Trapped Hearts

An RP by NekoLen and Tachigami

From his balcony, Oliver could see the dome's generators. They were on top of massive towers, an generated clouds where necessary, pumping out huge amounts of precipitation so it would rain. Outside the dome, it was a clear, crystal night. He could see the stars shining beautifully for only a while, until the generators had pumped out enough cloud cover to blot them out entirely. With a sigh, Oliver looked down at his journal's cover, its mechanical lock, the light yellowish paper inside. He opened it, pulling his fountain pen out of its pocket on the inside and studied what he'd written already:

"So tired of this fake weather... It doesn't feel real. When the travelers come to sell their wares and play their music I just want to cling to the outside of their moving towns and houses and see what they see. I'll bet it's wonderful. Not at all dangerous like everything I hear. It's so boring... Pale. Predictable, even. I hate the predictable! I hate the parties and the dinners and the get-togethers I'm forced to dress up for while my parents and my aunt parade me around like I'm some prized pet of theirs. I'm actually not sure anymore---maybe I am a pet...

I don't want to marry anyone. Man, woman, something in between---it just hurts to think about. I prefer men, but the ones my aunt brings about are older. I don't have anything against those that are a couple decades older, of course, but I have to wonder where my aunt keeps finding these people. They're short. They're dull. They talk of their money and power and status, their business. Of course it's commendable, but when one tries to strike up a different conversation they only stutter and stumble along and agree with everything you say, as if they have no individual personality. And my aunt says it's not about the happiness---it's about the financial security. I don't want that. I want... something exciting. And unpredictable. Is it just my young mind driving me toward that goal?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Oliver returned the pen to its holder and closed and locked the journal. He let one leg slide off the edge of the balcony edge and dangle, and he kicked the air lightly. It was almost like clockwork when his aunt opened the door, came halfway across the room and gasped. "Oliver Stone, you come in here! It's dangerous to sit on the banister!"

With a light sigh, Oliver slid off the stone railing and onto the solid ground, stepping into his room. His aunt, a fiery redhead with bright brown eyes and freckles, stepped forward and brushed him off as if the air had contaminated his blue and green attire. "Goodness, boy, when are you gonna learn? You might as well fall off the roof one of these days!"

"Auntie Sae, please... I'm never careless..." Oliver waved her hand away as she tried to brush back his dark red hair. "You should know that by now!"

"Well, Oliver, what would your parents say if they came in and saw you like that?" Sae crossed her arms.

"Nothing; they never come in."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, that doesn't matter. Come on, come on---we have an event to go to!"

Oliver groaned, turning away. "No, please! Please, no more of these things... I'm so tired of them.... Can't you just let me find someone on my own?"

"And when will that be? In twenty years!? Sweetie, you're going to love this man! He's one of the most powerful men in Vespar---"

"And he's probably just like the others. I don't want to, Auntie---please... Can't you tell them I'm ill? Give me just one evening to myself?"

Sae paused, then shook her head, but there was something in her eyes. "Oh... Fine. Fine, I'll tell them you've come down with something and that you'd like to sleep it off. But you had better make it up to me tomorrow!" She patted Oliver's cheek, making a muttered comment about the green tone of his eyes looking just like his father's, and turned on her heel to stalk out of the room. She was a firm woman, if a head shorter than Oliver, but at least she did care for her nephew. He crossed the room, going to his bed and settling on it with a light sigh. Meeting one of the most powerful men in the city would have been a dream to most. But he didn't like the sound of it. Oliver brushed back his hair, which was long and liked to fall over one of his eyes, and stood, checking the door to make sure it was locked. Then he hurried to his closet, pulling the doors open and sifting through the clothes, coming to the very end to where a small set was hanging just out of sight. He pulled these out and laid them on the bed, beginning to disrobe.

The clothes on the bed were old, tattered, and a combination of brown, green, and purple colors. They looked old, and they were indeed. He'd found them on the street and washed them a few times, fading the colors even more. When he dressed in them and patted a little discoloration on his face, Oliver looked just like any of the other low class citizens. He set the clothes he was wearing against the bed and away from the door, forming a bundle under the blankets that looked like a curled-up human form. Knowing his parents, they would only look in to see if he were there. With the older clothes on, Oliver went back to the balcony and slipped over it, clinging to a drain pipe and sliding down. He wanted to visit the older areas of the city, and he would. At least this was some sort of freedom.

The sounds of fiddles, accordions and laughter filled the small camp outside of the city. The gypsies had come the day before, and were getting prepared for market day, which was tomorrow morning. The men and children played and drunk, talking and telling stories, while their women baked pies and cakes, and the girls knitted scarves. Jean-Sal watched them work from the fireside, drinking from his bottle of cheaply made cider and tapping his foot to the music.

His own fiddle was in its embroided case at his feet, though he didn't feel much like playing. They had had a rough travel from Persi to Vespar, running into blizzards on the plains and bandits in the forests, losing a few children to illness and men to the bandits. His own brother had to be laid to rest in a forest, a place where no one would see his grave and remember his name. Despite all the tragedy, the gypsies played and sung and danced, and Jean-Sal would join them - after a few more drinks.

He looked up at the clear night sky and smiled, humming a simple tune to himself. The stars were beautiful tonight, and they made the darkness of space look like it was decorated with many thousands of diamonds. His gaze slid down from the sky and landed on the massive buildings that was Vespar. It looked like it was raining inside the walls of the city, and he grinned to himself. The rich folk that ran the weather machines were missing out on the stars. Maybe they were afraid of them? Many city folk were afraid of whatever might be outside their artificial walls. Jean-Sal couldn't imagine living life like that.

"Sally! Sally! Give us a song, please?" some children begged him as they approached the fire. The boys wore pants and coats, while the girls were dressed in colourful silk dresses. He smiled at them, putting the bottle of cider down and picking up his fiddle out of its case. Made of the finest wood, it had been made and given to him by his father for his 16th birthday. He prized it and the case his mother had made for him more than anything in the world. He found his bow and played for the children, a simple folk song that they all knew. The girls danced while the boys hopped up and down to the music, and Jean-Sal closed his eyes and smiled, feeling at peace. How could the people live enclosed in the city? He just never understood it.

Once he finished, he winked at the kids and set his fiddle back into its case, picking the bottle of cider back up as the children ran over to another fiddle player. He remembered his childhood, climbing trees and playing in the mud. His many sisters and brothers had been his friends. Now it seemed he was the only Kilek left in this tribe. His brothers had been killed, or had married women in cities. His sisters were all married with children, either to other gypsy tribes or in cities. He was often asked when he was going to settle down and get married, but he usually laughed it off. He had no time to think of such boring things.

As he glanced back over to the city, he noticed a few people exiting the gates, coming to party with the gypsies. Mostly poor people with nothing much else to do, the sneaked from their homes at night to drink and dance, and to listen to the gypsies stories. He was glad to see them brave the outside and offered one a drink of his cider, who gratefully took it. The older man looked like he hadn't eaten well in a few weeks and Jean-Sal felt sorry for him. How could a place as rich and big as Vespar be so cruel to the needy? He directed the man to where their food was laid out on a table. They liked to share with outsiders, and anyone that wanted to party could join in any time they wanted. As long as you had a good time, you were welcome in the camp.

Because they knew him in the upper districts, Oliver wore a heavy coat and hood to keep himself from being noticed. Of course, in the rain, it wasn't so hard to get away from people without them glancing at him---they just wanted to get indoors and save their expensive clothes and hairstyles from getting damaged in the rain, despite it having been foretold all day long. Of course they thought they were impervious to the rain, no doubt, as if the entire world moved to their individual preferences and ideas. Oliver didn't mind the rain, though he didn't like when it was generated by man. He liked the natural appearance of things, and nothing in the dome was natural. The dome was ugly, and hid away the natural wind, the real rain, the true sunlight. He wanted to smell that wind, but couldn't but now and then, when he was able to escape his prison of a high class life. Tonight, unlike most nights, he didn't bring anything with him. Most nights, his pockets and a large bag on his back full of food he stole away during dinnertime. Tonight his parents were hosting a party, however, and he didn't have the time or the privacy to steal anything for the lowest class ranks.

He slipped through a narrow back alley near the end of the dome and found the entrance with ease. There were some low-class people leaving through the entrances that were usually guarded by armed men or women to scare off bandits, not that the cityfolk had ever seen them, really. They were there, standing in front of the old, rusted mechs that at one time did the very same. They didn't move anymore, the mechanical things, but they did once. They were often on the front lines of the wars that tore the world apart so long ago, so long ago that when Oliver was young, he learned of it in history classes. It was why so many cities and towns were now protected by domes, and why so many outside clans and tribes often built moving towns and villages to trade between the towns and cities.

He joined the small trickle, exiting through the massive doors that were rarely closed---only on lockdowns---and ripped his hood and coat off. It was so rare he felt the real wind, smelled natural plants and trees, that he bounded away to take deep, unhindered breaths and tie the arms of his coat around his waist. Now all he really wore was a pair of denim pants so faded their green tone was nearly white, and a sleeveless shirt whose neck was cut deep. His hair was wild, and he ran a hand through it to let it feel the natural air. And tonight, a camp of gypsies had settled near the entrance. It was beautiful in its own way, natural people that faced the dangers of living unprotected by the dome, only on their huge moving towns and cities and villages, facing hardship every day but managing to enjoy their lives every night. He wanted to live that, but knew he would never be able to, not permanently.

He approached the camp, looking around, drinking in the music and activity, the buzz of energy despite it being later in the evening. What could he do first? Listen to the music? Talk to the people? Buy the strange and unique and beautiful things they made? The firelight was so bright in the night, it called to him as if he were a moth. He moved forward, smiling to himself as if starstruck.

Jean-Sal had finished his cider and now was paying his fiddle for the new people that had entered their camp site. He stood by the fire and played many happy songs, that caused even the older people to get up and dance with the children. The buzz he felt from the cider, mixed with the joy he felt at being able to play made him giddy with happiness. He paused to get another drink and ran into a young man, who seemed shocked by the activity. He grinned and wrapped an arm around the man's waist, pulling him over to the fire and dancing with him.

The man seemed startled by how forward Jean-Sal had been, but he didn't care. Soon they were both fast waltzing to the music, Jean-Sal leading until the man couldn't dance any more. His red hair had become wild from the movement and he flopped down on a chair next to the fire, panting and laughing like he hadn't ever had so much fun. "You're a good dancer," Jean-Sal complimented, flashing a grin and winking. He offered the man a bottle of cider, after taking a swig of it. "The name is Jean-Sal. You can call me Jean, or Sally if you like," he laughed, knowing his name was strange, especially for this country.

He sat next to the red head and put a hand on the man's knee, trying to gauge a reaction from him. He wasn't much for romance, but he enjoyed having company and excitement. He didn't care if that person was male or female, as long as he found them attractive. ''Your eyes are like emeralds," he complimented.

He'd heard about the gypsies and their parties from the people he passed out food to when he could. If they didn't talk amongst each other they told him specifically about the music and dancing, the fire and smell of food wafting from large tents that sold for low or even nothing when it came to the low-class citizens coming out of the dome for a little fun. Of course, talk couldn't replace the feeling of actually being among the people, the exotic, new people he'd never encountered before, new smells and new environments. He was shocked when someone grabbed him up, someone he hadn't necessarily seen at first because of the activity surrounding him.

Gypsies loved to dance and sing, play music, this he knew from watching from his balcony. When it was daylight they sold and traded, cooked, cleaned, and at night they lit bonfires and began inviting anyone who wanted to join. Watching from so far away felt like watching on a monitor, and being swept up in a dance he hadn't expected was quite the surprise, and it shocked Oliver's heart into beating faster than he thought possible, even with his occasional runs into the slum areas of the city. He didn't mind, of course, and spun with the stranger, feeling the chill of night cut with the heat of the fire confuse his skin and send it into a pleasant tingle. And when his legs simply couldn't support the rest of him, Oliver found himself almost collapsing near the fire, panting but feeling more alive than any of his other trips had let him before.

When the gypsy that had grabbed him up sat alongside him, Oliver smiled brightly, taking the offered bottle and smelling it before taking a drink, as he'd come to find a habit in doing. It was sharp, heavy on the tongue, and tasted a bit like what the older men and women of the lower class would give out to others if they'd pass by, their kindness unwavering even in their little homes and poor clothing. His heart was falling into a calmer state when he passed the bottle back, and he brushed his hair out of his face. It had grown wild in the unfiltered nighttime air.

Oliver found a bit of warmth spreading over his face at the compliment, and he looked away for a moment. Many had complimented his eyes, saying they were either beautiful or just like his father's, but coming from someone that had no doubt been able to see so many amazing things in his life meant a bit more. "Ah... Thank you. My name is Oliver... Oliver Stone. You're a good dancer yourself, Jean-Sal. And you have so much musical talent." He smiled, thinking back to home. Should he tell this gypsy where he came from? No... Not yet. He was, after all, dressed like the others.

"Ah, well, it comes with the trade, I guess," Jean-Sal replied, the grin never leaving his face. He watched the others play and dance, taking another mouthful of the cider. It was easily made and cheap, but it sold well enough, especially to the lower classes of the cities they visited. The small town he lived in had a few apple trees, planted just behind the row of tents and huts. They grew well, even out of season due to the special fertilizer the gypsies used. The town moved, walking on large mechanical legs. Once they got to their destination, it buried itself in the soil so it looked like a simple camp.

"What brings you out here?" he asked his new companion, offering the drink once more. The young man looked like he needed a drink, to loosen up and really enjoy the party.

Oliver took the cider bottle when it was offered again, but looked at it before actually taking a drink. It was made of thick glass, and looked as if it could withstand a good several hundred falls before it reached the end of its life. Probably a good thing, too. This time he took a longer swig, a little more used to the different taste it had, and turned a bit more to the gypsy. Jean-Sal was indeed a strange name, but it sounded wonderful. Oliver was determined to use it again, to speak it aloud, but didn't find it necessary quite yet. Instead he focused on the young man, taking in everything he could lest he was run off for being what he was.

"I'll admit... I come from one of the prominent families in the dome. Vespar knows my name and my appearance, but I don't like that. I don't want to be what I am, so I... I sneak out. Tonight I was supposed to go to a big party, and meet a very powerful man that my aunt---and my parents---want me to consider marrying. But... I don't like that. I'd rather find someone I like, so... I declined. And I got out, and I found my way here. I like to be around the people not many know, the lowest classes, and I like to help them where I can. When I can, I bring food or money or clothes I don't or can't wear. And I give them out. Tonight was... Well, I was going to find some people I know well, but then I saw the lights, and when I got out here, I heard the music and saw the dancing, and I just couldn't pass it up. It's all so amazing, so different from the boring drag of a life I have, and I wanted to see it up close for once instead of through a dome wall."

He sighed, and cringed, looking through his hair that somehow managed to fall back down and get into his eyes. He didn't know what the gypsies thought about high class people, those that came from money, but he knew his kind treated them like common criminals.

Jean-Sal listened to what Oliver was saying, finding it almost unbelievable that a nobleman would be acting the way he was. He grinned and placed an arm around Oliver, hugging him slightly. "Well, I'm glad to hear that there are some nice folks here in Vespar. I must admit I've never had much money or many possessions, but I appreciate what I do have. I'm happy, you know? The life of travelling is exhilarating. I couldn't imagine being stuck in one place for too long. And your family sounds so boring, what do rich people do all day? I've heard of their parties, but they never dance or tell stories... How is that a party?"

He gestured to the dancers, the laughing drunken men and the women singing. "Now, THIS is a party." He got up, bringing Oliver up with him. "I want to show you something, I'm sure you'll love it."

Oliver leaned in to Jean-Sal's gesture, enjoying the warmth found there. He didn't often get actual, physical affection from others. It was nice, and he enjoyed the natural scent clinging to Jean, the smoky scent mingling with wildflowers and trees, earth and grass. "Well, I mean, we do dance... but it's so slow and measured... and the stories are so boring and predictable. Nothing like what goes on here. But I mean, it is boring... Staying... staying in a dome. In a house that doesn't change and is so clean you can see yourself everywhere." He shuddered a little. His parents were so nit-picky that the maids make sure everything was free of every bit of dirt or lint that could possibly be seen. Even a scuff sent his mother into a rant.

Surprised, Oliver allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and the world slightly tilted for an instant. He blinked, looking around. "Oh sure...! I mean, I know I'll love it... Whatever it is." He was so curious now, but Jean kept whatever it was from him as he was led forward.

Jean-Sal couldn't stop smiling as he led Oliver through the dancers and away from the fire pit. He carried his prized fiddle with him, the other hand holding onto the red haired man as he continued forward. He danced as he walked, almost skipping, laughing and ducking under an apple tree. He let go of Oliver's hand and went inside a colourful tent, calling out for the man to follow him.

His home only had one room. His bed sat near the end of the tent, and he had shelves and chairs on the other side of it. On his shelves were exotic items; gems, seashells, fossils, anything he had found on his journeys. The fabric here was bright and colourful, and it always made Jean-Sal happy. "I live here. We all eat and drink together at the fire pit, and use nature for our business. I like to bathe in rivers and lakes." He went to one of his shelves and turned out the phonograph, swinging music started up and he danced about his home. "Do you like it? Have a look around if you like."

Oliver quickly followed along, pulled in the right directions. He couldn't stop looking around at everything---the firelight, the candles and string lights, the laughter and dancing and music playing, then it began to fade as they got a little further away, but the light from the fire still illuminated the area. He almost caught his forehead on the low-hanging branch Jean ducked underneath, and managed to just avoid it. He paused outside the colorful tent, awkwardly ducking in when he was prompted.

He smiled automatically---everything was strange and lovely, a combination he never saw up close. He stepped forward, smiling at the phonograph---he only ever heard live orchestras play, or individuals with their singular instruments. He liked everything, and stepped up to the shelves that were full of strange and unique things. Things he'd only ever seen under glass in museums. He picked up the swirled shell. A nautilus, if he remembered correctly. And the gems were familiar, but roughly cut and polished. No one he knew would want them in their jewelry, but he loved their raw appearance. "It's amazing..." He studied everything, pressing his finger down on a stone that held a strange skeletal pattern. He didn't know quite what it was---a lizard of sorts, but very small. After a moment, Oliver tore his eyes away from the collection and watched Jean-Sal, smiling at his dancing. "You live an amazing life..." Oliver said after a moment. "So unpredictable and... amazing." What else was there to say? Amazing was all he knew how to describe it as.

Jean-Sal stopped dancing and smiled at Oliver. "Amazing," he repeated, bowing slightly and reaching out to take Oliver's hand. He pulled the man close and waltzed with him, as the music seemed to read the mood and started to play something more slow and seductive. "I knew you'd enjoy it," he whispered into Oliver's ear, holding him close as he led the dance towards his bed. "You can take something home if you'd like. I'd love for you to have a gift from me, something extraordinary to look at in your ordinary life."

They made it to the bed and Jean-Sal guided Oliver to sit down on it, the red silk sheets feeling good as he sat. "Your hair is amazing. Like fire," he commented, running his fingers through it and marvelling at how soft it was. He lent forward to kiss Oliver, hoping the man would let him romance him for the night. Jean-Sal liked to meet new people, and had many lovers from different cities that came to see him when he visited. He loved intimacy, and they understood he wasn't looking for a wife or husband. Many of them had families of their own, but enjoyed his company so much, they ignored their normal lives for the night that they spent with him. He hoped Oliver would do the same.

Oliver loved this dance more than the others he'd been forced to endure. Awkward, too slow, and with a desire to not look the person in the eye, this felt too different. He actively kept Jean-Sal close to him, and studied the young man's hazel eyes as if a novel were being played in them. And when he spoke in his ear Oliver shivered and smiled, enjoying the tickle of Jean-Sal's breath. He jolted out of the slight trance he had fallen in when he was directed to sit, and blinked when Jean followed suit. His brown hair was a gorgeous tone, deep, and shined in the light offered within the tent.

He was surprised---momentarily---by Jean-Sal's straightforwardness. No doubt it was normal to him, and to other gypsies. He didn't mind, however, even if it was a single night, and a night that he would no doubt never forget. He leaned into the kiss, pressing his hand against Jean-Sal's chest and bringing it down, absently working to find a break in the layers of gypsy-made cloth and reach skin. The anticipation itself was almost rebellious, despite being in his early twenties. He still lived with his parents because it was custom, after all, until they accepted his potential spouse. But so far, none had been accepted by Oliver.

Jean-Sal was happy Oliver returned the kiss, and seemed almost excited to continue further with him. He gently laid him down on his bed, making sure to be careful with the delicate nobleman. Something about Oliver's pale body made his heart race. The man's skin was so soft, Jean-Sal wondered if he had been made from silk. He had never slept with someone so rich before, but any thoughts about greed never crossed his mind. He didn't care for riches, because he had what he needed to be happy. He wished Oliver could come with him on his travels to learn this too.

He sighed and smiled as they finished up, rolling onto his back and staring at the roof of his tent. The music from his phonograph had stopped playing, and he could still hear the faint music from the fire pit. They would party until all of them fell asleep. He turned to face Oliver, brushing the man's hair out of his face and smiling lightly at him. "You do this often? You were pretty good," he complimented, flashing his teeth as he smiled.

Oliver let Jean-Sal take the lead, feeling as if it were for the best. Others had taken the lead in his life so often, after all, but in few situations quite so enjoyable. Jean-Sal's body was tanned from the sun, a deep tone so rare to find outside gypsy cities and towns. Jean like the rest, was in control of his body to a remarkable extent, surprising Oliver, almost, though he did wish Jean wouldn't be so very careful with him. He didn't have much time to complain, however, and couldn't quite catch his breath to say so after the fact.

Beside him, as Jean stirred, Oliver shifted and looked his way. He smiled back, turning and closing the distance between them, shaking his mussed hair to its usual position---over his right eye. "Not often, but often enough." He admitted. "A time or two, really, if not to placate my pushy family." He shrugged off the comment as if it didn't quite matter to him, shifting a little and running his hand down Jean's body, marveling at the earth-toughened form he had. Work made this form come to be, a hard but good life, rich in its own way. Oliver couldn't help but feel ridiculously jealous of his freedom, even if it was dangerous.

"Like that, huh?" Jean-Sal ran a hand over the thin beard he had been growing. Tomorrow he would be able to get some razors from the city and shave, as his old ones had become dull. He couldn't wait for the markets, always excited to sell and buy, and tell stories to the boring city folk. Tomorrow he would be part of the troop playing for some nobles, he hoped his songs would fall on delighted ears. Thinking of this, he smiled at Oliver.

"I'll be performing tomorrow. Do you want to hear one of the songs? So you can tell me if it would be acceptable in your city?" He waited for a nod before proceeding, singing softly, but loud enough to be heard. It was a song about a man and his daughter, a bitter sweet folk song about love and loss. She was beautiful, it was sung, and her father couldn't bring himself to let her marry. She grew so sad from her sheltered life that she killed herself, and the father, shattered by he loss of his daughter, followed suit. He had sung the song many times, and it still made tears come to his eyes. When he was finished, he glanced at Oliver. "You reckon they'll like it?"

Oliver couldn't let a song pass him up. A song sung from a deep place in one's heart, and Oliver propped himself up, closing his eyes and listening intently to every word he was present to listen to. A saddening song, but moving enough to bring tears to one's eyes. Or at least, to Oliver's, and twice he blinked hard to keep the heavy tears from managing to fall, until the end. When Jean looked toward him, Oliver brushed his hand over his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, I think... I think they'll love it." But he couldn't say that entirely unbiased. "It's so... so beautiful, and so sad. But maybe it's because you sang it..." He had such a breathtaking singing voice, Oliver would have listened for hours on end. But how long had passed already?

"Jean-Sal... Do you have a way to tell the time? I can't be found wandering the city at night... God forbid outside the dome..." He didn't want to leave. Didn't want to get away from this gypsy. He didn't care about Oliver's money, or status. After all, Oliver was among the low class and the travelers now. He was one of them. But he had to put on that mask again for the sunrise, and dreaded caking on fake smiles and feigning interest in conversations that made him want to throw something.

Jean-Sal made a humming noise as he thought, listening to the music playing in the distance. "You've been in my room for about two hours, if that helps," he replied, calculating by thinking about his record, which was no longer playing. "And seeing how slow the music is getting, I guess it's past midnight." Soon they would wear themselves out and go to bed for the night. They all had an early morning tomorrow, setting up their stalls and wares inside the city's central square. It was the only time gypsies were allowed inside the city's walls. Any other time, they would be arrested. Apparently the rich folk thought of gypsies as baby snatchers and drug dealers. It made Jean-Sal a bit sad at the thought.

"Will you be at the markets tomorrow? I will be there playing my fiddle and selling my cider," he told Oliver with a smile. "The stuff you drunk. I made it myself, with the help of Goat." The older man who looked so much like a billy goat that everyone called him Goat.

His heart fell. Past midnight? Of course he had to go, or his parents would raise a huge alarm. He brushed back his hair, sitting upright and stretching a little, spying his old costume clothes scattered around the floor just below the bed. He didn't want to hurry off---not yet---and leave the rustic beauty of the gypsy camp and its colorful, kind people. There was nothing about them that said 'murderer' or 'thief'. In fact, many politicians in the city were awful, where the people here were kind and friendly and accepting of just about everyone, it seemed.

"I'll definitely be there! Even if I have to break away with whatever excuse I can muster up." Oliver smiled, gathering his clothes and shaking them out before sliding them on. "I mean, I'd love to see what you're selling, too... I might even buy some, maybe... However you make it, it's really good." Smiling, Oliver thought of the thick bottles and the amber-toned alcohol inside. He was usually exposed to very light, expensive beers and champagne, little beyond that. "I wouldn't mind hearing more of your singing, either..." Oliver said after a moment, lacing his leather shoes up and smiling at Jean-Sal.

Jean-Sal winked at the man and grinned back, but didn't leave his bed. He watched Oliver leave and suddenly felt really lonely. It was strange that a man of 25 was still unmarried, even for a gypsy. Many of the others tried to get him to marry, to start a family. He'd be happy, they told him, with children to care for and a loving wife or husband. He just laughed it off, not wanting to argue. Why hadn't he thought about marriage or having a partner? Well, he had thought about it. A lot. He just... Was afraid. Afraid that if he got married, he'd become trapped somewhere, like his sisters and brothers. He could get married to someone in his tribe, but there were few options. Goat wasn't very attractive and was just a good friend and Esmeralda had her eyes on a man from Persi.

He sighed and crawled under his blankets, closing his eyes and drifting off into a deep sleep. He had an early start, after all, and needed as much rest as possible. He smiled, hoping he would see Oliver brave the markets to come and visit him. Even the rich people liked to come to the markets, especially to buy gems and silks, spices and paints, and to have their fortunes read.

He didn't like to leave so soon---it didn't feel quite right. When he did have these little evening encounters he would sleep the entire night there, then be escorted home after breakfast in the morning. Of course this was a gypsy, and they had different ideas. Different customs, different thoughts entirely. And Oliver didn't mind that. He just didn't like to be coddled like he would break. He was, after all, very strong and resilient, not that others might think so. He put his coat and hood on as he got back into the dome, covering his face from the guards and running back into the alleys. Sprinting up to the upper districts and avoiding main roads was difficult because he had to keep to the shadows, be entirely unseen by the evening patrols that kept low-class citizens from wandering up. Being dressed like one of them, however, Oliver would no doubt be arrested until he was recognized, and his disheveled, dirty appearance would tip them off to what he had been up to, or at least force them to jump to the conclusion that he'd been attacked.

Back under his balcony, Oliver suddenly dreaded the climb. He'd done a lot more tonight than he usually did, after all. But he steeled himself, pulling his body up the side of the building and back onto the balcony, panting as he disrobed and folded his wet clothing up, stuffing them under his bed and creeping to his personal bathroom to run a bath and, while the copper basin filled, undo the sleeping form he had bunched up to fool anyone that might have looked in to check on him. As he did, he couldn't help but recall Jean-Sal. A gorgeous man, and so talented in so many things. He would most definitely visit the marketplace tomorrow, no doubt about that. Even if he had to drag himself out of bed and feel as if he were about to keel over in sleep.

Jean-Sal slept like the dead until a rooster's cry woke him. It was time to get ready for the markets with the others. He rolled out of bed in a sleepy manner, leaving his tent and heading towards the small portable showers they had set up nearby. He nodded to the others, who were waking up around him. The quietness of the camp soon disappeared as women sung as they did their chores and children played, chasing each other around the camp. The cattle boxed up in a makeshift yard nearby mooed softly, chewing on the hay given to them by the farmer. The few chickens, pigs and horses the tribe owned added to the noise as they were fed and, in the horses case, saddled up.

Jean-Sal cleaned himself in the cool water, using organic soap that was made by the women. He tied back his hair with a tie he had around his wrist and proceeded to go back to his tent, not caring to cover his nakedness. The people he lived with were like his family, and none of them cared if they saw him naked, just like he didn't care too much if he saw them walking around the camp naked. It was a natural thing, and Jean-Sal never understood why others would find this offensive or weird.

He got back to his tent to get into his usual clothes, putting on fingerless gloves to keep his hands warm and a heavy trench coat that was patched and faded. Winter was here and he could feel its bite in the morning air. He wondered if the weather generators inside the city would make the temperature warm. He shuddered at the thought and picked up his fiddle, as well as a few boxes of cider and other items. He carried these towards the others, who were also carrying their own wares. As one large group, they trudged over the hard Earth and entered the city of Vespar.

The stalls were set up within an hour, and the market was open before the city's people even had woken up. Jean-Sal stood near his own stall, supporting bottles of cider and boxes of uncut gems, which he had erected near the centre of the square, near a large fountain. He glanced into the water, seeing the coins that people had thrown into the water, usually with wishes. He wondered how many of those coins were some of the few that the poor people had to their name, thrown away for false promises and empty hopes.

He pulled out his fiddle and played as the Vesparians started to slowly fill the square, their pockets full of change and their eyes lighting up with delight to see what sorts of wares were for sale. Housewives carried baskets and looked harassed as they searched for the right ingredients and materials, children ran from stall to stall, their fists full of pocket money and their eyes hunting for candies, men looked at jewellery and flowers for their lovers and well dressed nobility edged around, going to the fortune teller or gazing at the rare and exotic gemstones. Jean-Sal loved the commotion and smiled at those that passed by, selling a few of his bottles to ragged-looking old men and a few uncut gems to business-types. He watched the crowd as it became later and later in the day, searching for Oliver Stone and wondering if the man would be able to fulfil his promise.

Before he went to bed, Oliver had to bathe, lest his aunt ask about the odd scents clinging to him and the strange way his hair fell. There was no way he would admit to running off at night, and no way he could say he had left the dome to join the party the nearby gypsy caravan had thrown, as gypsies did every night. Twice he nearly fell asleep in the hot water, sliding down and suddenly waking up as water came over his head. When the water grew cloudy and his skin and hair smelled more like cinnamon and lavender, Oliver dried himself and dressed in a light green nightgown, and slid under the heavy blanket, closing his eyes and almost immediately falling asleep.

He was sure only a moment had passed by the time the door opened and Aunt Sae entered, wearing an expensive silver and blue dress that swept the floor and her fiery hair up in a bun that spilled strands of hair down like a waterfall. She roused Oliver with a shake of the shoulder, patting his face and pulling the blanket off, but he was sure it was just a rough patch of the wonderful dream he was enveloped in until a cold sensation hit his face and he gasped, pulling the cold cloth off and sitting up. "Auntie...! Ah..."

"Now don't you pull that tone with me." Sae crossed her arms, observing Oliver's tired look on his face. "I don't think you went to sleep at all last night while we were out." Oliver shook his head, sighing and turning away to get up and shake his hair out. "Did you sneak someone up after we left?"

Oliver knitted his brow in an offended expression. "No! Of course not! Maybe I was having difficulty sleeping, Aunt. Perhaps that could be it?"

"Or perhaps you've been hiding away an occasional nightly liaison and avoiding the people your parents and I choose for you because of that."

Oliver's face grew warm as he recalled Jean-Sal. "No, of course not..." He shrugged, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. "Can I just get dressed, please? I'm still so tired, I don't want to think about it right now... Where are we going today?"

"And what makes you think we're going anywhere?"

"Because." Oliver went to his closet, picking out some clothes of a red-gold persuasion, and going behind the screen in the corner to change while his aunt remained where she was. "You woke me up ridiculously early, and pretty hard, too. I assume we're going somewhere."

"Well, yes. To meet a family to negotiate for some farmland outside the dome... One is actually a widower that wouldn't mind a young man such as you---"

"Auntie, please, stop." Oliver sighed, roughly pulling his shirt on and buttoning it up. "I want to find someone on my own, not by being prompted by you or my mother or father."

He heard the woman sigh. "You know your parents want you to find a good person to settle down with."

"On their own agenda." Oliver buttoned his pants, grabbing a ribbon and threading it around his neck and tying it into a bow. "They want someone wealthy, and no less. And I don't care who I find, as long as he's sweet and friendly and in tune with me instead of his money." He stepped out from behind the screen, going to the dresser and picking up the fine-toothed brush, running it through his wild hair and lying it down. "But can you let me go... soon? I want to look at the marketplace..."

"What do you think you'll find there?" Sae asked curiously.

"Please, I just want to take a look, on my own, for once." Oliver gave her a pleading glance, and Sae huffed.

"Fine, fine... Come along, I'll have your parents release you early so you can go." Olive smiled, pausing to pull on his socks and boots and grabbing his journal before running out of the room. Soon he could see Jean-Sal again.

The markets were bustling all day long and Jean-Sal managed to sell most of his cider, so he left his stall to play for people. He jigged while he played his fiddle, dancing with the children and anyone else that stopped to join in. His thoughts kept falling on Oliver, but he brushed them away once they did. If the man doesn't turn up, he wouldn't be too worried. He wouldn't be offended either. It must be hard for someone of Oliver's character to come to the markets. The majority of nobility he had seen were women that were dressed finely with big hats on their heads, going to see Agnes, the fortune-teller. Jean-Sal knew that it was all a ruse, a magic trick. But the foolish rich people didn't know that. He felt a bit bad that Agnes scammed them out of their money, but then again, if people were so stupid to easily part with it in the first place it might as well go to a good cause.

A party, of course. After selling all their wares and buying what they needed for the journey to their next location, they would throw a huge party and invite everyone to dance and drink and tell stories until the moon sunk low in the sky. And then they would stoke up the engines and gather the cattle and be on their merry way. Jean-Sal couldn't wait for the party, even though the gypsies partied every night. The leaving party was the biggest and most spectacular event compared to the small ones they had.

He danced with a woman as he played, her blonde hair long and beautiful, her simple blue dress billowing like smoke as she twirled. She seemed around Jean-Sal's age and he saw no ring on her hand. After they finished dancing, he bowed to her and she let him kiss her hand. She left him to go into the arms of a nice-looking young man, who was obviously her suitor. Jean-Sal winked at him and turned around, watching the children dance and play. The girls twirled and leapt like ballerinas from the days of yore and the boys chased each other with sticks and fake guns. He loved to watch them play together, city folk and gypsies. They didn't know the stigma they would soon be having for each other. Their innocence made Jean-Sal feel good.

Before he could start up another song on his fiddle, a group of elderly men called him over asking him for a story. He recognised Goat and rolled his eyes. Drunk and wanting to entertain his new found friends, no doubt. He put away his fiddle and joined them, telling them a racy story about a girl who lost her underwear while skinny dipping. He had them in stitches in no time, and he grinned as he scanned the crowd again.

His eyes fell on a familiar form and he excused himself, rushing forwards and grabbing Oliver's hand, twirling him around and pulling him to the clear area where people were dancing to the music being played. He started to dance with the man, before anything was said between them, his hazel eyes staring straight into Oliver's green ones, trying to read his soul. "You look like a doll," he said as he twirled Oliver around again and rested his hands on the man's hips.

Before they left for their destination Oliver's mother took out a gentle waxy substance, pushing it through Oliver's hair and combing it down so it didn't come undone in the generated breeze inside the dome. He didn't fuss over it, however---it was one of the few times his mother actually bothered with him when it didn't come to trying to set him up with someone whose money and power she and his father wanted to share. He sighed, following them and his aunt and making their way up through the highest districts to a house that was somewhat larger than theirs. He kept to the back, smiling and shaking the hands of those that were introduced to him, and said his courtesy where he could. His mother made a big deal of introducing him to the widower his aunt had told him about, a balding man of, perhaps, no more than sixty. Oliver had a hard time keeping the faint smile on his face as they began their negotiations, and he felt he had no place in the conversations with the man and his grown children, and sat a little ways away from the group until he was told to come forward.

His parents had strategically sat so that Oliver had to sit close to the widower, named Ronald Harrington. He was a well enough man, but soft spoken, and didn't seem to like to speak of much more than his current life, his business, or what was related to his business. When Oliver made a comment on current events, or the movies that might be playing in the theaters, Ronald seemed to shut down and mutter that he didn't really visit the theaters. After a fifth attempt to make conversation, Oliver gave up and studied his folded hands, glancing up to appeal to his aunt, who sat across from him. She nodded and stood, crouching in front of his parents. The conversation was too quiet for him to hear, but hey seemed to understand, nodding, and one of Harrington's butlers saw him to the front doors and out.

Oliver felt as if he could breathe easily, but didn't break out into a full run as he went toward the marketplace between the lower and upper districts. He jogged, kept his head down so no one would stop him or speak to him. He felt it was late, and that perhaps Jean-Sal was wondering where he might be. He was a gypsy, no doubt he was busy with his songs, music, his sales. But Oliver wanted to see him again. He'd never felt quite the same way about anyone he'd met before, and Jean-Sal was so different, so unique. When he made it to the center square, Oliver paused to catch his breath and looked around at all the stalls. Different foods from outside the dome, spices and fabrics, instruments, fruits and vegetables, and jewelry that was made by hand and with care. He smelled something familiar---that carefree scent, slightly smoky, a natural smell clinging to the clothes of the gypsies as he threaded through and stared around. A fortune booth. Did people really believe in fortunes? Oliver couldn't really believe in it, but if it gave the gypsies money and the nobles a sense of positive thinking, then so be it.

He gasped when someone took his hand, but relieved when he recognized the brown hair and hazel eyes, melting into the movement of the impromptu dance and smiling, studying Jean-Sal's eyes as if he hadn't been able to see them for months, resting his hands on his shoulders. "Do I?" He laughed, shaking his hair a little to make it loosen up. "It's not my favorite look to be honest, kind of uncomfortable." He pulled the ribbon from around his neck, feeling as if he were breathing easier. "I'm sorry I'm late." He put his arms around Jean's shoulders. "My parents are so adamant that I meet every eligible man they find that I don't always have some time to get away." He felt swept up in the curious, different music, the smells from the stalls and the stories being told that he almost forgot they were still under the dome protecting the city.