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When a family reaches heights of wealth and power such as the Arcs of Vale commanded, it doesn't simply hold celebrations at a modest home, or even rented public venues, and for the twentieth birthday of the sole son and heir of said family of wealth and power, that rule goes double. Instead of hosting their guests at their palatial estate in the heart of Vale, or clearing out an entire hotel or convention center, the Arcs held Jaune's birthday gala in the summer palace on their private island. Located a few miles to the northeast of the island of Patch, Arcstone Island was the retreat and ancestral home of the Arc family, the shining jewel in the display of their wealth.
For the rich and famous who rated an invitation from the Arc family, all manner of luxury accommodations awaited to handle every conceivable need, or want, that their guests could conceive. Private docks could accommodate even the largest of yachts, while a state-of-the-art hangar complex handled the various airships in which those who preferred air travel arrived. The center of the island was dominated by a literal, actual palace - there was no other word for it - with gleaming alabaster spires that caught the light of day and glowed with ethereal beauty at night. Some distance behind the palace, an entire village stood to house the small army of servants, chefs, chauffeurs, crews for vehicles both aerial and nautical, a full complement of medical personnel, and even a contingent of armed security, answerable only to the Arcs themselves, all of whom were there to ensure the comfort and safety of a single family.
Passing through the golden gates of the palace itself, seated in the back of one of the fleet of luxury limousines that ferried guests to and from the docks or airport and the palace proper, those guests were led into a courtyard decorated with statues of great Arcs throughout Vale's history, and then ushered through a richly-appointed antechamber and into a ballroom of simply tremendous dimensions. Teams of servants had scrubbed and polished the marble floor of the ballroom until it glistened with a reflective sheen. Long banquet tables, made of the finest of Valean hardwoods, had been set up, and a small army of chefs were busy preparing a dizzying array of meals, exotic and exquisite dishes from all around Remnant, flavored with rare and hideously expensive spices. A live orchestra was going through their warm-ups, preparing for a long night playing for the entertainment of the flower of Valean society. Beverages of every conceivable sort were prepared for serving, including vintages that predated the founding of the Kingdom. And leaning casually against a wall and watching the proceedings, a tremendously bored Jaune Arc fought the urge to ditch the entire scene to go hang out at the Crow's Nest with his real friends, none of whom would be admitted through the door if they were to somehow show up.
The heir to the wealth on display at this function found the entire thing to be just…gross. All of it. The decor of alabaster, marble, and gold was just gaudy and excessive to his tastes. The costs of the manpower and equipment just for coordinating the incoming traffic, alone, could fund the entire Valean Public School system, with marked improvements, for over a decade. None of this was about him, not really, so much as it was the Arc family as a whole making a statement, and that statement might as well have been "Place your bids now!" At twenty, he had reached the traditional age for formal betrothals, and gods knew, his father had been busy fielding offers from all over Vale, and even beyond.
Gil Arc had made an enemy of Jacques Schnee when he'd rejected his offer to match Jaune with the second daughter of the Schnee family, his father denouncing the Schnee patriarch as "nouveau riche garbage, a snakeblooded, upjumped tradesman with delusions of grandeur and ideas far above his station," stating, in no uncertain terms, that he'd never let any of his "spawn" near any of his children.
The vehemence of his father's rejection had taken Jaune by surprise. Gil Arc was generally an amiable fellow - he certainly had reason to be, what with his family's great fortune - and it was rare to hear him speak ill of someone, let alone tear into him. Gil had explained that he'd known Nicholas Schnee, and the first time that Jacques Geles had come sniffing around the man's daughter, Willow, he'd advised the man to "gut him like a fish." Alas, he had not, and while the man's running of the Schnee Dust Company had raised its economic fortunes, there were certain norms that a family of stature were meant to conform to, and Jacques Schnee's very public indiscretions cost that family a great deal of prestige within the elite of global society.
Jaune wasn't entirely sure that his father truly understood the true nature or extent of the SDC's crimes, or if he was going with the flow in terms of public disfavor of the Dust magnate. Gil Arc wasn't a bad man, as such, but he was highly-disinclined to question or disturb the system that made himself and his family unfathomably wealthy, powerful, and secure. Jaune's first time questioning the justice of that system came when it truly sank in that he was the heir to his family's fortune, and would be expected to lead it in the wake of his father's passing. He was the third-born of the Arc children, and he'd questioned why, exactly, neither of his older sisters were allowed to inherit.
His oldest sister, Cerulea, was patient and level-headed, almost painfully competent, and had a good head for detail. She'd be a fine heir if their father was looking for a steady, stabilizing successor. The next oldest, Saphron….well, Jaune had been surprised at his own boldness in facing off against The Crow. Saphron was as fierce as a lion, daring and stubborn as a force of nature. If their father wanted an heir to shake things up and move things in a new direction, none could do so better than her.
The biggest fight he'd ever heard between his parents had to do with just what to do with his second-eldest sister. Saphron liked women. Actually, that was an understatement. Saphron craved other women, the way a flower needs the sunlight. Their mother, Isabelle, had suggested to her that she marry well, then find a discreet mistress after putting out an heir or two for her husband. Saphron had nodded politely, said something to the effect of "fuck that," and then gone on a grand spree of rejecting every suitor who made their father an offer for her hand. One of them had been a man their father's age, and Saph had not only turned him down, had not only publicly vowed to "seduce and fuck" his daughter, but had actually gone and done it. It was a huge scandal, and while their father was of the opinion that a man trying to court a woman the same age as his daughter had it coming, their mother was in a panic, worrying about the damage to the prospects of the rest of the Arc brood if their wayward daughter wasn't brought to heel.
They'd ended up shipping Saphron off to The Brothers' Brides, a religious organization made up entirely of women. Within a year, they'd shipped Saph right back, the sect's reputation for purity and chastity in tatters. An entirely unapologetic, grinning Saphron shared stories of lewd trysts with beautiful, repressed nuns, an escapade involving the wife of the Merchant-Prince of Vacuo and her sister and all five of her husband's beautiful concubines, and topped it all off with a topless sword duel with the offended husband in the middle of the Sandstone Plaza.
In retrospect, sending Saphron Arc to a nunnery was like sending an alcoholic to a wine cellar. Their father had actually chuckled at his daughter's misbehavior, before his wife had silenced him with a deadly glare. Isabelle had then asked Jaune, as the heir, what ideas he might have about the situation. Whatever else might be said of Jaune Arc, he was no one's fool, and recognizing that his sister had the ability to charm the skirt off a nun, he'd immediately turned to her and asked for advice with women. Isabelle had thrown up her hands in despair, while her husband finally dropped all pretense and roared with laughter.
Since then, it had been more or less decided that Saphron would be Jaune's problem to deal with, but Jaune never saw her as a problem. She was his sister, his super-awesome, sword-fighting, nun-banging big sis.
His parents tried, they really did, but they just couldn't understand why he felt the way he did. His father worried that he was insecure about his abilities and worthiness to take over after his father's death, but that wasn't it at all. Jaune felt that he could do the task, sure, but more to the point, he felt as though his sisters were unfairly denied their chance to prove their worthiness. Cerulea had certainly never caused a problem in her life, and while Saphron probably would've been hell on heels in any timeline, maybe having some responsibility and meaningful prospects for her life would've made her a little less inclined to grand, theatrical displays of rebellion.
Though honestly, Jaune didn't mind that. The great figures of the Arc family had lived and died long, long ago. Most of the modern Arcs had simply coasted on the success of their forefathers, content to manage the great fortune and property held to their name and otherwise enjoy lives of leisure. Saphron's abbreviated Vacuoan vacation was, in Jaune's estimation, the most badass thing any Arc had done in generations. Well, at least among those things that could be publicly known.
Jaune hadn't chosen to be born an Arc. He certainly hadn't done anything to earn all the wealth and power that would one day be his to command. He couldn't take pride in that. What he did take pride in were the accomplishments that he had earned with his wits, his courage, and his own two hands. Most of his relatives couldn't even drive, relegating such tasks to the help; while Jaune wasn't the gifted mechanic that Yang or Ruby were, he did know his way around an engine compartment. Sport fencing was common curricula in the exclusive schools and private tutoring regimens that his peers were taught, but that sport bore little resemblance to the sort of actual fights that he'd had since he was twelve years old. He'd met people from all walks of life, learning from their experiences and perspectives, gaining insight that he never could have had staying safely on the grounds of the Arc family's holdings. Jaune had once challenged his father, asking when was the last time he'd ever spoken to a Faunus that he wasn't paying, and the thoughtful silence from the older man had spoken volumes without a single word.
And, of course, he'd stood up to The Crow, refusing to back down even in the face of a fight he knew he couldn't win. Maybe some of his aristocratic peers would have done the same, but they would have been acting out of ignorance of the man's capabilities, and from a sense of outraged umbrage at the perceived disrespect from one of the lower orders. Having worked with the man for years, Jaune knew, probably better than anyone else in the world, exactly what Qrow Branwen could do, and he was well aware that he could've taken him apart in alphabetical order, had he had a mind to do so. Even knowing that, Jaune had put himself in harm's way, all because he believed it wasn't right for him to retaliate against a girl for making out with him. Sure, Neo was a criminal, and he was a crimefighter, but that didn't make it okay.
Well, at least Yang had confirmed that she and Roman had made themselves scarce in the week since the incident. The last thing Jaune wanted to hear was that Neo had been hurt because of him. It wasn't her fault he was just so irresistible. He chuckled to himself; Saphron wasn't the only Arc sibling who could swagger.
His musings were interrupted when he saw his mother approach him. Isabelle Arc was a staunch believer in aging gracefully, and as such, her hair was nearly all gray, with only a few streaks of her youthful black color remaining. Still, the matron of the Arc clan was handsome and far more imposing than her husband, with her every movement speaking of a carefully-controlled grace, a demonstration of long-perfected and absolute mastery over even the smallest step she took. She wore a gown of green samite, the luxurious and heavy silk interwoven with threaded gold. Jaune's mother had been a bit of a distant figure in his youngest years, with much of his childhood being spent in the care of professional nannies and tutors. It didn't help that those same years were punctuated with long periods of his mother's subsequent pregnancies and recovery periods. At twelve, Jaune had begun venturing into the city on his own, a decision that, in retrospect, had been reckless and foolish. Still, a certain avian-themed caped crusader had intervened when a couple of thugs had beaten him up and mugged him, and the rest was history. Jaune had spent as much of the intervening eight years as he could training under The Crow and accompanying him on missions and patrols, all of which left little time for his family.
Isabelle was an authority, to be sure, but a distant one. They had only had one truly open conversation, and that had pertained to his relationship with Yang. Jaune wondered if that was how all kids felt about their parents, or if it was just another hallmark of his aristocratic upbringing. He wondered just how he would feel if something really did happen to the woman. Would he weep for the loss of a near-stranger to him?
Still, she was his mother, and as such, was due respect and courtesy. Jaune bowed politely to her. "Hello, mother," he greeted.
"Jaune. As lovely as it is to see you here at Arcstone, I do have to wonder what it is you're doing in the ballroom so early? The servants won't finished setting it up for hours, darling."
He could only shrug. "Well, I came over here to see if I could help with anything. They, uh, about had a conniption at the idea of the Arc heir doing something like 'moving a table,' so I've just been marking time since."
Isabelle shook her head. "Of course they wouldn't let you help, you silly boy. Servants serve; it's what they're for. Now come along, you're making them nervous."
Jaune offered his mother his arm and she took it as they left the ballroom. "I'm sure that you are aware that there are more than a few of the most eligible young ladies on the continent who will be in attendance tonight," she said. At her son's sigh, Isabelle quirked a brow. "Surely, you have finished your sulking over that peasant girl of yours? I told you before, you would have done no kindness bringing her to this life. At best, she would have been seen as a momentary dalliance, and at worst, an opportunistic lady of ill-repute. In any event, others would see her as an obstacle, and seek to supplant her. She would have needed the protection of the Arc name, but even were you to do something so foolish, she would have been largely alone, with no family, certainly none capable of protecting her from the slings and arrows of the highborn."
"I know, Mother." And Jaune did, truly. Ending things with Yang had been difficult, but it'd been for the best. Aristocrats who would have accepted losing out on matching their daughters with an Arc heir for another of their class would have been livid at the notion of him choosing a commoner instead, and with the sort of wealth that was at stake, that could buy a lot of professional trouble. They'd have had to have been on guard, all the time, and even setting aside the potential risk of assassins, the day-to-day grind of dealing with people who had had their sense of inherent superiority over others deliberately cultivated over the course of their entire lives…Jaune couldn't do that to her. Maybe if he'd been a younger brother, a spare of a spare, but as the sole son and heir? It'd never work. Yang deserved the world, and for all the wealth and power that being the heir was supposed to bring him, Jaune still couldn't give her that.
He'd have laughed, if it wasn't so bitter. If it wasn't his civilian identity mucking things up, it was his alter ego as The Huntsman that was imposing social boundaries. Romance was difficult enough without strict limitations imposed on who could or could not be together. Still, his mother was looking at him expectantly, so Jaune supposed he should at least mention the reason for his current melancholy. "I have a weakness for troublesome women, I suppose. It was just a brief encounter, but it was…memorable." Despite himself, Jaune grinned at the memory of Neo Politan's wicked little smirk just before she'd kissed him.
"Oh gods, why are my children so incorrigible?" Isabelle griped, and at his mother's lament, Jaune chuckled. "No nuns," she warned. "And promise me that you won't have any bastards running around. Thank the gods that your sister at least can't impregnate her…friends."
Jaune quirked a brow at his mother's choice of euphemism. "Friends?" he echoed, amused. "Just gals being pals, I suppose."
"You know what I mean." Isabelle shook her head.
"Anyways, you won't have to worry about that from me," said Jaune, trying to reassure his mother.
"Really? So you didn't leave the peasant girl with a little 'reminder' of your time together?"
"Of course not!" Jaune looked genuinely shocked by the notion. First of all, Qrow really would have killed him. But more to the point… "I only wanted the best for Yang. I wasn't about to use her and leave her. When I couldn't give her everything of me, I broke it off, clean and honest. And I'm certainly not going to leave a girl alone with a child of mine. I'm a bit more responsible than all that, Mother."
He was taken aback when he saw his mother looking at him, with a strangely wistful expression on her face. She reached up and cupped his cheek. "You're a good boy," she said. "Strange, with strange ideas, but good. I'm just wondering how it is that you became a man when I wasn't looking."
"The same as any other, I suspect. Years and sorrows."
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Roman Torchwick wasn't just a kid in a candy store - he was a kid who had just been declared King of Candyland, whom all must pay homage in the form of sweets.
Thanks to his pint-size compatriot Neo, he was now in a position that most any thief would have killed for. Not only had he set foot on Arcstone, which was more or less the single best score in all the world, he hadn't even had to try to get there. He and Neo waltzed off their Bullhead with a literal written invitation and been ushered into a luxury limousine to take them from the airport to the palace.
A palace. A literal palace. Roman's fingers were already twitching in giddy anticipation of all of the glorious, glorious loot that he could lift off of the fattest marks in all the land. Still, he wasn't some amateur pickpocket, to lose out on the big score because he couldn't resist the first quick and easy take to cross his path. No, Roman was a goddamned professional, and that meant that he was going to do this properly, damn it. He was going to help Neo with her love life - again, weird - while assessing the security, layout, and potential prizes with his practiced eye. Then, once he and Neo had left the place, he'd plan out the single greatest heist in history. The name of Roman Torchwick would go down in underworld legend. Hell, he'd be a household name even among the civvies.
Neo would understand. She had to understand what bringing him, of all people, here, of all places, meant. Something was getting lifted. Besides, for all he knew, her whole infatuation with the Arc boy turned superhero could blow up in her face, and she'd cheer him on. It was decided, then; if things went well for her, Roman would loot the place, and if things went poorly, he'd loot the place and leave a nasty note for the Arc boy before he left.
Something just felt off about the Arc heir, something strange. Really, what kind of aristocrat got their kicks by descending into the underworld to wreak havoc among the common folk?
Well, Neo did. Still, Neo at least made no bones about the fact that she was stark raving crazy. Arc pretended to be all normal, in his stylish suits and innocuous photos. Neo did what she did because she adhered to the simple ideology of 'Fuck 'em.' And really, after having met her mother and father earlier, Roman could absolutely see where she was coming from with that. Fuck 'em, indeed. But what was Arc's excuse? What, it wasn't enough that cops and courts and Capes all existed to keep his pampered ass safe and rich, he had to go get his hands dirty among the help?
Admittedly, most of Roman's own interactions with The Huntsman consisted of him watching Neo kick him in the Arc Family Jewels, him mocking the kid for aforementioned incident, and then the kid having the guts to make out with his sidekick, but still. It was the principle of the thing. Cops and Capes and criminals all did their own dance, but the Arcs were on another social level entirely. The whole thing smacked of exploitation, like Arc was one of those little pricks that threw cash at bums to watch them fight for their own entertainment.
Hell, he'd probably paid The Crow to let him run around and pretend to be his sidekick for a while. Fucking tourist.
On the upside, if he broke Neo - sorry, Trivia's - heart on this little excursion, Roman had an ironclad excuse for mercilessly beating the stuffing out of the little shit with a cane. Civilian identity stuff, Your Beakiness, honest. Defending the honor of the young lady, after all. The man had daughters, he'd understand.
With that thought in mind, he smiled broadly as the car came to a stop at the entrance of the palace. Opening the door, he turned to offer his companion his assistance, taking her tiny hand, encased in pink satin, in his.
"Your adoring public awaits, my lady."
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As the ball got into full swing, Jaune tried very hard to keep his complete and utter disinterest in the event and its attendees from showing on his face. Well, most of the attendees, at least. His sisters, all seven of them, were present, though the youngest, little Violet, would need to be put to bed soon. The littlest Arc, at eleven, was trying her hardest to prove that she was a grown-up too. It was adorable. Between his studies, his time as The Huntsman, and the different expectations placed on him as the heir, Jaune hadn't been able to spend nearly as much time with his sisters as he would have liked. Violet reminded him of Ruby at that age, so much so that it hurt. He'd come into the weird little crimefighting family's lives when Ruby was only seven. The girl's mother was gone, her father grew colder every year, and poor Yang was overwhelmed trying to hold things together on her own. He'd like to think that he had helped, in his own way, a girl from whom life had taken so much so early, just as they had helped him. Poor Ruby had taken his breakup with Yang worse than either of them had, and Jaune had made sure to make it clear that she could always count on him for whatever she needed, even if he wasn't going to be her big brother-in-law.
Saphron had somehow managed to cause problems without actually breaking any rules; she'd brought along Terra Cotta, the young lady with whom she'd had the unbelievably torrid affair that had inspired her Vacuoan excursion, as her date for the ball. The lady in question certainly looked happy to be there with Saphron; the crown of violets woven into her dark hair was a nice touch, one that he was sure Saph had enjoyed making. Mother had been horribly scandalized, of course, but Jaune had allowed it. When Isabelle had asked why, Jaune could only shrug and answer that it made his sister happy, and he wanted all his sisters to be happy on his birthday.
Father had warned him that there could well be repercussions for his permissiveness in the future. Jaune just shrugged once more and suggested that anyone who had a problem with it was free to try and pick a swordfight with Saph herself; she'd cut any fool who tried to ribbons, and it'd make for damn good dinner entertainment. As a result, Saphron now wore a tuxedo of her own, her rapier hanging from her side as she danced with her lady, the both of them enraptured with one another.
Jaune may not have been able to be as good of a brother as he otherwise may have been, but he would always do his best to ensure his sisters' happiness, all of them.
His own happiness, on the other hand, seemed a much more daunting proposition. Hells, he couldn't even tell his three associates to just piss off already, not without risking them forming a bloc against the Arc family in the future. The three young men, around his age, each hailed from some of Vale's nobility, and were traditional allies to his family. That was all well and good, but the individuals themselves were…well, they wouldn't have been his first choice of companions, to say the very least. The least offensive of the lot was Sky Lark, and that was because the man was a complete and utter non-entity. He had all the charm and charisma of a stump, and not even a particularly compelling stump, either. Lark was the very definition of bland. The second of Jaune's associates was Dove Bronzewing, who was just so…very…ugh. He was a natural-born toady, a sycophant from a long line of sycophants. He would always laugh obnoxiously loudly at every mildly-amused comment Jaune made within his hearing. Bronzewing would agree with his every idea, even the verifiably stupid ones that he'd toss out from time to time to see if he was paying attention. Jaune had known the man for years, but still had no idea about any of his actual opinions on, well, anything, as he would wait to see what Jaune thought before inevitably agreeing with him. Jaune wondered if he actually had any opinions on anything.
Jaune could put up with Bronzewing in small doses - even a transparent brown-noser had the occasional use - and getting annoyed with Lark was like finding oneself offended by a sea sponge, as the blue-haired aristocrat was less a man and more a variety of vaguely biological feature that managed to walk upright. But the last, and least, of the three, Jaune actively, strongly disliked. Cardin fuckin' Winchester. He was tall, broad, brash, and a complete and utter shameless asshole. He was a swaggering braggart, with neither the skills nor the experience to back up his attitude, and Jaune just knew that he was the sort to go crying to his father at the first sign of trouble. Jaune had once asked the taller man if he even understood the concept of noblesse oblige, to which Winchester had breezily replied that he wasn't fond of stinky cheeses.
All told, if Cardin Winchester were to abruptly go up in flames, Jaune honestly didn't know that he would take the time to piss on him to put him out. The more time he was forced to endure his presence, the more tempted he was to strike a match and see.
Jaune nodded politely at something that somesuch personage of supposed importance had said, pretending to listen as Dove babbled with the man over a subject that the Arc son honestly couldn't be arsed to care about. Cardin made a terribly lewd and bigoted comment about one of the serving girls, one of the tired old tropes about 'going into heat' which his companions took as the very bleeding edge of wit. Jaune idly wondered how angry his mother would be if he bodyslammed Cardin through every table in the room, set up the pieces to make an indoor bonfire, and chucked Winchester into it. He decided that she'd probably be pretty mad, though more at the smoke damage to the ballroom than the public impromptu human sacrifice. He spent the next minute or so pretending to listen to his fellow young men, while privately pondering whether or not publicly punching out every last tooth in Winchester's mouth would rate as more of a social faux pas than Saphron's misadventures. Ultimately, he decided that Saphron's exploits with the ladies were more light-hearted shenanigans motivated by love of life, adventure, and women, while his idle fantasies of pummeling Winchester into a bleeding, incoherent paste were more the dark catharsis of a troubled mind forced to spend too much time in the company of people he despised. Fortunately for Winchester's life expectancy, Jaune followed what Yang had dubbed "The Ruby Rule" - if Jaune couldn't look Ruby in her huge, innocent silver eyes and truthfully declare that he'd had no choice but to kill someone, then that person didn't need to die.
Didn't mean he couldn't at least think about it, though. Maybe if he reminded everyone that it was his birthday?
He'd resigned himself to spending the evening in that manner, staying sober enough to keep out of trouble, pleasant enough not to give offense,and bored enough that he'd taken to idle fantasies of arson and murder to keep himself from going crazy. Or perhaps he'd already gone crazy, and he was just going through the motions of a normal person out of force of habit. Either way, it was a dreary affair.
Jaune was about to take a sip of his wine when he just stopped, completely, stock-still, in sheer shock. Out of seemingly nowhere, Roman bloody Torchwick of all people, was standing at the entryway of the ballroom. His trademark hat was missing, but he made up for it in a brocade coat. Either way, it was definitely Torchwick. Jaune's mind raced. How was Torchwick here? Why was he here? What in all the -
Torchwick cleared his throat with great drama. "Introducing the Lady Trivia, of the House Vanille!" he announced. Jaune stared blankly. Fucking what? He was playing lackey to some aristocratic woman? Did he have some paramour?
With supreme grace, he bowed and stepped aside, giving way to…
Jaune's jaw dropped. He stared ahead, then double-checked his wine glass, wondering if someone had slipped something in his drink. He was pretty sure he had, in fact, lost his mind, because this "Trivia Vanille" was one-hundred percent Neo Politan.
Except, in defiance of all logic, reason, and the laws of gods and man, Neo Politan was dressed in a gown of pink satin. The skirt was floor-length, with a lace bodice featuring an off-the-shoulder neckline. Her hair, which he noted was entirely brown, was drawn up in an elegant updo, and a diamond choker glinted on her long, slender neck. But even had there been some other girl with pink and brown heterochromatic eyes, the gleeful light behind them, and the teasing little smirk of someone who'd just played an almighty prank was absolutely Neo. There was no mistake of that.
There were murmurs from the crowd, mostly from people who had heard that the Vanille girl had had some kind of deformity or grotesque appearance that forced her parents to keep her out of public view. Well, that clearly wasn't the case, as that girl was clearly stunning. The murmuring only intensified as Jaune Arc dropped his wine glass to shatter, unheeded, against the marble floor as he made a beeline for the girl. They clearly knew one another, but the Arc heir must not have had any clue that she would be there, as he looked completely poleaxed at the very sight of her.
Jaune inelegantly lurched to a halt in front of her, as perfectly off-balance as it was possible for a young man to be. Before he could open his mouth, though, Roman beat him to the punch. "Master Arc," he greeted. "I'm sure that you remember my mistress, the lady Trivia Vanille?"
His brain may have not been entirely functional at the moment, but Jaune didn't miss the emphasis that the thief had placed on Neo's civilian alias. "I…Lady Trivia! I wasn't expecting…I mean, the last time we met…that is…" Jaune Arc was the heir to the most powerful economic apparatus, greatest fortune, and most prestigious name on Remnant. Furthermore, he'd been personally trained for years by the most experienced and devastatingly-competent superhero in all the world. But for all of that, when in the company of Neo Politan - Trivia Vanille - he was reduced to a babbling dolt, in a way that he hadn't been since the first time Yang had flashed him when they were seventeen. "You look…miraculous," he finally stammered out. Finally remembering his courtesies, he gently lifted her hand to place a kiss on the back of her satin-gloved fingers.
Neo shot him a look that was pure amusement. She held his gaze as she dipped into a textbook curtsey, eyes just daring his eyes to wander lower across the smooth, pale skin of her bare neck, shoulders, and decolletage. With that done, she planted a hand on one shapely hip, expectantly waiting for him to offer her his arm.
Jaune had the good grace to flush in embarrassment. Was this real? Had he hit his head or something? Maybe The Crow had beaten him into a coma, and all of this was just some dream he was having as the medics scraped parts of his brain off the ceiling of the Crow's Nest. Still, if this was a dream, then he certainly wasn't going to dream that he had poor manners, and so he offered Neo his arm, which she took. "Would you care for some refreshments, my lady? Or would you prefer to dance?"
Neo made a show of thinking it over, placing a single gloved finger onto her pursed, pouty lips and canting her head. After a brief moment, she shrugged and then nodded towards the dance floor. With a second nod, Roman bowed and slinked off somewhere. Jaune scarcely noted the man's departure, so enchanted was he with the gamine little beauty on his arm.
Jaune took her hand in his, marveling at how small and delicate it felt in his grasp, his other hand on the small of her back. The band struck a waltz, and they were off.
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Isabelle watched over the ballroom from a balcony, looking for trouble the way a commander oversaw a battlefield. She hadn't known what to think when the Vanille family had requested an invitation for their daughter plus her personal manservant. To the best of her knowledge, few had seen the Vanille girl, certainly none within her circle. Rumors flew of an unfortunate soul stricken by horrifying deformities, a living horror of whom few could bear the sight. Well, looking at the gorgeous young thing in her son's arms, those rumors were clearly dead wrong.
She recalled her earlier conversation with Jaune, and how he lamented his "weakness for troublesome women," and an apparent "memorable encounter." with one. Isabelle sighed to herself. She would need to have a word with her son, and soon, it seemed. His unfortunate experience with the peasant girl appeared to have made him a bit too cautious. While it was true the House Vanille was hardly the most wealthy or prestigious of Valean aristocratic houses - she made a mental note to remind Gil to press Vanille hard for trade concessions if they were to negotiate a betrothal in the future - there were an aristocratic house, and there was a world of difference between choosing a daughter from a lesser house and a common peasant girl. Actually, given the fraught tension brewing between some of the power blocs in Vale, matching their heir to a daughter from a minor house like the Vanille might prove to be the safer, non-controversial option.
Setting aside thoughts of political maneuvering for just a moment, Isabelle allowed herself to smile as she watched her son spin the tiny young woman in his arms. She hadn't been the mother that her parents seemed to want or need. She was too much a product of her upbringing. While she may not have understood her children, especially not Jaune and Saphron, she did love them, in her own way, and wanted the best for them. It'd been clear from his reaction upon seeing her that her little boy was smitten with the Vanille girl. With no reasons that came to mind for her to object to the match, she did hope that it worked out, for that alone.
"All quiet on the western front?"
Isabelle rolled her eyes fondly at the jape her husband made as he entered the balcony to stand beside her. Neither of them were young anymore, and it showed. Gil Arc was a portly man, with the Arc-blonde of his hair and neatly-trimmed goatee gone completely to gray with age. Theirs had been a political match, not one of love, but over four decades of marriage and eight children, they had grown quite close to one another, and she was dearly fond of the man. He was easy to love, naturally possessed of a kind and friendly demeanor - many of the wrinkles around his eyes reflected his easy and frequent smiles - which she saw reflected in their son and heir. He fancied himself something of a scholar, dabbling in intellectual pursuits, but the true joy of his life was, without a doubt, his children. The man doted on them, particularly his many girls, refusing to send them away to boarding school and insisting on keeping them close to home. It was only through her own naturally disciplinarian nature that the lot of them weren't all spoiled truly rotten.
They made for a good team, his soft touch easing the sting of her will of iron, and vice versa. Not that the man was a pushover; many of his peers mistook his kind and gentle nature for weakness, to their detriment. He had shut down Jacques Schnee's overtures with a crushing finality, and one of the few times that Isabelle had seen her husband truly angry was when one of his fellow noblemen had overheard her telling him off about being too lenient with one of their daughters' antics, and had made the mistake of suggesting that he beat the girl to keep her in line, and then beat his wife to put her in her place. Gil's anger was slow to rouse, but terrible to behold when it was. Few noblemen, Valean or otherwise, would put up with their wives taking them to task, but Gil had always borne such with his usual good humor, usually because she was right. The notion that he could or would beat his wife into submission had rendered him greatly incensed. Isabelle loved him all the more for it.
"It seems our son has found himself ensnared," she said, gesturing for Gil to take a look. Down on the dance floor, Jaune had clearly asked the Vanille girl - oh, what was her name, Tamia, Tapioca, something of the like? - a question. While she couldn't see the girl's response, Jaune clearly liked her answer, as he broke into a big, silly grin.
"Oh, now that is interesting," Gil chuckled. "Who is the girl?"
"Apparently, the Vanille daughter."
"Really?" he raised a brow. "I had heard that the girl was somehow grotesque."
"We should all be so 'grotesque,'" Isabelle remarked dryly. "Oh, to be 'accursed' with that waistline."
Gil laughed, even as he took her hand in his own. "She's a girl, but a third of your age, and you're the mother of eight children. You and I, we're entitled to a little pudge."
"Some of us more entitled than others," she teased, poking at his belly. "No more than a single serving of the cake tonight."
Her husband sighed in resignation. "Yes, dear."
She smiled, a true, genuine smile, then laid her head on his shoulder, the parents watching their son fall in love before their eyes.
[/]
As the waltz came to an end, Jaune held Neo in the final pose. "I do have a question, if you'll indulge me."
In response, Neo lifted a brow.
"Well, are you truly Trivia Vanille, or are you impersonating her for the night?" At her apparent confusion, he pressed on. "Please. It's important. I've had to end a relationship before because all of this…this world, it would have torn at her, over and over again. If this is just for tonight, then so be it, but if there's to be any chance at all of anything more than a kiss and a memory…are you Trivia Vanille?"
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, Trivia nodded.
A smile spread across his face, bright and joyous, and despite how silly all of the everything was, especially him, Trivia couldn't resist joining in with that smile. She felt a strange warmth in her chest, a sort of giddiness, but she hadn't stolen anything, or blown anything up. Was she happy? Was this what happiness was? Seeing someone else be so happy about who she was?
When had anyone ever been happy about the existence of Trivia Vanille?
Like a passing summer squall, his puppylike giddiness faded, and the silly awkwardness returned. "Uh, not that I'm, you know, presuming anything. Just that, you know, if there was a chance for anything to happen it won't get strangled before it can grow. If that makes sense? Oh gods, I'm bab-"
Trivia reached up and placed an index finger on his lips, indicating that he should shush. He flushed, and she pulled back, a twinkle in her mismatched eyes. She then held up her hand and snapped her fingers. As if summoned by magic, Roman appeared at her side. She took his arm and then reached up, tapping her forefinger against her temple.
Oh. Think. Right. Thinking would probably be good at the moment. Trivia turned to wander off somewhere, but not before blowing him a kiss. The big, silly grin was back on his face again, and Neo just rolled her eyes fondly before allowing Roman to lead her away.
Jaune stood there on the dance floor, with that big, dopey grin on his face.
Oh, he was in trouble.
[/]
For a mute, Neo sure could babble a lot. As soon as he'd led her into a secluded hallway that he'd scouted out, the girl collapsed like a melted scoop of ice cream. She was going about a million miles a minute, communicating in meaningful expressions, abbreviated gestures, and formal sign language. The most common repeated themes that Roman could pick out were "butterflies," "sunshine," and…oh gods, he really was losing her to the land of the hoity and the toity, wasn't he?
She was currently leaning with her back against the wall, fanning herself as a flush worked up her neck and all the way to the tips of her ears. Roman decided that Neo was going to owe him a boat load of favors for all of this weirdness that he was coping with for her sake.
He shook his head. "What am I going to do with you, Neo?"
She just smiled ruefully and shrugged.
"Me neither."
[/]
Of course, Jaune had been inundated with questions about the mysterious beauty that had so enthralled him. In retrospect, he hadn't been very subtle. Apparently he'd dropped a wine glass at some point? He didn't recall, so overwhelmed had he been by her sudden appearance. Jaune supposed it wouldn't hurt to answer very basic questions, steering well clear of her criminal alter ego. That, in and of itself, took some time to absorb. Neo Politan, giddy little anarchist munchkin Neo, was, like himself, a child of wealth and privilege.
Actually, given how he'd spent the last hour or so before her arriving fantasizing about burning down his own birthday gala, with Cardin Winchester in it, an aristocratic upbringing would explain a lot about her.
Still, he wasn't about to just blurt out all of that. Secret identities were sacred on the streets, after all. He'd just limit himself to vague or easy answers.
"What's her name?"
"Trivia, of House Vanille," he replied.
"I thought she was supposed to be hideous?"
"Well, you thought wrong."
"Don't you think her eyes are weird though?"
"No. I think that they're very striking. Enthralling, even."
"But doesn't her being a mute cause problems?"
Jaune had shaken his head. "No, of course not. N…Trivia actually has quite a lot to say, and she can be devastatingly funny when she puts her mind to it. All it takes is to just really pay attention to her, and it's pretty easy to make out what's on her mind."
"You think you're going to marry her?"
Jaune looked over in surprise, as that question had come from Cardin Winchester. Huh. He'd been expecting something a lot wo-
"Because if you don't, I will. She's the perfect woman, right? Hot, rich, and guaranteed to never say a word!"
Ah. That was more in-line with what he'd expect from Cardin Winchester. Jaune shook his head. "Trivia Vanille would eat you alive, Winchester. She's like the wind, wild and free. She might bestow her favor on you for a time, but the harder you try to grip, the more she'll slip through your grasp."
Cardin scoffed. "She's a woman, not the bloody wind. Just give her the back of your hand a few times, and she'll -"
Jaune's patience with Winchester, long fraying, had finally snapped. Fortunately, the closest object to hand was a wine glass on the tray of a passing server, and not, say, a knife. As such, Jaune snatched up the drink and hurled its contents all over the heir of House Winchester.
A gasp went through the crowd of partygoers, before descending into a hush. Cardin stood, completely stunned, as vintage red wine dripped from his face and hair, soaking into his tuxedo. All eyes were on Jaune. He fumed. If the Arc name bore such weight that it could shape the course of his life like a gravitational anomaly, then he could damn well throw that weight around to bludgeon the occasional son-of-a-bitch.
"Pardon me," he said, turning to the Faunus servant with the tray, who had frozen like everyone else at the Arc heir's abrupt action. "Could I trouble you for another wine? I fear I've spilled mine. Muscle spasm, you see. I appear to be allergic to boors." He politely thanked the poor servant as he took a second glass of wine, and, locking eyes with Cardin, he took a sip, then deliberately threw even more wine onto the man.
"Oh dear, this appears to be a recurring problem," Jaune deadpanned, earning a few nervous titters from the onlookers.
Cardin continued to scowl. "Do you think you're funny, Arc?"
Jaune shrugged. "Bronzewing, am I funny?"
"Hilarious, Mister Arc."
He gave Cardin his brightest, most obnoxious smile. "My sycophant tells me 'yes.'" Jaune took up a third glass - really, he should make sure that the poor servant received a hefty bonus for his unwitting part in this display - and took a sip, grinning evilly at Winchester. "If I were you, I'd leave now. Try to get the stains out while you can - I know you can't afford too many Adel tuxedos that you can write them off."
"I'll have your cleaners -"
Jaune threw the third batch of wine at him.
"Would you fucking stop -"
"You misunderstood me," Jaune said, his smile turning colder. "I don't want you to leave this ballroom. I want you to leave my home. I want you to leave my island. I want you to scurry back to whatever meager estate your ancestors managed to hold onto, and I want you gone now."
"How do you expect me to leave Arcstone? My father's airship doesn't return until tomorrow morning!"
Jaune stared down Winchester, invoking his best The Crow impression. Slowly, he growled out two words. "Then swim."
Cardin was taller than Jaune, and broader than Jaune, but he wasn't worried. Winchester's muscles were all for show, while Jaune had developed his to work in conjunction with one another through plyometric exercise, all in the name of harnessing rapid, explosive power from them. He had the conditioning, muscle memory, and real-world fight experience to rip Winchester's arm off and beat him with it. 'Give him the back of his hand,' as it were. And that was if Cardin was foolish enough to try and physically fight the sole son and heir of the most powerful family on Remnant, in the very heart of that family's ancestral stronghold. If Cardin raised a hand to him, and Jaune or his father gave the signal, one of the Arc security team's marksmen would put a round through Winchester's head before that hand ever reached him. Just because no one saw them, that doesn't mean they weren't there.
As if finally realizing what a colossal mistake antagonizing Jaune Arc truly was, Cardin shook his head and stepped away. "My father will hear of this," he promised darkly.
"Good," Jaune replied, his tone as unconcerned as if Cardin had just said that he'd seen a cloud. "Do remember to tell him the part where I told you to swim back. I'm rather proud of that line. And make sure to tell him what a braying jackass you've been. I can assure you that others will tell him the same."
As Cardin began to storm off, Jaune picked up one last glass of wine. "A toast," he said, "In remembrance of what has been lost here tonight." He grinned ruefully. "After all, that was damn good wine."
The sound of laughter followed Cardin as he stomped from the grounds of Arcstone Palace, wine trailing his every step.
Within the ballroom, Jaune found himself congratulated by his peers, who respected his display of dominance over Winchester. The most surprising sentiment came from Sky Lark, of all people. "I always thought he was a bit of a cunt," he replied.
Jaune had stared at him. "I'm sorry, did you just have an opinion?"
"It's been known to happen."
"You've had a personality this entire time?" Jaune then blinked as another thought occurred to him. "If you hated him, and I hated him, and Bronzewing will say he hates the very air he breathes if I tell him to, then why the hell have we put up with Winchester for this long?!"
Sky shrugged. "My father told me to follow your lead. I figured you had a good reason to keep him around."
Jaune's mouth worked for a moment, before he gave up. "Fuck it, it's my birthday."
[/]
When Trivia ventured back into the ballroom, having regained her composure, she was taken aback at how so many people were staring at her, especially the women, who began whispering among themselves. She'd been expecting to make something of a splash with her entrance, but surely the novelty of her appearance would have worn off by now, right?
Even Roman noticed. "Sheesh, what the hell?" he muttered. "They ain't never seen a girl with a pink eye before?"
"Hello! I've been waiting for you!" A slender blonde woman, dressed in a tuxedo and carrying a sword at her side, waved cheerily towards them. At a loss, Trivia tentatively waved back. Taking that as an invitation, the swordswoman swaggered towards them. "So, you must be the Trivia girl that everyone's talking about."
Not seeing any alternative, Trivia nodded, then curtsied politely.
"Oh, you are just too cute. Why did my little brother hide such a pretty flower like you? Oh, right, where are my manners? I'm Saphron Arc, Jaune's sister. Jaune's currently explaining to our father why he threw out the heir of an allied House, so he asked me to keep you company if you need anything. Can I get you a drink? I hear the wine's amazing," she said with a grin.
Allowing Jaune's sister to lead her towards a table, Trivia gestured widely at the room and its inhabitants.
Saphron blinked. "Huh. Jaune was right. It is pretty easy to tell what you're thinking if you try." At Trivia's startled look, Saphron explained. "Well, after you left, people were asking questions, and among them was your being a mute. Jaune said that you've got a lot to say, if you just care enough to look."
Trivia came to an abrupt halt, Roman reaching out to steady her on unstable feet. Tears welled in her mismatched eyes.
"Miss Vanille?" Saphron asked, concerned. "Are you well?"
She looked up, with teary eyes, and began resorting to formal sign language.
Saphron shook her head. "Do you know what she's saying?" she asked her servant.
"Yeah," the manservant replied, his own voice thick. "She's saying 'He sees me.'"
The Arc sister's gaze softened. "Oh, you poor thing," she said, pulling the younger woman into an embrace. "It's okay. Jaune's awesome like that, you'll see."
[/]
Jaune thought his mother would have been angrier. For some reason, though, when he'd explained exactly what Winchester had done to instigate the confrontation, Isabelle had just sighed, shook her head, and remarked to his father that he was his son, after all.
Father had just remarked that, the next time he felt the need to throw someone out, to try to do so in a way that didn't leave such a mess for the servants to clean up. It was only polite, after all.
Returning to the ballroom, Jaune eagerly looked to see if Neo had returned. His blood ran cold when he saw her sitting with Saphron and Terra, her eyes shining with glee.
Oh gods, they met after all.
Oh gods, they were getting along!
In retrospect, maybe asking Saph to look after Neo wasn't his best idea…
He felt a very real presentiment of doom at moment. He was snapped out of it by the sound of a sharp whistle to his right. Looking over, he saw Roman, leaning against the wall, looking slightly haggard.
"Can I…help you?" Jaune asked.
Torchwick just let out a long-suffering sigh. "I just want you to know that I hold you responsible for all of…this," he said, gesturing at the table where Trivia was listening raptly to one of Saphron's stories.
"In retrospect, errors may have been made," Jaune allowed.
Roman huffed. "Yeah, whatever. Look, I dunno what this whole…thing goin' on with you and her is, or could be, or how you fancy types handle this stuff. What I can tell you is that, prior to tonight, Neo could count the number of people in her life, including her parents, who ever really gave a damn about her on one finger of one hand: me. And now, it's lookin' like that might be two. Neo, she's…well, she's somethin' else, kid. I'm thinkin' you've seen that too. I'm not sayin' you gotta rush down the aisle to have an' to hold or nothing, but you make sure you never forget just how much you could hurt her if you set your mind to it."
Jaune nodded, solemnly. Then his expression brightened. "Hey, is this the big brother talk?"
"What."
"It is, isn't it! Hey, do you threaten to kill me now, or at the very end of the speech? Because I have quite a few little sisters myself, and I want to take notes -"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Roman facepalmed. "Don't be a dick to her, or I'll beat you to goddamn death with a stick. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"Great. Now fuck off, kid."
Jaune was smiling widely as he reached the table where his sister and Trivia were sitting. "Thank you," he said to Saphron. Then he held a hand out to Neo. "Would you care for another dance?"
[/]
Jaune was all smiles the rest of the night. When he wasn't dancing with Trivia, he was talking with her about their lives as young nobility turned underworld figures. Neo was a font of spectacular prank ideas, many of them much more subtle than half-drowning an irritating heir in front of a crowd of people before throwing him off a private island. Trivia was a fantastic listener, of course, and Jaune made sure to scrupulously learn more about how she communicated, so as to not miss any nuance as she shared her frustrations with her life.
One thing that was impossible to miss was the broad smile on her face.
It was, without a doubt, the best birthday he'd ever had.
Long after the party proper had come to an end, he'd stayed with her, talking and sharing their experiences, the unconventional friends they'd made, and their hopes for the future. Trivia had never really given the future much thought beyond the next heist or stunt, and was content to snuggle against him as he spoke of a future where the walls of class and race came crashing down. For the first time, she found herself contemplating the bigger picture beyond her own resentment. It was strange, and a little scary, but exciting, too.
It wasn't until after dawn when Roman had told them that it was time for them to leave, if he was going to have Trivia back home before that afternoon. Jaune had accompanied them to the airport, and lingered with her as a disgruntled Roman had prepped the aircraft for flight.
"Thank you so much for coming," he said, holding her hand. "It made everything so much better. You don't even know, I was going crazy before you arrived."
Neo scrunched her nose - she was laughing at him - and then reached up to boop his nose. He leaned down for her, and she popped up onto the very tippiest of her tip-toes. Trivia wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It was much more tender than the frenetic, lustful kiss that they'd shared on the rooftop in Vale, a budding affection that promised to bloom into something beautiful. Neo felt her stomach flip at that million-watt smile of his.
If she'd known good boys could be this much fun, she'd have gone after a Cape years ago. Still, she couldn't complain, as she found the one specific Cape that fit her juuuuuuust so.
"Alright, ya brats, break it up already," grumbled Roman. Jaune tried not to let his amusement show. The so-called 'gentleman thief of Vale' had spent the entire night chaperoning his sidekick, and all because he couldn't say no to Neo Politan. Jaune could relate. He was pretty sure that they'd discussed at least a half-different possible schemes that would result in The Crow coming by to kick his ass at some point or another, for the principle of the thing if nothing else.
Still, to make her smile? To see real joy in that pink and brown gaze? Totally worth it.
He stepped back and waved farewell as her Bullhead took off. It wouldn't be that far back to Vale, and it wouldn't be that long until he saw her again, but he'd still be counting the days.
The sole son of Arc strode into his ancestral home, tired but truly happy, for the first time in a long time. He wasn't at all surprised to find his mother, changed into a new dress, up and waiting for him.
"You seem happy," she teased.
"Mmhmm."
"And I'm guessing that the Vanille girl is the cause?"
"Mmhmm." Jaune smiled sleepily as he began climbing the stairs towards the family wing, where he had an apartment kept for him, as well as a big, comfy bed.
"Just one question, if you'll indulge your dear old mother?"
"Hmm?"
"Did she really kick you in the groin?"
"What?!" All traces of weariness instantly fled as Jaune realized what his mother was asking. "You-wha-you," he sputtered. "You know?!"
She laughed at his consternation. "Did you truly think I would not? I am your mother, Jaune." Isabelle walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead. "I've always been very proud of you. And if all goes well, I would be happy to welcome your little thief girl to the family. Sleep well, my little Huntsman."
His mother turned and left, humming happily all the while. Jaune remained stock-still, in complete, stunned silence.
"Did that just fucking happen?!"
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