tone than he had seemed to manage since the Tribunal had arrived.

“Did you, Juli?” came his low return, and though the confession brought no change to his expression, there was a quiet note of something else in his voice. Amusement? Surprise? Approval? It was not clear, but his scarlet gaze was tinted blue until a deeper violet shade was left behind. Juliano carried on about something else, as he continued to paint his lips, but Vito only half-heard the words. Attunement, shapeshifting, travel with magic, I like that one but no real indication of which one Juliano wanted. Was he afraid to come out and say it? Did he think that the Tribunal would judge him for his choice? He was not entirely wrong, if that was the case, but he would not tell him that.

When Juliano paused in his painting to glance over, the older biqaj met his gaze for a trill before he finally sat up straight. Vito looked down to the books that had been left as some sort of wall between himself and the rest of the bed, and again let his fingers wander over the spines.

“Yes, you did,” he answered, “you want a spark because you want to be magic. You want the changes it brings.”

There were plenty of other reasons, he was sure. He did not feel the need to mention the other’s more sensitive confession; Juliano had asked him after all, and he was merely deflecting. He supposed the tailor’s son was perceptive enough to know that, though, so Vito took a quiet breath and continued, “I do not know why.”

Honesty. Or, something close enough to it. He did know why he wanted a spark: it was because Juliano wanted one so badly. But why he wanted to acquire it before the younger man, to put his own life at risk simply because he wanted to take something that someone else wanted so badly – he did not know the reason for such compulsion within himself, only that it was there.

“I want to make myself more useful to Our Wounded Lord, and His Church,” the Tribunal elaborated, “and by extension, all of Quacia.”

As it had before, in the church, his speech sounded rehearsed, as if he had already decided on an answer to the question before it had even been asked. Or perhaps, as if it was the only response he had for any question at all, and he had simply repeated it enough that he did not need to think about it anymore. Vito’s fingers dragged lightly down the cover of one of the tomes, and then leaned back against the wall again. Dark shirt slightly skewed with the movements, he smoothed his hand across his waist, and his fingers slipped just beneath his waistband to fix where the fabric had been tucked into his trousers. He pulled the book closer then, and opened it to look over its pages. Or, to appear as if he was doing so, at least.

His brows furrowed slightly as he “read” over the lines, and a short hum escaped him before he turned the page. Vito spoke again as he glanced up from the book, his voice a low but steady sound against the constant pitter-patter of rain, “what is it that you want, Juli?”

[Juliano Ramires]

Late Afternoon + 46 Ymiden + Arc 720

Under Juliano’s bed, there was just enough height for a rucksack to fit. But his rucksack sat in the room’s corner, beside the T-stand for his infantry attire. Instead, black ruffled satin had been sewn into the underside of the mattress. Just past the rusty iron frame, the opaque fabric kept private what lay beneath. It wasn’t noticeable, not from a standing position - nor any position unless one laid on the floor, looking for something to find. Even then, it looked like décor to go along with the lace and the belts that also hung from the frame. While Juliano adjusted his seat on the bed to angle the mirror between the soles of his bare feet, the frame quietly creaked.

He admired his own reflection, the cherry red of the paint – so much more vibrant than the deeper crimsons of the bloodlights or the scarlets of the maze in the tapestry. Juliano swiped another layer, careful this time to not go outside the natural lines of his lips. The focus showed, in an obvious way, while he gazed into the hand-mirror. It helped reduce the nervous anxiety, though not rid himself of it. His cheeks still dusted silvery-blue and the tip of his pointed ears burned hot.

The rain continued to patter against the window, constant now, and a rumble of thunder echoed on the horizon. If the weather got any worse, then… Vito might have to wait out the storm in the tenement. Juliano glanced at the flask, once, unsure why the Tribunal had asked for it only to set it… aside… wait a bit. A slight furrow showed on his dark brows but he quickly returned to look into the mirror. He painted a little rougher with the brush against his lips. Had the Tribunal just confiscated his mezcal?

His attempt to be blasé stumbled when Vito’s low voice returned a question that almost sounded like a taunt. Or… what was that tone? Regardless, he tried to focus while he painted his lips and not think about how the Tribunal’s voice sounded as smoky as the ashen scents that clung to the other man’s dark attire, or how those clothes fit to his lean-muscled body so well, or how he was sitting right on the exact spot that Juliano had imagined he might choose, and those eyes kept changing colors but did one of the hues mean what he hoped they meant? Was it the scarlet? The blue? The violet? What about that light green that showed sometimes? Or the cyan? Which was the one he sought? He met the other’s gaze for the trill, until Vito looked down to the books and Juliano returned to look at the mirror. Which eye color was the one he wanted so much that he could hardly think of anything else for the last couple of days and-

-his brush slid aside as he accidentally streaked the red across his left cheek. His own eye color bled like watercolors between different cold and warm hues as if uncertain which to land on, until it turned to a sapphire blue. He didn’t mind the older’s deflection, not for the moment, it gave him a moment to just nod.

Vito claimed to not know why he wanted a spark. Juliano picked up a small cloth from the box and rubbed at the paint he’d gotten on his cheek. He listened to the answer, a frown on his face while the red spread on the pale powder that’d gotten left on his freckled, charcoal-streaked cheeks.

“…I want to make myself more useful to Our Wounded Lord, and His Church, and by extension, all of Quacia.”

Juliano laughed, breathy but honest, and it hurt the stitches in his side. Through the sound, he scoffed, “Bullshit.”

His blue-eyed gaze glanced up. He lowered the cloth. It looked as if a human had bled on it for how the red had smudged. There was still a terrible patch of red left on his cheek along the left corner of his painted lips. He glanced at the book that Vito’s fingers ran across. Part of him wanted to…

…he watched while Vito leaned back, against the wall, beside him. His attention got distracted when he saw the hand tuck the shirt back into the trousers. Heat, heat, heat. It gathered in his face, as merciless as the pyre fire stuck by scent in the Tribunal’s dark hair. He held his breath, unknowingly. Until Vito glanced up from the open book and asked him…

…What is it that you want, Juli?

Juliano grabbed the book. He wrenched it out of Vito’s hands and thew it across the room, uncaring for wherever it landed. Stupid book, he didn’t want Vito’s attention on it. It didn’t deserve those fingers, or that gaze, or to be opened so casually with such vague disinterest. His mirror fell aside, slid across the messy bed while his foot unconsciously pressed it away. The box of cosmetics tumbled from the dip in the mattress while Juliano shifted his weight onto his knees. From the sudden grab, he now knelt beside Vito with one hand laid just beside the Tribunal’s hip to help stabilize the motion. Once the book had fled from his fingers, his other hand clutched Vito’s shoulder while he moved closer as if about to straddle the other man. In a mindless rush of passion, Juliano smashed his painted red lips against Vito’s lips.

It wasn’t gentle, nor thought out, nor anything but a desperate pressure without even the barest hint of elegance behind it. He leaned into it for a trill… two… three, and then just as quick he leaned back. His blue eyes widened as large as they could get. He looked as shocked as if he’d fallen into an icy puddle rather than kissed the Tribunal.

“Oh- f-fuck-” his mind caught up with his passion, a little too late. “I- I’m- Lord- I’m sorry! Sorry!”

Juliano moved to scramble off the bed, the biqaj's face a blanket of silver-blue blush underneath his makeup. The wavy curls of his dark hair bounced around his face in his hurry… but he went too quick here too, unable to get standing, and promptly slid right off the edge of the narrow bed. He landed against his rear, with a bump onto the stone floor, and he grimaced.

[Vito Rossau]

46 YMIDEN, 720. LATE AFTERNOON

Vito thought the younger biqaj quite bold. Prone as he was to laugh in disagreement, the admitted utterance of disbelief was something else. Something that the Tribunal was not all that surprised about regardless, if only for their moment in the sacristy before. Juliano, in all of his stuttered nervousness, held the confidence of someone that had never been knocked down enough to care. The possibility of punishment did not even seem to occur to him in those witnessed moments of blatant honesty, even in the presence of a man as devout and committed as himself. Surely the soldier did not believe himself above anyone else, in terms of the law and of proper respect… but despite his inclinations to reach over and smack the boy’s red-smeared cheek with the heavy tome, he moved on. There would be more chances for that.

He did not wish to end his little game so soon. After all, he had not yet found the reason for his growing fascination with the tailor’s reckless son. A bit of improper procedure, a few chances missed for repentance, but none of it mattered more to Vito than rooting out the source. If that meant he had to visit Juliano’s shabby home, and listen to him spout about magic, and watch his curious (but terribly delicious) blushing face, then the Tribunal would not consider it a trial wasted. Or perhaps, he revised as the echo of thunder reached his pointed ears, a trial, and a night, and whatever came between.

The book was dull. He did little more than skim the page again, uncaring for whatever it read, before he turned his attention back to the subject of his recent obsession. But what did Juliano want? The low inquiry rested over them as the Tribunal’s red gaze fell to the soldier’s painted lips. Smudged, still. Left out of the line on one side, and Vito wondered briefly if it was a purposeful placement, meant to draw his eyes. A pale-toned green speckled his scarlet gaze. If that had been the younger man’s intention, it had worked. But he still expected an answer.

It came in the form of a book tossed aside, pulled from his loose, uncaring grasp. A heavy thud announced its landing on the floor somewhere. Vito held where he was, in curious wait, but it did not take long after that for Juliano to grab for his shoulder and… kiss him?

A press of lips, sudden and rough and only somewhat unexpected. Whatever courage the other man had found before, it seemed to quickly flee his system, and before the Tribunal could think to properly react, Juliano pulled away from the kiss. Although Vito was not certain that it could truly have been called that, given its brevity, and he wondered for a short-lived trill if the soldier had ever actually kissed someone before. Certainly he had to have done so, if his confessions from before were to be believed. Was he only afraid, then, of his reaction?

Alas, the damage had been done. When Juliano pulled back, wide blue eyes met red-laced violet, opened still as if they had never even shut in the first place. He did not rush after the scrambling, silver-blushed features, nor did he react in any other noticeable form until the other had fallen hard onto the stone floor below.

Vito straightened up. For a moment it looked as if he might have gotten up and walked away right then, and left the overstepping soldier boy behind with his apologies. Though it rained, and rained, and continued to rain, he was aware of his limited options. It was not his first house visit, nor even his first incident of this kind, and yet something was simply different. He should have slapped the paint right off of Juliano’s lips for daring to cross that line, and yet, as he lifted his hand, it did not fall to strike his powder-dusted cheek.

Instead, as he leaned forward, his gloved fingers tugged harshly at the chains around his neck to pull him closer. Hand held beneath Juliano’s chin, he forced the boy to meet his bright violet gaze, and he murmured in correction, “I meant what spark, Juliano.”

For how determined he was about acquiring his own spark, Juliano did not appear all that concerned with the matter. Had the young biqaj been thinking of him instead? In the trials since his agreement to visit his home, had Juliano fostered such sordid thoughts and desires about what might occur when the trial came? About the Tribunal himself? The idea was terribly intoxicating, as he considered the thought of Juliano alone in the room, face dusted with silvers and blues through the means of his imagination. It was one he had to set aside, in order to restrict his wandering focus.

His other hand wiped at the smudge of red left behind on Juliano’s cheek, and his eyes glanced over the color against his dark gloves. They remained there for a moment, perhaps even less, before returning to the other’s pretty, freckled face. There was nothing proper about a member of the congregation kissing him, or having him over simply because they wanted his presence, or (if his wandering thoughts were the truth) fantasizing about him in any fashion. But the thought of it was simply inescapable, as he stared down at him and tried to imagine it.

“You wanted me here, Juli?” he whispered low. The question was rhetorical; he knew that he had, by his own confession. “In your home, on your bed?”

And then, with a push of his fingers through Juliano’s dark curls, Vito kissed him again.

Just as rushed for the returned connection of their lips, just as rough, and yet refined in the passion that he drove. A proper kiss, one that would betray the faint taste of tobacco on his eager tongue – if only Juliano did not flee before he found it – and Vito let his hands fall to the other’s slim waist to help pull him up and into his lap. Where he should have been before, had it not been for the sudden panic that had pulled him away.

“And what did you want me to do? Have you considered, Juli?”