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“We’re not bringing Bon to a fight club.” Mirabelle deadpanned, arms crossed stubbornly over her chest.
“It says child friendly!” Pétronille enthused, pointing at the small exclamation bubble at the bottom right corner of the flier.
“Pétronille!” Mirabelle cried. “You’re their sister! Aren’t you supposed to protect them from this kind of thing?! They’re young! And impressionable!”
“Yeahyeahyeah, but! Fight! Club!” Pétronille said, waving a hand. “That’s how I got my humble roots, throwing down in the ring! Once I collected enough money, I grabbed Bonnie and bolted! I’ve told you all of this before.”
“Yes, but your circumstances were! Excruciating! You needed to! Because your parents didn’t leave you a choice!” Mirabelle wrung her hands together in distress, frowning at her friend. “That’s not something that. . . people should need to be exposed to.”
“But they choose to do it, anyway.” Pétronille shrugged. “I’m not going to grow up shadowing Bonnie. They helped defeat the crabbing King, for Change’s sake! This is something I enjoy that I can share with them! Come on, it’s just a bunch of people throwing Craft and jabs at each other.”
“I– I know, but there’s going to be a lot of blood. . .”
“When Frin lost his eye–”
“Okay!” Mirabelle interrupted Pétronille, waving her hands. “I get the point, I get it! They’ve already been exposed to plenty! I’m sorry for being so worrisome, I just. . . worry that maybe we’ve gotten Bonnie too used to things too soon.”
“Like what?” Pétronille demanded.
“Um. Alco. . . hol?” Mirabelle offered, wincing slightly.
“. . . Belle, come on.” Pétronille deadpanned. “They spend all their time with a bunch of adults. They’re going to get used to alcohol. I have some in the house myself! I just keep it in a top shelf, where they can’t reach, even standing on the counter!”
“I don’t know, kids are tricky–”
“I can’t even reach it unless I’m on the counter.” Pétronille pushed, and Mirabelle had to relent to that, bowing her head in defeat. “If you really want to get me to admit you crabbed something up, we can talk about how they don’t have any friends with kids their age. Been ostracized for being a saviour, even if it’s more of a pedestal thing than anything.”
“What!” Mirabelle balked. “I understand that you’re upset by that, and I really am sorry, but we tried to hide Bonnie from the public eye, we really, really did, and–!”
“And you convinced me to let Madame Dile homeschool them!” Pétronille added, exasperated. “When are they going to even have the time to make friends with all this moving around?”
Fully scolded, Mirabelle bowed her head. She wrung her fingers together sorrowfully, eyes downcast. “. . .oh.”
“But!” Pétronille continued, a smirk in her voice. “They’re happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen them. Because they’ve got adults that love them, and are willing to help them learn. They’ve always been pretty mature, and now they’re going to get the knowledge and wisdom to back that up. Support groups are good. And little Bonnie's found a pretty good one.”
“Oh,” Mirabelle said, relaxing. Her eyes softened, hands folded in front of her bosom. “I’m so glad. That makes me happy to hear. . .”
“Yeah, yeah, so!” Pétronille pointed to the flier again, more aggressively this time. The paper made a dangerous sound, almost threatening to trip below her finger. “Are we going or what?!”
“Oh. . .” Mirabelle went right back to frowning, eyebrows furrowed in scrutiny. “You set a trap for me. . .”
“I did!”
“And I fell right into it. . .”
“You did!”
“Crab.” Mirabelle sighed in distress, letting her hands drop.
“I trapped you! So we’re going, right!” Pétronille demanded, practically vibrating from excitement, crossing the distance to pat Mirabelle on the shoulder. Mirabelle was so glad they had gotten her to start regularly washing the dirt off her hands, or she was sure it would’ve left a handprint on her cloak. Again. “Good, good! That’s wonderful! We are going! To have so much fun!”
“So much. . .” Mirabelle agreed mournfully. She bowed her head, too, shaking her head. “But does Bonnie really need to go? I can stay home with them! And we can do some baking, or I can read that story they like, and–!”
“Nope, we’re not doing that. They’re coming!” Pétronille scolded boisterously. “You can spend time with them next time the rest of us go drinking.”
“Siffrin doesn’t go anymore–”
“Then tell them to go scarce, I don’t care.” Pétronille said with a friendly roll of her eyes.
Mirabelle’s heart dropped. She couldn’t just tell Siffrin to go away, and of course Pétronille couldn’t possibly understand that.
She sighed, though, as if that didn’t hurt, and shook her head at Pétronille. “Fine! But as soon as it gets a little too violent, we’re leaving!”
“Fine by me!” Pétronille agreed. “But look, Belle. A little blood is not ‘too violent’. That’s just the nature of fight club. Some noses are going to be broken! There’s gonna be some missing teeth!
The more Pétronille talked, the more Mirabelle regretted agreeing to let Bonnie come. It wasn’t that she was worried it would freak Bonnie out. Quite the opposite, honestly! She was worried Bonnie would get obsessed with it and–
Wasn’t having Bonnie hyperfocused on trying to figure out how to join battles once bad enough? They had finally gotten over the last one, and now they were back to it!
Oooh, Mirabelle really wasn’t looking forward to this one at all.
“Fine,” Mirabelle muttered,
“Let’s go get everyone else on board!” Pétronille cheered, tucking her arm around Mirabelle’s, connecting them at the elbow. Mirabelle sighed, but it was more exasperated action then anything else, letting Pétronille tug her away to the rest of the group.
((o))
Bonnie and Odile were already setting the table, laying it out with a grand assortment of dishes. Mirabelle loved how much Bonnie loved cooking. They had told them, over and over, that they could make a meal themselves, that they only had to make maybe one item for dinner if they insisted to make anything–
But Bonnie almost always insisted on full course meals. They were talented, and could often have three pots going at once. And yes, there was always an adult observing and helping, but Mirabelle knew from experience just how useless Bonnie could make her feel in a kitchen.
Sometimes, she felt like she did when she had been new to the House. Unable to do anything for herself, desperately trying to prove her own worth.
She hated it.
The Chosen One, Saviour of all of Vaugarde, unable to help anyone with anything–!
But it was fine. How could she ever be expected to know everything? She wasn’t raised in an environment that fostered those skills, she wasn’t allowed to learn.
It’d be weird to say she was jealous of Bonnie, a literal child, so she wasn’t! She just wished she had the same opportunities and raw skill that Bonnie did. Instead, she had to work for every skill she had.
Dinner was called, and while Isabeau and Siffrin came to join them, Mirabelle said a quick prayer just for her side of the table.
And then it was Pétronille’s turn.
“Belle and I’ve got a fun group activity tonight!” Pétronille said, slamming a fist down on the table. “It’s something we mutually agreed on!”
Oh that was not the wording Mirabelle would use. She was sure she looked downright miserable, from the highly amused look Odile sent her. She resisted the urge to slam her head against the table as hard as she could.
“I’m going to have to pass,” Siffrin said, picking up a couple pieces of food and placing them in a travel-box. “I agreed to help a townsperson with something.”
“This late?” Odile frowned.
“Ooh, ‘something’!” Isabeau grinned, eyes sparkling excitedly. “Do you need help, Sif?”
“No, trust me,” Siffrin smiled back, softening. “This is definitely a ‘solo Sif’ thing.”
“Aw, you’re gonna miss it!” Pétronille sighed dramatically, shaking her head at them. “Come on, it’ll be fun for the whole team!”
Except Mirabelle, of course. She would gladly volunteer to just. . . stay behind, back here, if she wasn’t certain she would be the only person who cared about being responsible in the heat of a match. Odile and Isabeau would be too busy placing bets with each other, and Pétronille was clearly really into the fight–
She wished Siffrin actually did need help, just so she could go with him instead!
But it wasn’t meant to be.
“I’ll come next time!” Siffrin reassured gently.
“Oh, fine,” Pétronille stuck her tongue out at him. “Can’t believe you’re being harder to convince then Mirabelle was!”
Siffrin shrugged, sinking a little ways into his cloak as he breezed out of the room at a steady trot. Sometimes Mirabelle forgot how powerful he had become during the loops. It had been hard to see while he had been healing, but now that he was fully better, she could see the assuredness he held himself with.
They were better.
She felt like she had gotten her friend back. It made her so happy.
“Wait,” Isabeau frowned. “Harder to convince than Mira? I thought you said this was a joint idea!”
“She just knew I’d be harder to convince,” Mirabelle grumbled, crossing her arms stubbornly. “But just know! I still! Do not approve!”
“Oh no,” Isabeau said, and although he always wore a smile, Mirabelle could tell that he was actually amused, eyebrows lifting and pinching as he looked her way. “How scandalous!”
“Oh? What is this mysterious unauthorized activity?” Odile asked, crossing her arms with a smirk. “And how lucky is Siffrin for getting out of it? I’m sure I can forge some reason or another Boniface and I couldn’t attend.”
“Just Bonbon?”
“Of course, they’re my favourite. The rest of you have to keep Pétronille distracted, because she’s sad whenever Boniface isn’t around.”
“Ah,” Isabeau nodded. “We’re your scapegoats.”
“So smart, Isabeau.” Odile smiled at him. “Perhaps we should revise the party’s hierarchy. Go ahead, now, Pétronille. We’re ready.”
“Alright! So!” Pétronille said, digging into her pocket and holding out the poster with a flourish. “It’s Fight Club!”
“Oh ho!” Isabeau cheered.
“This will be fun,” Odile grinned. “I must say I’m surprised. Are you sure it’s appropriate?”
“Look!” Pétronille importantly tapped at the sign. “It says family friendly! Right here! Trust me, it’ll be a great time, for Bon, for the whole party!”
“No!” Bonnie cried, and everyone jolted with surprise, twisting around to stare at them.
“What?” Pétronille frowned. “I thought– I thought you would want to come! Why don’t you want to come?”
“I want to!” Bonnie scrambled to explain, still with the saddest pout Mirabelle had ever seen plastered on their face. “But Frin would wanna come, too! They’re gonna miss out! Can’t we go tomorrow?”
“It’s a one night thing,” Pétronille apologized, her boisterous voice fading to something more gentle she reserved only for Bonnie. “I’m sorry. But, um– think about how much fun it will be to tell him about it!”
“That’s not the same,” Bonnie sighed in despair, thumping their head against the table. They perked up a second later. “But that’ll teach Frin not to be nice to random people! They need to come with us next time!”
“Being nice is good!” Isabeau cried.
“Maybe it’s a good thing we’re not raising a people pleaser.” Odile chuckled. “I’m sorry, Boniface. Siffrin will do whatever they want, whether or not it’s good. But yes, perhaps we can guilt them into joining next time.”
“Guilt them!” Isabeau laughed.
“Guilt them!” Bonnie seethed with a vengeance.
“Guilt them!” Pétronille whooped, slamming one fist down so hard on the table that the entire thing shook, Odile’s wine threatening to spill.
“Guilt them!” Mirabelle agreed, even if she wasn’t planning on doing any guilting any time soon.
“So it’s a plan, then?” Pétronille confirmed eagerly. “We leave right after dinner, enjoy some old fashioned violence?”
“Yes,” Odile grinned. “Right after dinner.”
“Are you sure you want to come?” Isabeau asked Mirabelle as his smile dimmed with concern. “I know this isn’t really your thing.”
“I said I would,” Mirabelle said firmly, “so I will. I can still have fun! Even if I don’t approve of the activity! Because it’s with all of you!”
“That’s the spirit, Belle!” Pétronille cheered.
“Yay!” Bonnie grinned. “Are we sure Frin won’t be lonely when they get back?”
“I’m sure!” Isabeau said. “It might take him a while to get back, anyway. We can leave a note for him!”
“I’ll leave a note for him.” Odile bravely volunteered. “Stars know you’ll all just repeat ‘we didn’t try to abandon you’ over and over and not actually offer the poor one any location or our estimated return time.”
That unfortunately sounded like them, yes. With maybe a few more ‘we miss you and we can’t wait until we’re home with you!’s and ‘we love you so so so so so so much’es.
Mirabelle didn’t say as much. She didn’t want to prove Madame's point, after all!
“Okay, now that we’ve got that settled,” Pétronille groaned, “eat, eat! We have to get there early if we want good seats!”
They ate.
Mirabelle was sure it would be fun! She just wished Siffrin could be there too! Next time, then!
((o))
Mirabelle knew there was a pretty large number of people who enjoyed this type of activity, and yet she still found herself caught off guard at the sheer amount of people packed into the theatre-in-the-round.
She was pretty certain there were even people standing behind the rows of designated seating just so they could still be present. It made her feel bad for taking a chair, but then again, if they were really that desperate to see a fight, then maybe they deserved to stay standing!
She didn’t say any of that to anyone. They’d joke that they had corrupted her to the dark side, and she wasn’t going to give them that victory!
Pétronille disappeared for a bit, and then returned with some sweet and salty snacks and a variety of beverages for them all to enjoy during the matches.
“You know a lot about Fight Club. Isn’t there a rule about not talking about it?” Odile inquired.
“I’ve never heard of that rule,” Pétronille scoffed. “That sounds stupid. Who doesn’t want to talk about Fight Club? It’s great, it should be shared!”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that rule, too.” Isabeau nodded. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, even if it’s fake. You’ve said you used to do this for money, didn’t you?”
“I guess,” Pétronille sniffed with a wave of her hand.
“Fight Club’s cool,” Bonnie grumbled. “So it’s fun to talk about. It shouldn’t be a secret! Why would anyone wanna hide it!”
“Sibling after my own heart,” Pétronille said, high-fiving Bonnie proudly. “But seriously, that’s such a crabbing dumb rule. Why would anyone do that? Fight clubs are awesome! You want people to be able to watch it, don’t you?”
“We’re pretty thrilled about it, yes!” Isabeau admitted, nudging Odile’s crossed arms until she relaxed a little bit. “If you actually kept it a secret, we’d never have heard about today’s competition!”
“Very true,” Odile agreed. “How do they even choose fighters? This does not seem like a typical ring.”
“Oh?” Isabeau grinned at her. “Have you been to Fight Club before, M’dame?”
“Not Fight Clubs, but I have observed a couple professional sparring tourneys.” Odile smiled. “And now I get to ask the four of you about it. How do they choose people in order to spar?”
“Well!” Pétronille began. “There’s loads of different ways! The type I was a part of specifically hired people! And then everything was scripted from there based on fan favourites! Depending on revenue and what will make the ring the wealthiest or bring in more customers later!”
“What kind is this?” Odile pressed.
“Anyone can sign up.” Pétronille explained. “There were sign-up sheets going on yesterday! I was going to go back today to sign up, but all thirty-two slots ended up being filled by the time I got there, so, boo!”
“Boo!” Bonnie cried. “You should see Nille fight! She’s real good at it!”
“Better than me?” Isabeau inquired, grinning down at them.
“Duh! Nille’s the best.”
“Did you see who would be competing?” Odile asked curiously.
“Naw,” Pétronille shrugged. “I wanted it to be a surprise! What if someone from my old troupe found their way over here? I don’t want to already know who to root for!”
“Fair enough!” Isabeau said.
Before the conversation could continue or trickle off to comfortable awkwardness, the Crafted torches dimmed around the chairs, and the ones in close proximity to the stage lit up.
All four other members perked up, leaning forward excitedly as they strained to see the match. Mirabelle bit the inside of her lip, but watched anyway as the first two contestants came onstage.
They didn’t have the best seats, but that didn’t stop them from being able to see every centimeter of the fight as they finally collided into an all-out brawl.
A fist ground against some guy’s cheek.
A Craft attack made the other slip.
Mirabelle winced at the display, shrinking back into her chair. She really wished she had stayed home. This really wasn’t her cup of tea.
Halfway through the third round, Pétronille pointed at one of the fighters.
“I think Javier is going to win,” Pétronille determined, and Isabeau turned to stare at her with a ferocity that caught Mirabelle off guard. “I mean, the way he’s using his Craft is next level.”
“You mean overall, or just for the fight?” Isabeau asked while Odile pulled out a small notebook with a growing smirk. “I’m not willing to bet on overall until we see all the fighters who get past the first round.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, for sure.” Pétronille agreed wholeheartedly. “I meant for the fight. What? You taking Pietro?”
“Sure! Using strategy with Craft is great and all, but nothing beats power!” Isabeau said proudly.
“That’s all fine and good,” Odile teased, noting down their bets in her journal, “except last time we placed a bet about something similar, you said the opposite.”
“I’m allowed to Change my mind!” Isabeau laughed, waving his hand. “Besides, I was wrong last time. Love to be right this time!”
“Uh huh,” Odile said, scribbling something else into her notebook. “Good to know.”
Mirabelle longed to know what secrets it held. As far as she knew, Odile was just the bookkeeper, keeping tabs on their bets. Anything after that was just revenge.
“Oh!” Pétronille called. “Javier just landed a good hit!”
“Pietro is still going at it!” Isabeau argued immediately, cupping his hands to his mouth to start screaming encouragement at his chosen fighter.
Mirabelle stuck her fingers into her ears and pouted at him, moderately offended over the volume. There was no point to it. It was all dramatized and over the top, they wouldn’t really be that much better at fighting hearing their names being shouted, would they?
Mirabelle never did better at anything hearing people yell for her, their ‘saviour’, over and over again. The cheers were overstimulating, almost discouraging instead of anything else. It made her uncomfortable.
The cheers reigned on, and Mirabelle wondered how they could bear to listen to any of that. She sunk into herself more and more, feeling the twisting dread abate slowly the less she could see the stage.
She didn’t think she would ever agree to come to any function like this ever again.
She snuck a few peeks at Bonnie every once in a while. At least it looked like Pétronille had been right. Bonnie seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly. They weren’t betting like Isabeau and Pétronille were, cheering for whoever they thought looked cooler.
After a while, Isabeau moved, setting his hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly. Mirabelle looked up at him, frowning. She had just started to get comfortable and lax.
“Hey,” Isabeau said, jovially pointing down at the stage, “That fighter has a similar cloak to Sif’s!”
Mirabelle blinked, following his finger down. “For a brief moment, she thought that maybe, maybe, this was someone else from the country! Someone like Siffrin, in this town! How lucky they were!
And then she saw the familiar lightless tips of their hair, and the half of their face shrouded in darkness was, in fact, just an eyepatch.
“That is Siffrin!” She gasped.
“Oh!” Isabeau blinked. “You’re right! What are they doing here?”
“Hey!” Pétronille grinned. “That means they had the same idea we did! Fight Club rains supreme, I take no criticism.”
“How irresponsible of them,” Odile chuckled, not sounding as bothered as she definitely should be. “Honestly, such a tragedy.”
“It is!” Mirabelle cried, because how could they just shrug it off?! “They could get hurt, and if Pétronille hadn’t brought us here, we never would have known!”
“So what you’re saying is. . . it’s a good thing we came?” Pétronille wiggled her eyebrows as she puffed herself up.
“Yes! Yes, it's very good. . .” Mirabelle trailed off, watching Siffrin’s fist connect with their opponent’s chin. They stumbled back a few steps, and then lost balance and consciousness, toppling over like a poorly constructed tower.”
“Woah!” Bonnie cheered.
“That person was double their size!” Isabeau gasped, and for the umpteenth time, Mirabelle wondered how she had never heard the adoration in his voice.
“They’ll be just fine,” Odile reassured with a small laugh. “That was quite impressive.”
“Crab yeah!” Pétronille cheered, throwing both fists in the air like it had been her victory. “That’s what Fight Club is all about!”
“YAAAAH!” Bonnie screamed, standing up and gripping the back of the chair in front of them as they leaned as far forward as they possibly could. “GO FRIN!!!!”
On stage, Siffrin flinched, reeling around, wide eye seeking them out. Mirabelle could tell the exact second he found them by how still he got, mouth opening a little ways in shock.
Bonnie could tell the moment Siffrin saw them, too, because they stood as high as they could and waved one hand into the air.
Mirabelle could see the small lift of his fingers, peeking out from under the cloak, as he waved back.
With a turn, his cloak fluttered as he left the stage, keeping his head bowed as he retreated away from them.
Mirabelle sighed, burrowing her face into her hands. “Oh, Siffrin, why wouldn’t you tell us?”
“That’s the last round, isn’t it?” Isabeau prompted, delighted. “I vote for Sif! He’s totally going to win this competition!”
“Just as long as his Craft Exhaustion doesn’t come back,” Odile agreed, “I think you’re right. And since he’s apparently using brute force as a method of combat, he should be fine.”
“Nope,” Pétronille decided loudly. “He’s going down! He hasn’t fought since the King, right?”
Not entirely true, but he hadn’t properly fought since that day.
And maybe they were a little out of practice, but. . . Mirabelle didn’t think they were going to lose, either. It was Siffrin. The same person who took the House of Dormont by storm and almost defeated the King by themself.
He’d be fine. Mirabelle knew he would be.
They watched as the torment wore on and on. As the competitors dwindled from the sixteen the first round ended with to eight, to four.
Siffrin finished each one, advancing to the next round. He looked in their direction after every victory, but from the distance Mirabelle couldn’t tell if their eye was actually landing on them, but she knew what kind of person Siffrin was, always searching for their approval–
Mirabelle breathed in and out as the semi-finals began.
“Siffrin’s got this,” Isabeau said reassuringly.
“I know he does.” Mirabelle responded immediately. She just didn’t want him to get hurt. He was enjoying this, right? There was no reason he would be here. But then why wouldn’t he tell them? Why wouldn’t he say anything?
She watched a rock Craft collide with his stomach, and he went skidding back, arms bracing up. He launched back a paper Craft, but she saw him continue to hold his side.
She was halfway out of her seat before Odile grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.
“Siffrin’s fine,” Odile promised her. “And, no, before you say anything, I don’t like seeing him get hurt any more than you. But that’s the point of this, isn’t it? He’s fine.”
Mirabelle shivered, but Odile was right. She sat back down.
She watched as the round concluded and Siffrin moved off the stage, this time not looking towards any of them at all. She felt her stomach curdle, but didn’t move from her spot.
Siffrin. . . would be fine.
She trusted in that.
((o))
Nobody was surprised when Siffrin won the final match.
Pétronille grumbled, but her eyes glimmered in delight as she handed over the money.
Bonnie yawned as they rubbed at their eyes, and the party softened.
“Aw, Bon,” Pétronille cooed. “Guess it’s time to head off to bed, huh?”
“Nooo,” Bonnie whined, kicking their feet. “I wanna tell Frin good job!”
Isabeau looked down where people were flocking the stage, and shook his head. “I don’t think so, buddy. It’s going to be a while. You can tell them tomorrow, okay?”
“Fine,” Bonnie grumbled, tiredly getting up.
“I need to go to bed, too.” Odile agreed. “Getting a little late for me. We’ll all congratulate Siffrin in the morning, Boniface.”
“I think I might stay here,” Mirabelle confessed. “You can all go home! I just. . . I don't think I’ll be able to sleep until I’m sure he’s alright.”
“Of course,” Odile said, inclining her head.
“Please be nice to him?” Isabeau begged.
Mirabelle blinked at him, caught off guard and just a little surprised. “Of course I will be! I– I love Siffrin, Isabeau! I won’t be mad at him. Just worried! Very gently worried!”
Isabeau nodded slowly, finding a smile for her. “Okay. See you a little later?”
“Yes!” Mirabelle nodded. “A little later, yes!”
Everyone waved goodbye, and she smiled at them as the groups of people slowly left, little by little.
She turned back to wait for Siffrin to get done talking to the show runners and adoring fans.
Mirabelle was still, weirdly, proud of Siffrin. He wasn’t straying from the stage, even though she knew he knew she was waiting around. Normally, if they caught him doing something he thought they would get angry about, it would mean he would duck away and cower, trying to hide from them like that would make them forget next time they saw him.
He was dealing with his emotions in a more healthy way, and she was so proud of him!
She took her time approaching anyway.
The people, the fans, talked to Siffrin for a whole half an hour, excitedly chatting his ear off, gesturing with enthusiasm, asking him questions.
Siffrin answered them all graciously.
Mirabelle finally approached as the last few people left, and Siffrin greeted her with a smile. “Mira! Hi!”
“Hi, Siffrin.” Mirabelle said, reaching up to set her hand on the edge of the stage as she smiled up at him. “How are you, um, feeling? You took a couple good hits.”
“I’m fine.” Siffrin smiled. “Nothing some healing Craft couldn’t take care of. They’ve got some healers on call in the back. Not that I needed them! I took care of myself.”
“Okay,” Mirabelle said softly. “I’m glad! I’m happy you’re okay.”
Siffrin nodded at her, softening the longer he looked at her, shoulders relaxing.
“But, um. Why?” Mirabelle asked worriedly. “You didn’t tell any of us you were here, and we didn’t say we were coming, either, I don’t– You’ve never talked about doing anything like this before!”
“I haven’t.” Siffrin agreed.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mirabelle asked sorrowfully.
“I wanted it to be a surprise?” They hesitantly offered, giving a half shrug.
“A surprise? Why?” Mirabelle frowned. “What’s the point? Why join the competition?”
“For the glory, of course!” Siffrin told her, excitedly. At her unimpressed expression, his own dropped immediately. He looked properly abashed and guilty, looking shamefully to the side. “Andmaybeforthemoney.”
“Money?!” Mirabelle gaped. “What could you possibly need money for?!”
“It’s not for me!” Siffrin explained, urgent. He swung his legs over the side of the stage and scooted off, landing on his feet next to her. “It’s for us! The party!”
“Us?” Mirabelle blinked. “Why?”
“Because! If we’re going to be with each other for a long, long time, we’re going to need money!” Siffrin explained. ““I thought I'd just finally pull my weight!”
“Pull your weight–?!” Mirabelle shook her head. “You don’t have to do that! Isabeau saved up so much from his job as a Defender, and as long as I tell Houses of Change I’m on a pilgrimage, they’ll donate money and supplies! And Odile has money from– I don’t know! You don’t need to do anything. We have enough!”
“But I don’t want to just. . . leave it all up to you all.” Siffrin admitted with a frown. “It doesn’t matter if you need it or not, I just wanted to help.”
“You’re the reason we’re all staying together!” Mirabelle smiled at him. “If you didn’t. . . I don’t think any of us would’ve gotten the courage. Isn’t that enough?”
Siffrin shook his head. “No, because I– I shouldn’t earn that by being awful to you! I know you say that doesn’t matter, but. . . I don’t know, let me have this! I like getting some extra coin for us!” He enthused. “I like doing the random little odd jobs!”
“Fight club isn’t a job!” Mirabelle admonished, throwing up her hands.
“It’s entertainment!” Siffrin snapped right back. “That is so a job! Playwright, director, sponsor, actor, those are all jobs! This! Is a job!”
“Hurting people is a job?!”
“They also signed up for it! They can hurt me too!” Siffrin cried. “It’s all part of the paycheck! We use Skills and Crafts on each other so people can have fun! It– It might not be your type of fun, but for some people, it is!”
Mirabelle took a harsh, sucky breath in, and let it out, all at once. “Okay. Okay! Fine, I’m just. . . I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Siffrin smiled at her. “Mira. I’m the most powerful Craft User who’s not frozen in time in a House’s basement. And I might be even stronger than him, but we’ll never know for sure because he cheated.”
“I don’t know,” she snickered, getting momentarily lost in the familiar argument. “He was using a skill Madame Odile has, and we wouldn’t call it cheating if she did it.”
“Yeah, because she's scary, but the King’s a giant pushover!” Siffrin cried, but he was grinning too, smile stretched ear-to-ear. “That’s a pretty big difference!”
Mirabelle laughed a little, letting the joy of the moment roll over everything until it settled back into amenable silence.
And then she looked back at Siffrin. They still looked quite proud of themself, watching her with gentle eyes. She couldn’t believe she ever thought they were uncaring when they looked at her like that.
“Siffrin. . .” Mirabelle said quietly.
They blinked at her.
“I. . . I get that. . . Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean everyone else has to feel the same way. But is. . .” She swallowed. “Is getting hurt? Fun? For you?”
Siffrin’s smile disappeared under a sea of guilt.
He ducked his face into his collar, like that could possibly hide it from her. She had gotten to know him well over the last two months. Better than she thought she could ever know anyone, save maybe Isabeau.
Her heart felt impossibly tight as she looked at him. “Oh.” She said quietly.
Siffrin sunk deeper into themself. “I know how to heal myself,” they said nervously, like that could sway Mirabelle’s worry. “So it’s not like it lasts. I’m being safe!”
“Please,” Mirabelle said, reaching out to hold his hands, fishing them out from underneath his cloak. “I love you, and I don’t want you to be hurt. Especially if you don’t even. . . Find it fun. Okay? Okay? I understand, okay, being stir crazy, needing something to do!”
“Of course you do,” Siffrin said softly, eye peeking up at her from his collar.
“If you want to work, work. But tell us if you’re doing something dangerous?” Mirabelle begged. “And. . . don’t do something dangerous if. . . just don’t, okay?”
“Okay,” Siffrin said. He shuffled for a bit, and then offered a tiny smile. “Don’t you want to know how much I earned?”
“Tomorrow, okay?” Mirabelle said gently. She squeezed her hands. “When everyone else can hear.”
They squeezed her hands back.
. . . they had grown so much. She trusted them, through and through.