Lesser, Greater, Middling

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"She drove him mad, entirely mad, and there was nothing he could do about it but feel himself fall for it, time and time again."
 
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Lorenzo de Medici Art School, 1996.

Ches stood with her arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg, and a confused look on her face. The young woman stood off center to the common grounds--watching as a group of freshman like herself crowded around a display of paintings. The bulk of them focused in particular on a portrait of an Indian woman, dressed in gold, with no one to keep her company but the birds. The headphones on Chesca's ears were enough to drown out all the buzz, the Fugees removing any chance of her hearing what all the excitement was about.

Not that she really cared to know in the first place... the painting wasn't that groundbreaking. She could admit that even from the distance she stood it was obvious that the artist was mechanically talented, but beyond that... it gave her nothing. No feeling, no narrative. Just prettiness.

And maybe that was close minded of her, she knew that as well. She knew a great deal of things.

But once Chesca was sure of how she felt... it wasn't going to change anytime soon. Regardless, the sound of her headphones bugging out was enough to snap her out of her judgement. Cursing softly, she slid them down to the nape of her neck and began to carelessly fumble with her worn music player.

Crowds of young people, all of them. The crowd of students was massive; it always was during orientation. Or, at least, it was last semester, which had been his first experience with the convergence of new students. His heart took a slump. Glancing about, he wanted to return to his quiet dwelling, where it was dark and composed. This, this junction of bodies was nothing but a clusterfuck of confusion, and clusterfuck was the only proper word to describe the scene, indeed.

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers, professor Reiter did his best to appeal to the young student body. His lips curled in what should have been called a smile, though it was not convincing nor warm enough to inspire true greeting. Still, students wandered up to him without hesitation, introducing themselves and lavishing him in praise and admiration. He’d introduce himself in return, thank them, and amble on. As he moved, there was something a little bohemian about him, from the way he moved to his slightly long, silver hair and coarse beard. He looked for all the world like he was walking to his own beat, literally, like there was music playing in his head.

His furrowed brow shaded pensive eyes, that one would look for in a businessman or a soldier rather than in an artist or a dreamer, yet an artist, Professor Wolfgang Reiter, was.

It wasn’t a habit of his to walk around his own exhibit, but as the Commons was nothing more than a giant circle, he found himself before his own collection of work about fifteen minutes after he first set out. As before, a small crowd passed by, pausing to glance before shuffling on. Only one stood still before one of his pieces, looking more interested in her Walkman than the art.

Amused, he stepped besides her and stood, looking across at the painting… his painting.

“How do you feel about this piece?” he asked without a glance her direction.

"It's boring and without substance." Franchesca answered almost immediately, her tone as unapologetic as the phrasing was blunt. She had said it without even looking up from her device. A moment passed before the young woman finally turned to see who she was addressing. Ches paused, not like she was entirely caught off guard, but there was an air about the older man before her... something that she couldn't quite easily put to words. It made him interesting and untrustworthy alike.

Ches cleared her throat and with a shrug, she continued. "It's an okay painting but I don't get the fuss."

She gave him all the reasons to be bitter, but his smirk turned a bit more honest. Somehow, her commentary rolled right off him instead of sinking in and twisting the way he thought of his own work. His eyes never turned away from the painting, studying every stroke and line brush that was both so intimately familiar, yet so foreign, all the same.

"Interesting observation," he commented with his hands still in his pockets. It was only then that he sighed and glanced her direction, meeting her gaze, though noting her hands were still on that damned device. "In a rotten world such as this, honesty becomes deeply engraved in the memory, and I thank you for yours."

"All these years later and honesty still proves to be the best policy." She mumbled to him, something akin to a sideways grin on her lips. All the while Ches was trying to read him. She was usually quite adept at reading people and however difficult it might be to change her mind later... she had quite the impressive track record until this point.

He paused a moment, troubled by the pause in her expression when she looked at him earlier. "Do you know this painter?"​
 
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Franchesca always looked a little intense when she was focused on listening. Her eyes seemed to bore right through him, as with a nod, she accepted the compliment.

"All these years later and honesty still proves to be the best policy." She mumbled to him, something akin to a sideways grin on her lips.

All the while Ches was trying to read him. She was usually quite adept at forming preconceived notions of people and though it usually proved to be difficult for her to change them later on... she had quite the impressive track record.

His question brought her eyes back to the painting and after a moment of thought she frowned. Simultaneously, a dozen dots connected... all but one.

"I have a theory, actually." She began, turning back to the stranger with the tilt of her head. "There's a professor teaching here, who used to be quite the hotshot back in the eighties. Wolfgang Reiter."

"He's an old favorite of mine..." Ches paused and gestured back towards the painting in the center of commons. "...Even if he's been on a decline recently, if you ask me."

"On the decline, you say?" he mused in a tender tone, glancing back to the painting before him. "Well, you are correct, at least about one thing. The painter is, indeed, Wolfgang Reiter. I suppose it is quite believable for a renowned painter turned professor to be seen as on the decline, certainly. Perhaps he is on the decline."

Clearing his throat, he turned away from the painting and to her, more formally. "And what of you? A new student here? I've yet to have the pleasure, and this campus is quite small. Everyone knows a bit of everyone. Very much a small town in that way," he explained. His accent was thick, but the type that was a pleasure to listen to. Not monotonous, but speech patterns and the rhythm of delivery that was inherently musical in nature.

"I get that impression." Francesca mused lightly, grinning again as she took a moment to glance at the small groups congregating elsewhere on the commons. A few had turned to look at them from over the shoulder but Ches didn't pay it much mind.

"It's been quite the change of pace from Seattle. I'm used to a lot more white noise." She turned back to him, giving the eloquent older gentleman her full attention. She extended a hand, the sideways smile of hers evening out. "Franchesca Rossi."

"And you are?"

"Ah, Seattle. I've only ever been to New York, myself," he admitted. Though he had been extended the offer to go many times, to many different cities, he always declined, except for on the rarest of occasions. Only then, he went to New York and he hadn't fond memories of the country.

"Franchesca Rossi. A good Italian name, indeed," he remarked, taking her hand and giving it a single firm shake. "I am Professor Wolfgang Reiter. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm more American if anything--" She had began but his introduction, of course, caught her off guard. "Wait, what?"

Her hand let go of his and came up to shield her mouth as she laughed. It was a defense mechanism really, laughing the face of absolute embarrassment. After the laughter died down, she stood a little straighter--her eyes wide with a rapidly fading disbelief.

"You're kidding right?" She asked, repeating herself with a little more dread seconds later. "Right?"

"Do I look like a man of many jests?" he asked. In truth, he did not. His face was serious and his surprisingly youthful appearance came from a marked lack of wrinkles-- particularly laugh lines. He did, however, put on a small suggestion of a smile. Though whether it was a smile or a smirk was hard to decipher.

"There is never a second opportunity to make a first impression, however, and not all professors are as kind to criticism as I am. I would not tell most others that they are on a decline."

Franchesca felt a multitude of things in that moment. Shame, awe, anger. That's right. Most of all, she felt furious. Ches was angry at Wolfgang that he had waited so long to introduce himself, and angry at herself for openly admitting what she had admitted to him.

"Point taken, professor." There was a sharpness in her words despite the healthy amount of red that had taken to her cheeks. She shook her head. She wasn't about to start kissing up now.

"I can't make any promises though." She told him, chin high despite her mortification. "I've never really been the person you could call kind."

Ah, the delightful folly of youth, Wolfgang thought inwardly to himself, while ensuring his facial expression did not shift from anything other than stern stoicism. On the whole, the situation very much amused him. Or, amused him as far as a man like him could be amused. He recalled with some fondness youthful vigor and anger he once possessed himself: the anger for others when he himself had made a mistake. Alas, anger ceased to inflict him some many years ago.

He was too tired, too detached to be angry at anyone, especially someone who simply didn't favour his paintings.

The sharpness in her tone was noted with a droll nod of his head. "Clearly," he remarked idly. "Perhaps, then, that is why you fail to feel anything in this painting. There was a time that I looked for anger and depression in every painting I looked at, because I believed that is what a painting must be: a visual representation of a person's own misery, for I, myself, was miserable. There is no anger or misery in this painting, for I am not an angry, nor miserable, man."

Wolfgang tilted his chin back, looking down at the Indian girl in the painting through slits of his eyes, narrowing his focus once more. "Or it is merely an emotionless painting. Hard to say, really." He sighed, sliding his hands from his pockets so he could clasp them behind his back. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Rossi. I am certain we shall be seeing each other around."​
 
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She was the one who did the reading, not the other way around. This... this was not okay. Her face betrayed such thoughts as it had managed to become redder over the course of his farewell. Franchesca Rossi has always been an emotional being and masking it clearly was far from her forte.

Her embarrassment and anger were amplified by the fact that all of it was a product of man who she had idolized. A man who was among the list of names that had inspired her to forgo a steady, structured lifestyle in favor of one that relentlessly and passionately pursued art. A man who made it quite apparent, no longer looked at life with such vigor.

He may have been handsomer than she had imagined, sure--but as far as Franchesca was concerned she was disappointed.

"Three times a week, for two hours if you want to be specific." She replied with perhaps a little too much sass. The only thing that could've made it more apparent she was giving lip was an eye roll. She considered for a moment if by being angry she was playing into his expectations of her... but cast the thought as quickly as it came. This was who Ches believed herself to be, a woman as unapologetic as she was passionate. No old childhood idol would change that.

"You know you've done better." The young woman pushed, taking one last glance at the painting in the commons before turning back to him for the final time that day. Smiling her lopsided smile, she offered a farewell. "I'll have that freshman portfolio they mention in the starter packet on your desk tomorrow afternoon. Goodbye."

At that Franchesca spun on the heel of her boots and walked away, paying no more attention to the older man she left behind or the whispering crowds all around the grounds.​
 
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“Ah, yes, the intro to oils class, then?” he mentioned. Intro to oils was the only class he had three times a week. His more advanced students, namely those who were juniors and seniors, had other classes, though those only met once or twice a week. He hummed thoughtfully on the subject matter, twiddling his fingers gently as he held them clasped behind his back. His eyes, a shade of hickory as rich as the earth’s soil, stared at the painting. His painting, like he was meditating over each stroke on the canvas.

The woman’s comment caused his brows to raise ever-so slightly, though not arch up his forehead. Instead, his facial expression seemed to slackened, and he nodded. “Yes, indeed I have done better,” he agreed readily, putting up no defensive argument to the contrary as the woman turned briskly on her heel. She began to march away with a prideful arrogance that was so thick he could practically see it hovering around her like a fog. The mention of her portfolio caused the corner of his lip to twitch.

He’d nearly forgotten.

Come the next week, his desk—pristine and organized chaos—would turn into true chaos as students threw their work all across it. Portfolios ranging from brilliant to dreadful would plague him until the semester’s end. This was a matter truly worth frowning. He turned away from the painting and continue his saunter. Never once had he put together a portfolio. He was not classically trained, in fact, the only art lessons he’d ever bore witness to were those he taught. His interest in painting, and his talent and skills, were developed over many years sitting in his parent’s attic.

To him, there had never been a right way and a wrong way to paint, just the way he enjoyed it most. Unfortunately, he’d learned there was a wrong way from one Professor Poppins—and he did everything wrong in her eyes. It seemed he had inherited a second Professor Poppins, though this one was a freshman girl named Franchesca

While Franchesca might have been paying no more attention to Wolfgang, a second pair of brown eyes found her. The gaze belonged to a sophomore—a lanky fellow with dark skin and crooked smile that bore handsome white and straight teeth.

Antoine sauntered up to her. “Hey,” he said as he came up alongside. “Sorry to bother you mate, I just saw you talking to Prof Reiter. I’m Antoine. I took his class last year. You a freshman?”
 
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Franchesca wanted to go home, to just say fuck it all whatever events orientation still had to offer. But then a man closer to her age came to her side and suddenly she became a lot more aware of how warm her face had been. She looked at him a moment, sizing him up I suppose while giving time for her face to return to its normal tint.

He had kind eyes and a welcoming enough accent.

"That's right I'm one of the new kids. I also just accidentally told the Professor that I think his painting out there on the common sucked." Franchesca explained calmly, laughing softly afterwards despite the embarrassment evident in her eyes. "I didn't know who he was. Said a few things a little too openly, dug a hole for myself... the usual."

She quickly realized that she had been talking way too much and Franchesca cleared her throat. "Sorry, Antoine. I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Franchesca, people usually called me Ches or Chesca back home... whichever rolls of the tongue the easiest I guess."

The young woman turned her head his way and gave him one of her signature lopsided grins. "You don't look nearly frazzled enough to be a freshman like me. Junior? Sophomore?"​
 
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The open comment given to him by the woman caused a burst of laughter to rise from deep within him. Antoine threw his head back, a hand coming up to smack his forehead. “Oh, aye? You said that? To Professor Reiter?” he gasped between throws of laughter. “Well, at least you said it to him and not one of the other Professors. Reiter won’t fail you for it, but someone like Professor Poppins?” His voice dropped to a whisper and he jutted a thumb towards an older lady standing a ways across the commons. “She would fail you for something like that. Heard she was the reason a few kids got expelled, even.”

Professor Poppins, though there was no way she could have heard him from such a distance, turned her razor like eyes in their direction as if she could. She was not overly old, but her body aged passed her years so much so that she wore the wizened features of an old crone. The occasional strand of her once golden hair could still be seen through the lifeless grey mane that limply framed her aging face. Her forehead was wrinkled by many peaks and trenches—caused by years of consistent scowling—which unflatteringly crowned eyes that permanently harbored a disdainful glare, shadowing their beautifully unique shade of blue.

Antoine shivered when their gazes met and he looked away at once. “Nice to meet you, Ches,” he said, pausing once they were out of Professor Poppin’s line of sight and turning to the young woman, giving her a lopsided grin. “Yea, I’m a sophomore this year. I’m headed to the welcome rally right now. Wanna come? I may have a little vodka hidden in a flask,” he said, with a playful wink.

Anyone who knew Antoine would know he wasn’t trying to flirt with Ches anymore than he did with anyone else, but his personality came of distinctly strong to those who didn’t. “They’re pretty fun, and they hand out free food. It’s why I go.”
 
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Antoine seemed alright though he was definitely friendlier than she was used to coming from a big city where everybody was preoccupied keeping themselves afloat in the crowd. For a moment, Franchesca wondered, if somehow inviting her to the rally was him making a pass at her. It was something to consider, though she came to Italy for something a lot more important (in her mind) than romance. But vodka was vodka and Franchesca trusted herself above anyone else.

"I call first sip if and when the flask comes out." She winked, playful even though she was being completely serious in her request. Ches let the Sophomore lead her back towards the rally, which involved walking right back into the line of sight of the professor he had warned her about. Ches was sure that she had name Poppins somewhere on her schedule. unfortunately.

Lorenzo De Medici was a private academy but lacked very little when it came to facilities and such. The welcome rally was taking place in the soccer field, just a short walk from the grassy commons. Ches kept the conversation light but of course she held nothing back. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that Antoine could keep up with her verbally.

The rally grounds were packed with students of all years, an impressive stage set up at the end of the field.

Ches caught herself scanning the crowd. She wasn't sure what she was looking for exactly... Wolfgang Reiter didn't exactly strike her as the type to come to something like a college rally after all. She did end up taking note of a group of girls she saw back when orientation started. They were underclassmen just like her but hardly seemed the sort with how many seniors and juniors they had flocking around them.

Franchesca glanced back at Antoine, the way he had interacted with her to that point was different, and for that she was glad. She liked working alone but a friend was always welcome. She leaned into him with no other intent other than making sure he could hear her over the rumble of the crowd.

"Isn't it a little weird that despite everyone being artists, people somehow someway manage to fall back into the same old cliques?" Franchesca quipped, her gaze making it apparent she was talking about those girls just a few meters away from them. She laughed before gesturing to the happy (and perhaps a tad unruly) crowd around them. "Is it always this loud at these kinds of events?"​
 
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Antoine enjoyed the fresh air. A cool, sea breeze ruffled the deep, tight curls and turned his skin a handsome shade of earthy brown. The sun warmed him and the general hubbub of white noise oozed over the atmosphere in the most pleasant of ways. Everywhere around, the campus felt alive. The rally was little more than a hundred conversations being told in loud voices, in various languages, each one competing to be overheard by the next. Booths lined one side of the field, with various clubs from the school advertising themselves: foodie club, speech team, poetry club… it seemed every interest was addressed in some way or another, and peppy upperclassman tried to entice new freshman to sign up with trinkets and freebies.

Though not a typical American campus, the university hosted a small handful of sorority and fraternity like housing options. Many of the American students took to them in particular, and turned to old rituals like hazing and house parties.

At Ches’s nudge, Antoine followed her gaze towards the gaggle of girls sitting on stairs. They laughed and chewed gum, talking boisterously amongst themselves. They were pretty. Antoine was a hot blooded male and he couldn’t deny the attractiveness of their smooth, glossy locks, skin made flawless with foundation, and slim, fit waists. He nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “Like attracts like, and all that. Those are the girls from one of the sororities. Most of ‘em are upperclassman now. They’re good artists. The one in the middle there won the campus art competition last year. She’s defending her title again this year. I’d be surprised if anyone beats her,” he admitted with a lame shrug.

“Speaking of, you going to enter? The art competition? Winner gets one-thousand euros and their piece featured in an Italian art magazine. It’s a big deal.”

Antoine, as he spoke, slid his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the flask, handing it stealthily out towards Ches when he thought no one else was paying them any mind. “But yea, events like these always get pretty loud. There will definitely be some parties this weekend, I’m sure. This little town really lights up at the start of a new year. It’s much quieter over the summer.”

He slowed his pace as they strolled around the field. “So, what you in for? Painting? Sculpturing? I paint. Mostly water colours, but I’ve been trying oils a little bit of late.”

Just as he waited for an answer, he pointed out to another group of students. “See those folk there? If you want drugs, that’s the place to go.”
 
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Franchesca eyed the girl in the center. She was gorgeous, of course, with her dirty blonde hair slicked back and tied into two uncomfortably tight braids. It was apparent from even this distance that the boys were there primarily for her. It was all so... typical and not at all what she had expected when she first learned that she got accepted to study here. But these were the cards that she was dealt, and while the obvious new girl vs popular girl narrative that was developing was enough to put her off of the idea, Antoine wasn't lying about it being a big deal.

A magazine feature was one hell of a way to jumpstart a career. Her career. Franchesca took one last glance at the girl in the center and then turned back to Antoine. "I might. Depends on what I'm competing with I guess, you know? Art-wise."

Taking a solid swig from the flask Franchesca turned then to watch with great amusement drug pushers of Lorenzo De Medici. They seemed a diverse bunch though rather transparent in how notorious they were considering their intimidating appearances and the shiftiness that just seemed to hang in their presence. They were currently preoccupied by an older student with curly brown hair, he was dressed in a tank top and jeans as he practically threw his fliers in their face.

"Painting. Oils, coincidentally." Franchesca answered Antoine, eyebrow quirked as she watched a scene develop between the older student and the Italian student who seemed to run the pack of wolves. She turned to him a little more casually--interrupted by the sound of a microphone being tested back up on stage.

An older man stood before the sea of college students, wearing a grey suit paired with red accents as he tried to get their attention. Ches recognized him from the website they had set up for the academy, it was Carlo Mancini. The Dean of the college. In a deep, baritone voice he smiled and warned everyone that the rally would officially begin in five minutes.

There was still things she wanted to do, and turning to Antoine she nudged him lightly.

"You promised free food, don't hold out now." She laughed, walking beside him as they made their way through the crowd. As typical as the cliques may have been, Ches had to admit that being drowned in a sea of different, beautiful languages was quite the reality call. She was here, studying in one of the most prestigious art schools in Italy, and she was about to get something to eat.

Passing by the various booths she leaned in to keep up their conversation. "You in any of these?"​
 
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Taking the flask from her when she finished, Antoine brought the small copper spout to his lips and took a deep draw. The alcohol was good quality, but that didn’t stop it from burning all the way down his throat to where it pooled like fire in his stomach. He cleared his throat, wheezing a second, before capping the flask and returning it to its former hiding spot. He whistled softly, shaking his head to clear the alcohol fumes from where they crept into his nostrils. It took a moment, but the burning subsided. Once it had, he followed Ches’ gaze back towards the crowd of pretty young women.

“You’ll be competing against the whole school, likely,” he explained. “Most students enter. It’s open to any grade, any student enrolled full time. It’s worth a shot. It’s judged by a pretty illustrious panel, and is anonymous. You really should consider it. Doesn’t hurt to try, you know?”

Antoine entered last year, knowing he didn’t stand much of a shot—if any at all. It was worth it, though, and Antoine was a hopeful young man, always keen to be on the optimistic side of the spectrum.

Unfortunately, the natural flow of their conversation was interrupted by static white noise. Antoine snapped his head towards it in attention, falling silent and sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Oh, hell yea,” he replied with a smile once the announcement was completed. “Follow me, they have a grill going at the far end of the field. Come on,” he said and playfully smacked her in the back of the shoulder to encourage her along. Weaving their path through the throngs of people going all which ways, he pulled her towards the far field goal, where the air began to fill with aromas of grilling meats.

“They serve mostly American food on campus,” he admitted, “as the students are mostly Americans, but if you go off campus and eat in town, you’ll find some amazing authentic foods. There is a great little restaurant downtown I’ll have to show you sometime.” He grinned, getting them in line and glancing headlong to the row of student organization.

“Them? Not really. I was in AV club last year, but…” Antoine shrugged it off. “Professor Reiter, ‘bout halfway through last semester started a new afterhours painting class. Not really a class, but he has models and things set up for people to come in and practice painting with. Small group, only a few of us went last year, but I hope he does it again this year. I’d rather go to that than some stupid…” he squinted to read one of the posters. “Model UN group.”
 
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The thought of competing against the whole school was a bit daunting, but one that brought her closer to wanting to enter, ironically enough. Antoine had a point, there was no consequences in losing and everything in winning. As they came to the field sectioned off for grills, Franchesca told herself she'd stop thinking about it for the rest of the day, that she'd cross the bridge when she got there, but she knew it wouldn't last.

Still, with little to burden her now she let out a genuine laugh, patting Antoine's shoulder as she looked up to speak with him. "Really? I think you have the height for it, the looks even. An after class session does sound fun though, I can't lie. Even though I did just personally call out the professor hosting them."

"What time I've spent in town so far I was asleep, so I wouldn't mind a bit of a tour. I'm actually staying with a family friend, my godmother to be specific. She runs a little inn just on the outer edge of Vernazza. The Tregua." Ches continued--the enunciation of her Italian just slightly off. Signalling for him to follow Franchesca then made a beeline for an older gentleman hard at work grilling up some burgers.

The line to his grill was considerably shorter than the rest and she could not fathom why. Every single smell that hung on the air was amazing and for a moment she wondered if they could just watch the rally from over here where it smelled like spices rather than over in the crowd where it had admittedly smelled like sweat.

When she finally reached the front of the line she was greeted by blue eyes way more innocent than the worn age lines around them would imply. Franchesca was surprised at first but found herself in a bit of an awkward engagement as the grill man said nothing and just stared right at her. She eventually looked back over her shoulder and up at Antoine to see if the older man at the grill as actually looking past her but...no. He was just staring and not saying a word.

"Uhhh." Franchesca tried her best to smile despite the awkwardness of the situation.

It was as if the man broke out of a trance. He shook his head, suddenly becoming aware and just as embarrassed as she was. He plated her burger messily and apologized in broken Italian before quickly shooing her away. Ches was... dumbfounded and waited for Antoine to join her off to the side before she got any answers.

"Care to tell me what just happened?" She asked bemusedly.​
 
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“Eeeeh, yea,” he laughed at her comment, throwing his head back as they inched up in the line. “Again, something tells me if any of the professors will be forgiving, it’ll be him. The after class club is pretty great, though. Lot of great artists and it’s low key. Sometimes, he brings in wine to share so…” Antoine ended his statement with a shrug. Whether he was going to Wolfgang’s afterschool club for the painting or the wine, or both, it was hard to say, but it was clear none of it disappointed.

Following after Ches, he muttered something about ‘no, not that line!’ but it was too late to clarify the implications, because she had dragged them up straight to the front. He grimaced at the sight of the blue-eyed man and looked away, humming, and trying to ignore the incessant staring. The awkwardness of the situation blossomed in the air all around like a flower in spring sun, and Antoine couldn’t help the sweaty feeling dripping down his back. The eternal moment was ended when a burger was thrown both at Ches and himself. He snatched the plate away, grumbled a ‘thanks,’ in Italian and turned off.

If the older gentleman shooed Ches away, so did Antoine. He urged them further away from the grills towards the center of the field so he could lean in and whisper, so as not to be overheard.

“That guy? Real freak. He’s the janitor. Something isn’t… right with him. You know, in the head,” he muttered, shooting a glance back at the shy janitor before shaking his head. “Just keep your distance from him, if I were you. I’ve always wondered what he does in his basement…”

Antoine trailed off and used bit into his burger. At least the food was good. Swallowing down a lump of food, they resumed their amble, and former conversation. “Anyways, as I was saying, it’s pretty awesome you’re staying off campus. I’d like to, but unless you’re staying with family, you have to live on campus until you’re a junior or senior. Next year, I’ll get a flat in town or something.” He took another bite. “I am not familiar with The Tregua, but then, I’ve never looked for it, either. Town is pretty small. Hard to miss a lot.”

A crowd finally began to gather for the commencing of the rally and Antoine nudged his head in the general direction. “Should we go? Else, we can hide and drink vodka. Technically, we're of age here in Italy, but the campus is still dry.”
 
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He might've been crazy but at least his grilling was pretty damn good. For awhile Franchesca simply served as a listener, her eyes attentive and focused as she chewed down on the burger the janitor had made. She didn't mention it but the older man's blue gaze stuck with her... not in a way where it weirded her out though, not exactly. There was something in that gaze that made her want to paint it and as awkward as it may have been at least she now had a good idea of what she wanted to include in her portfolio for Wolfgang.

Franchesca nodded at his suggestion, unable to verbally answer as she swallowed down the last of her burger. After taking a moment to locate some napkins and clean off their hands the duo made the mini trek back into the mess of things. The crowd was a little bit more organized now that the rally was beginning but it was still a bit of a clusterfuck.

Ches chose a spot once again off to the side, sacrificing closeness to the stage in order to be able to breath without taking in someone's musk. The young woman crossed her arms, she wasn't sure what to expect. This was her first rally. She glanced over at her new friend, unsurprisingly he seemed more settled... more confident. She wanted to be like that.

The rally started off with a bang. A literal explosion of navy/burgandy confetti from cannons that Franchesca hadn't noticed being dragged up onto stage. Music began to play from the speakers, the bass of which vibrating in Ches' chest. Some of the popular girls from earlier burst onto stage having changed into some kind of slutty cheer leading uniform. Typical. Franchesca rolled her eyes.

It wasn't the girl with the braids who took the microphone but instead an older girl--a senior who had no right to be that pretty. She was Italian that much was obvious from her olive colored skin and the beautifully graceful black mane she had for hair. Ches' eyebrows quirked at the sight of her, an unfamiliar feeling in her gut.

"Welcome, welcome welcome! How is everyone doing today?!" The beautiful girl called out--her voice resonating through the air and evoking a roar from the crowd gathered before her. It was a tad surreal, even for a city girl like Franchesca. "We'd like to commemorate the beginning of the 117th annual Welcome to Lorezno Student Rally to--"

"Rafael Silva." A foreign voice not on the stage interrupted her. It was rough, American. Franchesca shot a confused look Antoine's way but soon enough things became clear. It was the man earlier, the man who had been arguing with the dealers. He jumped onto stage, clearly unrehearsed as the beautiful girl's face contorted into one of anger. She tried to speak into the microphone to try and clarify that but found hers had been disconnected.

Franchesca's eyes widened. Things were beginning to heat up.​
 
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Wolfgang Reiter was a man of many simple pleasures. He enjoyed gardening, and growing his own food. He enjoyed painting, jazz music, and the company of cats, rather than dogs. He was refined and sophisticated well beyond his years. Though his hair was a handsome shade of silver, there was a youthfulness in his smooth skin and dark brown eyes. Something that made him seem quite out of place at the rally. The expression of pure disinterest on his face spoke only to his obligation of being there, and had he his own way, he would have long departed for his homestead. Alas, the Dean had strongly advised all professors be in attendance for the opening ceremonies, and take a seat on the corner of the stage.

One leg was draped over the other. His shoulders lolled back in an image of cool self-posession and was the only one on stage to not jump in surprise when the young, alpha male type student leapt up on stage and took command.

The only one who appeared more disinterest than he was the woman at his side, Professor Poppins, who spent a majority of her time sending smoldering gazes into Wolfgang’s cheek and jawline. Her lips curled back occasionally into a visible snarl, though was disoriented when the young man jumped on stage and shouted the name of a popular student—the popular student. The student who had gone missing just weeks before.

Several of the professors scrambled to get the situation under control. They leapt from their seats to try and shoo the man off stage. Wolfgang merely watched with an expression of a not-quite hungry cat watching mice.

“Shit,” Antoine muttered, folding his arms over his chest as soon as he tossed his empty paper plate away, having long finished his burger. “That guy… he just won’t give it up. Err.” He looked to Ches and caught her dazed and confused expression. “Alright, so, uhh… a few weeks ago, this one guy… super popular, super loved. I mean, everyone loved this guy. He was, like, the Destiny’s Child of the school kind of popular, up and vanishes after a party. His name was, is, Rafa. That guy? His name is Thom. He was Rafa’s best friend. Like, inseparable. Vows he won’t stop until Rafa is found.”

Antoine shook a hand through his hair and blew out a sigh. “Rafa was the real partier type. Getting drunk every night kinda person. If you ask me, he just got too drunk one night and fell in the ocean and drowned. The cliffs around here are really high. Every year, someone dies falling off them.”

 
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Franchesca watched with wide eyes as the American struggled with staff and security alike. He had had a huge stack of fliers in his hands when the first of the guards tackled him. He had just been talking about how the school was just sweeping this Rafael under the rug. Now he was on the ground and the fliers were cast into the air. It was heart wrenching, more painful for Franchesca than anyone could know to see the event played out. Though it was hard of her to control her emotions she was most practiced at hiding sadness.

So with just a frown she repeated Antoine's words. "Until he's found... huh."

Franchesca moved forward without warning, pushing her way past students until she was close enough to the stage to grab a hold of one of the papers. It was, in reality, a missing persons poster. As the crowd whispered all around her she took in the image of a man who was missing, a man who had perhaps unwillingly left behind others. Rafael. Rafael Silva. She repeated it in her head until it stuck.

Franchesca looked back up and watched as the American was being 'escorted' off of the stage. Meanwhile the staff, with the exception of Wolfgang Reiter, and alongside the beautiful Italian girl tried their best at damage control. The music, which had stopped when the American appeared, came back on and immediately Chesca wanted to be anywhere else.

Her eyes tracking the security guards, she doubled back--running into Antoine on the way but explaining very little. "I'm going to go talk to him, I'm going to talk to Thom." She told her new friend, rushing past him and towards the outskirts of the stadium.

Franchesca found him just outside where the security guards dumped him. He was nursing the back of his head though Ches could only assume it was because he had taken the fall pretty hard.

"Hey." She called out to him, suddenly aware that she had no idea what she wanted to say as he turned and look back at her with fierce brown eyes. Ches cleared her throat. "Are you...okay?"​
 
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“You’re going to what?” Antoine called after her, though there seemed to be no stopping the woman. She turned off and bolted through the crowd like she was on a mission. She pushed through people with ease, until she was nearly out of his sight. Muttering a curse, he could have just let be what was, but he felt just the smallest bit obligated to the girl. She was like a new hatchling, trying to beat her wings to fly and he had befriended her. Though she wouldn’t need protecting, there was a certain element of ‘big brother’ at play.

With a frown, Antoine charged after her. He apologized as he elbowed through the crowd, drawing ‘umphs,’ and ‘watch where your going’s from the crowd as he went. “Ches!” he called after her anew, struggling to get towards the back of the stadium. He only managed, relieved the crowd was much less dense that far away from the stage. The poor bloke was sprawled out like he’d just received the beating of the lifetime. His hand kept working a sore spot on the back of his head and he passed an intimidating flare first to Ches, then to himself. Antoine frowned.

“Hey, mate,” he said. Though he’d never been particularly friendly with either Thom or Rafa, he knew both of them and was on friendly enough terms. “Uhh, this is Ches, by the way. She’s a freshman,” he began, waving his hands around Ches’ form.

Thom’s response was initially nothing more than a grunt as he pulled his hand away from his head, looking down at the sweaty palm and half expecting to see a spot of blood. He didn’t, but that didn’t make the pain subside any.

“Do I look okay?” he asked back, not particularly acknowledging Antoine or his introduction of the girl. “Here, take a flier. You haven’t seen a man like this around, have you?”
 
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Franchesca rose her hand and showed him the missing persons poster she had gotten back in the thick of things. The American was intense, if not driven and that along with his cause made him all the more relatable to the freshman. She frowned as he, without warning, turned to walk away.

"I don't really know how but I want to help you, Thom." She called out to him, he turned back and shot the both of them a suspicious glare. Chesca didn't falter and instead she took a step closer. "Nobody back there seems to take these kind of things seriously. People don't just disappear..." She'd apologize later to Antoine for being so dismissive of him and his own theory about Rafa but now was not the time.

"He did." Thom cut her off, his features softening ever so slightly when he did despite how cut and dry his answer had been. Franchesca felt a lump develop in her throat--she waited for him to say anything, to do anything else, that would indicate his reaction to her offer of help... but nothing came. The American simply turned back around and kept walking.

She felt a multitude of things in that moment. Confusion most prominent of all. Franchesca spun around to speak with Antoine and shook her head tiredly. "Sorry. I'm all over the place today... I think I'm just gonna head back home. After that whole thing I'm just not in the rally-ing kind of mood you know?"

Franchesca spun around on her heel and walked away. "I'll catch you around, Antoine."​
 
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Ah, a confused muddling. He’d learned not to expect much more. There had been some investigation into Rafa’s whereabouts, but without a heavy demand from the missing person’s family, the search dried up quick. Officers moved on to other tasks, and people turned their eyes to other news headlines. Whatever became of Rafa was hard to say. Everyone had their opinions… most were that he either committed suicide or died accidentally by stumbling off a cliff edge. Everyone except Thom seemed to have forgotten him over time, but that man never let his friend go. If nothing else, Antoine admired him for that.

“Yea,” he said, “good night. See you around, I hope.” After the last interaction, he decided he was ready to head back to his dormitory, as well. The start of classes was the next morning, and he wanted to be well-rested for at least one of the days of the semester.

The rally drove maddeningly well into the night hours. At some point between nine and ten, Wolfgang slipped away to the reclusion of his own townhome, leaving behind the boisterous music and buzzing students. He slept until four the next morning, at which he rose to begin his first pot of coffee of the day. The windows to his small studio were open, and the world was silent, as if had ended in the night. The sun remained resolutely below the horizon and the street was as dark as an old black and white movie, but he loved those morning hours. He relished them.

Early mornings were his reward. He poured himself a coffee in a travel mug, dressed, packed up his shoulder bag, and departed for his walk to campus by five. The mountains silhouetted against a crimson sky and the air smelled of ocean. There was no drone of cars, or the hiss as they moved over the rain coated streets. There was only the cry of the gulls as they wailed for the fishing boats to come in. Most importantly, the campus was still devoid of student bodies. He could make his way to his office in peace and luxury, without being disturbed by anyone.

His office was secluded to the back of the building. It was still dark and, being the first to arrive, he turned on the hall lights and proceeded to his room. It was a chaotic to an untrained eye, but an organized system to him. The office was grey, and it had one floor to ceiling window, which faced the main road. On the grey desk sat a desktop computer, a notebook sprawled open, and a stack of student portfolios under a turtle-shaped paperweight. In the corner, a bookshelf burst with books, with yet another stack of portfolios and papers under a paperweight that was shaped to look like a tuft of grass.

A few pens were lying on the papers, but some had fallen on to the floor.
 
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Franchesca had arrived at the academy earlier that day by bike, so of course she departed on it as well. With her leather bag tucked into the basket, she rode all the way home in a bit of a mood. This was the school she dreamed of going to, with a teacher she had dreamed of meeting, and somehow her first day there had both disappointed and exceeded her expectations.

Lorenzo De Medici along with Vernazza in its entirety was more beautiful than she could ever imagine. The view she had been treated to on the way home was testament enough to that. Riding back she witnessed a sunset only matched by the dangerously beautiful cliff side it rained down upon. She was surrounded by so much beauty and yet...

Her first meeting with the Wolfgang Reiter. Antoine and Thom. Rafael. It was quite a lot to take in. Perhaps too much. Perhaps that was why when Franchesca finally made it back to the Tregua she was nothing but relieved to learn that her godmother was out on a social call. She didn't want to talk about it, about anything really. Instead, Franchesca painted the night away.

In the end Ches got some sleep but come early morning the young artist was already awake... inspecting the art pieces both old and new she'd present to Professor Reiter. It was a humble collection of what she considered to her strongest works.

Most of them were oil on canvas, candid images of women and open waters. Her most recent work was that of the janitor's eye--just the gaze and little else. She was nervous, more nervous than she cared to admit. But at this point there was little more she could do but to turn it in and see what he had to say.

Franchesca dressed comfortably for her first day of class, tying her hair into a messy bun and opting for simplicity in her clothes. She didn't eat breakfast, having left too early for her godmother to have any of the caretakers prepare something and the young woman took her time riding back up towards Lorezno De Medici. She arrived around the same time as all the other early bird students and spent around half an hour getting lost on the way to the Professor's office.

Once Franchesca had found it she paused. Then, she knocked. "Professor?"

Students didn't arrive to his door until about half after eight, when they managed to stagger in, often times still in slack trousers, so the sudden knock caused him to jolt and snap his head up. "Come in."

Franchesca opened the door with her free hand, holding her portfolio in the other. She glanced around the room--taking in the details quickly. She liked his paperweight. Far from a proper greeting, she made a face and raised her portfolio in the air. "First thing in the morning, like I said."

"Yes, quite first thing, indeed," he agreed, noting her rather boorish change in facial expression. "You can add it to the pile," he said, waving the tip of his pin towards the mounting mountain of portfolios on the edge of his desk

"The...pile?" She repeated after him, closing the door behind her with her heel. Franchesca walked over, eyeing the monstrosity of artwork he had collected.

"How early did all these people come...?" She asked, muttering a personal 'what the hell' afterwards.​
 
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