A soft and silent white blanketed the buildings and roads of Kipenzenia, uniting the old Verwaltung’s Palace and the new Jugendstil apartments alike under an intimate serenity. On an ordinary day, this would have been beautiful enough. Knickers found every day in the city fascinating. Once a nexus of the Red Death, Kipenzenia had already returned to being the heart of imperial aesthetics.
Today epitomized that. Snowflakes sparkled through a bright blue sky; as the diamond dust danced bashfully away from clouds unseen, they passed beneath the sun’s gaze and blushed rainbows in the passing.
It was the second most beautiful thing that Cadet Nicodemus Rose had ever gotten to appreciate in his life; he also appreciated that he got to appreciate it from the inside of a large picture window.
The reality of snow was a touch messier than the appearance of it.
His preference for skin-baring outfits was meteorologically unideal in local clime.
Also not ideal to do fine stitching with cold fingers.
Knickers adjusted his grease apron – had to keep his skirt clean – and squinted down at the contraption on the wooden table before him. Spread out across a canvas cloth lay a mess of unpainted bronze feathers, valves, cloth tubes, and every other type of machinery possible, along with stacks and stacks of cyanotype paper piled on the edge.
“Knicks, what are you doing?” The voice belonged to a half-dressed, surprisingly lanky man descending the stairs. His most striking features were the lavender eyes and closely-shorn hair – they went well with his dark skin tone. “I haven’t even eaten yet.”
Knickers swiveled about on his stool to look back at the other man, a goldguldin grin on his painted lips – an expression which flitted between guilt and shamelessness in equal measure.
“I know, Forti,” he admitted in a singsong voice, “But I left the flapjacks and eggs covered on the stove so you just have to grab a plate and...”
“And sit where,” Fortinbras asked, his deadpan expression belied by the laugh already bubbling up in his voice. “You’ve got gears and grease all over the kitchen table.”
Knickers found himself giggling too, even as he turned back to pick up a piece of fabric tubing. He needed time to decelerate and affect nonchalance. “Hey, I cooked for you, you just have to figure out a place to sit. From where I’m sitting, that’s a bargain.”
Forti descended the rest of the stairs, struggling to get his arms through his blue blouse. “You’re sitting at the only table in our flat.”
“That’s a matter of perspective,” Knickers said, sticking his nose up in the air and giving a little sniff. The grin never stopped dimpling his cheeks. Compared to Marcher witches, Imperial witches usually traded out “being prickly” for “being stuffy”; probably helped that they weren’t all required to talk to ghosts. Fortinbras was a scholarship hexenritter, and he didn’t seem any different from any foundling back home.
Other than being much too handsome, anyway.
“My perspective,” Fortinbras said, stepping by Knickers to peck his cheek – only to surprise him with a goose to his rear that elicited a sharp squeal, “Is the one not seated at the only table in our flat. And don’t tell me I’m supposed to put my flapjacks on the table next to your blueprints. You’d get upset I left egg bits on it.”
Knickers made an exaggerated gasp, hoping to mask the real one he almost made. He never quite enjoyed it when someone else predicted what he would do – he much preferred the other way around – but he at least had fun pretending that he did. “Well, maybe you should eat a little neater.”
The taller boy just rolled his eyes and headed towards the pot-bellied stove in the corner, grabbing a plate as he did so. “So what are you working on this time, Masois Rose?”
An invitation to talk about the thing he liked! Knickers waggled his brows and rubbed his hands gleefully. “Well, Masois Fallows, you know that Soror wingpack you helped me buy last Lacriday?”
Fortinbras stopped what he was doing immediately and glanced back at Knickers, then at the table, then back at Knickers. “Oh, Knicks, don’t tell me you disassembled it.”
“I disassemble all the wingpacks I find!”
Fortinbras stared across the room, and Knickers made the mistake of following the gaze. Shelves full of wingpacks – assembled and dismantled, big and small, with a variety of shapes and frames for their mechanical feathers. None were half so beautiful as the remains scattered across the kitchen table.
“...Yeah, that’s true,” he said with a sigh. “But c’mon! I spent half my monthly stipend on it!”
Knickers batted his lashes. “And I love you for it.”
Forti raised his hands (and plate) in surrender and returned to attending the stove, busying himself with breakfast. Knickers likewise put his focus on the fabric tube – he’d need to redo all this stitching a lot tighter.
“I thought you said this was way better than the ones you had.” Forti spoke up again. He’d taken the chair opposite Knickers, holding his plate with one hand and working a fork with the other.
That was true, the ginger had to concede. As he composed his thoughts, he took the chance to pull at a loosened seam, slowly edging the thin thread out in a loop. “Well, on aggregate yes. Every component individually, no.”
“What?” Forti asked, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk with half-eaten food.
“Swallow,” Knicks said, a half-laugh. He knew what was coming next.
“That’s my line.” But the witch did as asked.
“So it is.” Knickers giggled. “Okay, by the end of the plague, there were two competing theories in the Marches for courier wingpack designs: bespoke and magical like the Sorors, or mass-produced kits from places like B & C and Quality Mechanical. The top-shelf Soror designs are pricey in part because they guard their craft secrets, which means each chapter has different–”
“Knicks.” Fortinbras gave him an ‘I love you but’ look.
Fiiiiiine. Knickers rolled his eyes and pouted. Feigned a pout, anyway, while his fingers nipped at a snag in the thread. It was all a part of the dance. Mostly. It gave him time to think, it was better than just leaving dead air while he tapered down his thoughts to size. He used to upset people when he went quiet to think. “They’re good at different things, and the chapter that created this pack was not good at tubing.”
Fortinbras shoveled a whole egg yolk in his mouth, barely chewing before wolfing it down. “Why not just steal the hoses from another one?”
“Different lengths,” Knickers answered. “I can use my other packs as inspiration, but probably better if I do it by hand, to a much finer tolerance. Less lumite evaporation.”
“Honest question, Knicks,” Fortinbras started.
Oh, here they went again. The cadet tried not to make a face, just raised a brow as neutral and inquisitive as he could manage. Maybe he was wrong. “Mmh?”
“If you’re so interested in flying, why not transfer out of artillery?”
“I’m too old and feeble to become a witch, and I wouldn’t wear purple hair as well as you anyway.” Knickers offered quickly, with a wink. Just an air filler. As Forti started to respond, Knickers cut back in. “I know, I know, don’t have to be a witch to ride a gryphon.”
“So why?” Forti asked again.
Knickers gave a soft puff of air out his nose. There were a lot of reasons.
He didn’t really care for gryphons; he’d be a poor caretaker.
Post-plague imperial tariffs were getting intense.
He liked to do things with his hands.
He didn’t want to be in the army longer than required by the War College.
A mundane gryphonwythe would always be inferior to a hexenritter.
The problem was that Forti didn’t like any of those reasons. He’d insist that Knickers did like animals, even though Knicks didn’t know how to have a conversation with one. He’d insist that Knickers worried too much, he’d flirt that there were other things to do with his hands, and he’d say Knickers should probably be less focused about being the best at things.
And there were points to all of those, and Knickers didn’t want to spend such a lovely day arguing.
“Knicks?” Forti asked, uncomfortable in the sudden silence.
The redhead just shrugged his shoulders and gave a winning smile, a wiggle of his eyebrows. “You’re courting a boy who prefers to call himself Knickers and you’re wondering why I make decisions that don’t make sense?”
Fortinbras broke into laughter, and then leaned into a kiss – the fragrance of maple and pork on his breath beneath the musky scent of a man. Lips locked over the table, and for a moment, all that Nicodemus Rose could feel was the flutter of his heart and the warm embrace of sunlight.
The boys plucked at each other’s lips with their own and brushed noses against one another, then pulled apart. Long after the kiss was broken, their eyes embraced – emerald and lavender.
Knickers did worry too much.
The forever moment passed all too swiftly; a whump suddenly hit the door outside. That’d be the day’s morning edition of the gazette. Fortinbras started to get up, but the plate – still held in one hand! – remained mostly full. Knickers’ fault for taking up so much table space.
The cadet jumped to his feet and shook his head ‘no’ emphatically.
“I’ll get it, hon. Eat your food before it gets cold.”
“But Knicks–” Forti started, gesturing at the mess of machinery and materiel
Of course, Knickers had an ulterior motive; he wanted to get to this week’s chapter of the Chronicles of Madame Anaïs Dassault first. But he didn’t say that. He just skipped over to the door, where the latest, twine-tied copy of Das Kipenzenische Morgenblatt was rolled up on the doormat. Excellent.
As he picked up the gazette, the black-letter frontpage headline caught his eye.
MASSAKER IN GLORINTON!
One argument and they were through, one red and one blue.
Fermata.