WHO: Arista Sykes & Saoirse Mullet
WHAT: THESE GIRLS.
WHEN: over the weekend!
WHERE: ISTANBUL! tea room

Arista eyed the divan she sat upon with more than a few misgivings, as she bounced delicately upon it, testing its give. Then again, she eyed Turkey and everything in it with much more than a few misgivings, because she and the country had not gotten off on the best foot. She hoped to begin reconciling that now, as she and Saoirse settled themselves around the lowered table.

Tea time was a frankly religious ritual the two witches partook in every few months, and, though, between the two of them, they made up about one fourth of an actual Englishman, they took their tea time entirely seriously as they caught one another up on their life events. She often thought the reason she and Saoirse were able to cultivate and maintain such a close friendship was because neither of their positions were in direct conflict with one another. An obstacle like that could put such a strain on relationships, she thought, idly pondering on the teammate she'd have to beat senseless come next season.

"Well, it's no English tea room," Arista remarked, looking about the private, lavishly and somewhat garishly decorated room, appalled at herself for liking the ornamental displays and loud colours. The arabesque robe she was wearing was a stunning aquamarine and quite the opposite of what her wardrobe was allowed to possess. "But it does have a certain… flair." Arista tilted her head to scrutinise the clear glass cup in which the black çay awaited her.

Suppressing all but the tiniest bit of a sigh, she ran her fingers lightly around the edge of a platter full of artfully arranged biscuits. "How was your New Year's?"

While Saoirse did share Arista’s sentiments concerning their tea room, she did not voice them. It would only lead the conversation to be about home, or things that were better there, which ran the risk of cropping up dreaded feelings such as homesickness. Saoirse would have none of that. She was in a foreign country, doing what she loved very much (even if it came with a rather unique set of teammates), and partaking in experiences that would be categorized as once in a lifetime, for she knew she would never willingly return to the country of Turkey in her life.

And that was her stance on the matter. There was no room to be terribly missing the comfort of familiarity, as Holly had so wisely pointed out before falling asleep last night. So while Saoirse would have liked to state how the room’s smell reminded her vaguely of an especially memorable cauldron of Nona’s gone wrong, she instead folded her legs beneath her and awkwardly placed her fingers around the rim of her tulip-shaped glass to hold it uncomfortably.

“I did not enjoy that WWN party,” she spoke frankly, only after taking a small sip. Though, she supposed it wasn’t the party’s fault that she had spent most of its duration in a practical fit. That small bit of information did not need to be shared. It was a boisterous party with too many people in attendance, it never had much of a chance to be pleasurable in her mind anyway.

She pressed her lips together, thinking she should say more, but hesitant to bring up the other eventful part of her night before the new year. But this was Arista, surely she, out of anyone, would understand the most about her confusion and concern that went along with what transpired between her and Howell that night. They were friends for a reason, quick friends at that for deep down, they were rather similar. In fact, Saoirse would be bold enough to say that Arista was her only quidditch friend. And that meant a lot for someone who viewed the entire league as general threats to her career.

“Howell and I got into a fight as well,” she let out, immediately moving to drink her tea to avoid letting out a sigh. “We made up, but...” Saoirse rushed to add, only to let her sentence trail off.

Arista's eyebrows raised right along with her glass as she paused with it at her lips. "Did you?"

She couldn't have been more surprised when Saoirse had told her about her dalliance with Howell Williams. She vaguely disapproved, and not only because she had a rather determined urge to separate his head from his gargantuan shoulders. Her friend was, much as she prided herself on being, utterly ambitious, unwavering in setting her sights on goals, and unwilling to let anything keep her from accomplishing them. Romance was not a large part in either of their lives, and yet Saoirse had found something seemingly of note with none other than a rival player. The notion baffled and terrified Arista, personally. "Well, that night was—" she couldn't even bring herself to think it, "I can only say I'm not surprised a fight arose from it; it was dreadful."

Truthfully, the word to describe that night did not exist in her vocabulary, and she tried not to dwell on it overly in order to formulate one.

"Does that mean you've changed your mind about speaking to him during the Cup?" she asked, surprised. "I agreed with you before, but I must say, I think my opinion has doubled on the potential for distraction he could have."

And who needed such distractions, with their stupidly chiseled chests, and nice eyes, and lips that were wholly dangerous to one's sense of—realising she was no longer speaking strictly about Howell Williams, Arista wisely chose that moment to take a deep pull from her cup in an effort to obscure the rather pink tinge to her cheeks.

Perhaps fight was not the correct word, but instead the closest word she could think of to generally describe their exchange in the snow. One moment, everything had seemed... relatively fine, and then the next, a darkness had taken over her, his voice became raised, and--- Saoirse shifted in her seat to release some unintentional force on her knees. Distractions. Thoughts like that only led to distractions, which she would simply not entertain. Now, here, was not the time to be thinking about what had happened. Saoirse pushed her current thoughts aside in hopes of plowing through this topic of hers quickly.

She shook her head, placing her cup down on the table to drop her hands in her lap. “He agreed, but I don’t think he understands why I insisted,” she frowned, a bit, as she spoke. Or, she thought momentarily, he had simply mastered compartmentalizing affection and competitiveness to the point where making such an effort was superfluous?

Saoirse blinked, and immediately realized this was yet again another topic that was categorized as ‘distractions.’ Perhaps bringing up the one she was dating but currently forbad herself from seeing had been a poor idea. For even thinking about him proved to be, as always, much too consuming. She waved her hand lightly as if to physically ward off all current thoughts.

“What happened that made your New Year’s so disagreeable?” Saoirse prompted lightly, considering herself charitable as she did not look over the table expectantly at her friend, but instead chose to focus on sparingly picking at a flaky biscuit.

Arista breathed sharply through her nose and put her cup down so she wouldn't tempted to fidget with it. Of course he didn't understand; men so hardly did. Saoirse was being smart, and she was thinking of her career. Did being ambitious and understanding her playing held more long-term potential than a fledgling relationship make her a bad person? The answer was most assuredly "no." Navigating these waters was different for a witch—much rockier, and looked on with a lot less lenience. If others called it calculating, then they clearly hadn't been in the same position.

The flare of annoyance had her snapping a ginger biscuit into uneven halves that she then dropped onto her saucer, dusting her hands free of the crumbs as she thought about how best to answer Saoirse. "Well, I would hardly call that party to be anything in good taste, and then I—" she began, then pressed her lips closed, about to welsh out. No, no, she shouldn't. Saoirse had been forthcoming enough about her troubles, so Arista should do the same. She told herself she was changing approaches rather than entirely weaseling out when she instead asked, "What is your opinion on Galvin Gudgeon?"

Then, knowing she would never get the crux of the problem out if she stopped talking, added in one breath, "I'm interested to know, as I may definitely have kissed him on New Year's Eve."

Exhaling, she crammed the larger half of a ginger biscuit in her mouth and snapped down on it with an unhappy crunch.

Her brow went high, and Saoirse managed to effectively stifle her choke. Galvin Gudgeon? Arista ‘may definitely have’ kissed Galvin Gudgeon? He, being, the only seeker in the league that had managed to unceremoniously uproot and dethrone Arista’s nearly undisputed crown as highest performing seeker of the year in one fell swoop by the end of the season? Galvin Gudeon, he, who, Saoirse thought rather viciously, had ‘accidentally’ caught her and Howell many months ago in the Falmouth locker room in a... compromising and incriminating hold which had only forced her to callously bring their dalliance to an end. He, who she was fairly certain at one point gone to a North American league, which in her eyes could be seen as nothing less but a downgrade of competitive skill.

Out of respect for her friend, Saoirse immediately smothered her first thought that came to mind (‘How did that happen?’), and then her second, for it seemed just as inconsiderate, (‘Was it an accident?’), and then her third, which vaguely involved wondering if there were vengeful ulterior motives in the workings. For as she watched Arista as carefully as possible, she did notice a sense of anxiety? Apprehension. General uncomfortableness. Saoirse knew these feelings all too well.

“I know.... that he is on the Falcons,” she started slowly, deciding it would be best to not harp on the reveal of information, but the question itself. Or at least, not yet. But even then the sentence she produced wasn’t opinion, and just more fact. A fact that, really, had nothing to do with him for one’s teammates only relatively reflected someone as a person. “And that the media likes him...”

So, Saoirse was left with her torn opinion of Galvin Gudgeon. On one hand, she fully believed him to be a suspicious, self-satisfying, and downright meddlesome wizard that had little consideration for others. But, on the other, she knew very well that most of her ill-intended thoughts about the seeker were in fact unwarranted, which made it entirely difficult to guiltlessly produce a solid opinion. And for Arista to have kissed him... this was no situation to throw around her frankly childish grudges.

She let out a silent sigh, and picked up her glass again. “But I do not know him well enough to have a sound opinion,” Saoirse relented, quickly. She drank slowly, to give Arista time to recuperate before her next words, but then she decided against speaking for the time being.

As she daintily cleared her throat from a near-choking, Arista was surprised by the the lack of censure in Saoirse's voice. When she had been told about Howell Williams, she had certainly—not made her displeasure known, precisely, but had rather strenuously tried to discern that there was no form of coercion etc. occurring. She did at least know herself, and thus Saoirse, well enough to sense there must be some underlying thought process or judgment, etc. happening, though her friend continued to refrain from politely asking if Arista had lost her mind (the answer to which would have to be yes).

Saoirse had brought up an interesting point, however: the media did like him, which posed a problem, as they liked her as long as they could make her a spectacle. True, the headlines this year hadn't been nearly as outrageous as the year she'd first started (and wasn't that saying something), but she by no means went unscathed. It wasn't hard to imagine the stance of the rags when their favourite Seeker was caught tangling with Princess of Portree.

The whole situation burned her, because, even her own ego aside, Arista knew better than to get involved with other players, knew the repercussions. Normally, she shot other players down before they could even give her the hairy eyeball, but in the year 1983, there had been public trifles with Seth Wadcock, and briefly with Ludo Bagman, not to mention this… thing she was hurriedly trying to stomp out with Galvin Gudgeon.

Well. Arista was rather like The Tattler painted her, wasn't she? If they only knew.

Airily, she said, "Nothing was meant by it, of course," as she added a seventh cube of beet sugar to her half-drained cup. "I mean, I could hardly imagine," she stressed, laughing once, "breaking the pact for him."

The rest of the biscuit crumbled to dust in her white-knuckled hand.

Nothing was meant by it? Saoirse could not withhold her quizzical stare. And, was about to point out that if that were true, then how could the entire night be deemed dreadful? But, Arista’s next words put an effective stopper to all thoughts concerning catching her friend, as many, more urgent thoughts took ahold of her at once, a normal occurrence when there was ever any verbal mention made of ‘the pact.’

Saoirse brought her cup down to its saucer much harder than she had been planning, and leaned toward the table in a concerned manner.

“Did he ask you to?” her brows went high as she spoke. For, then it certainly could be understandable how that would turn a night dreadful, being kissed by a stranger to only find he expected that promptly after. “Because I was lying before. I really don’t like him at all,” she rushed, extending her palms out in a forgiving manner.

She pulled her lips back immediately after she spoke, disliking how keenly her tone had come out. But, it was appropriate wasn’t it, because it was done out of consideration for her friend? Saoirse bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that, yes, that was apart of it, but another part was... a rather selfish concern for herself and keeping the topic of her personal side of this hypothetical, yet very much real, pact at bay. For, since she had starting seeing Howell, Arista had made no direct mention of it, yet, or at least firmly enough that Saoirse felt forced to address it.

Which had been good, because she really couldn’t--- talk about--- that. It had been difficult enough for her before, but now that she had a.... and it was expected, assumed by.... the whole thought just.... it made her so terribly uncomfortable. Just thinking about the face Arista would make when she asked, with her inquiring light eye yet riddled with a deep subtle interest, made the back of Saoirse’s neck burn. The front of her chest near her neck, too. And maybe, perhaps, her ears.

She shook her head, and blinked quickly to rid all current burgeoning thoughts from her mind.

"I knew it!" Arista crowed, slapping a palm down on the table, which sent the dishes rattling slightly. The two of them tended to be very frank about their general opinions, not even necessarily likes or dislikes, about other players in the league, and Saoirse's answer had seemed even more reticent than usual. She supposed it was possible her friend was refraining from hurting her feelings, but that wasn't what Arista needed! Heavens, if she needed reaffirming that she made all spectacular decisions in her life (which even Arista could admit was patently untrue), she'd ask one of the endless faceless, nameless assistants she had on rotation.

"Well, he didn't do or say anything so directly," she said, waving that hand dismissively. No need to mention she had been the greater offender, as Arista had personally indulged in some flagrant defiance of the third section of the pact, which pertained to a very vivid daydream that personally shocked and somewhat offended her at its conclusion. There was no need to provoke more disdain and/or ire from her companion. "But you must tell me everything that led to the formation of this opinion."

Feeling considerably more at ease, she selected a sticky triangle of baklava from a dish and heroically resisted peeling off the layers of flaky dough. Arista raised an eyebrow as she nibbled at one corner; the slight blush from Saoirse had not entirely escaped her notice. "And then perhaps I won't pry about if there has been another deserter from our ranks."

Which was a blatant lie, but she thought they both knew that.

And now she was flushed, for that was one topic she did not wish to speak about, and another that got her absurdly riled. Where to start? Saoirse did not believe Arista’s candid reprieve for a second, for since when was not prying for information an option between them? Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she thought, thinking it would help buy herself some time to cool down.

“I haven’t!” she then blurted, her back going straight as she was unable to control herself. A bit of crossness filled her, with herself or Arista, she wasn’t entirely sure, and so Saoirse clarified a few beats later with an “I have not!” and an indignant shake.

Immediately feeling foolish, Saoirse shook her burning face, and brought down both her palms to the table. Her tea and cookies were left lonesome, as she was too busy attempting to free herself from this embarrassing bubble she was putting herself in. How to calmly guide the conversation away from that outburst? She flicked some of her hair over her shoulder smoothly, and turned her gaze generally up toward the ceiling to speak without a hitch.

“He very rudely walked in on Howell and me one day, making his presence known only after a bit, and when I told” ‘told’ was a generous word to use, “him to not say anything about what he saw, he---” the older man’s face was still clear in her mind to the day, very amused and hardly intimidated, “-- his smile, it was simply--” Saoirse stopped speaking to raise her hands up. “It was very----” How to put it into words? She wasn’t quite sure she could, but it had burned her quite like no other. “I didn’t like it,” she finished firmly, bringing her hands down in an anticlimactic manner. “And now, whenever I see him, he always looks at me like...” she trailed off in a frustrated way.

“Howell speaks highly of him, but I do not think so.” Saoirse let out a breath she did not know she had been holding in, and spread out her fingers on the table evenly, now very much unable to look at her friend.

Arista's jaw dropped slightly, her eyebrows still raised high. "Did he?"

Well, she couldn't say such a thing surprised her overmuch, as he did seem the type to be that obnoxious, quietly amused at such antics. Picturing the smile Saoirse was speaking of was not difficult, at all.

Her nose scrunched as she thought somewhat unhappily. This was precisely the sort of information she was seeking, but it wasn't having quite the dampening effect on her Arista was hoping for. The midnight kiss with Galvin continued to creep into her thoughts at the most inopportune moments, but the spine-tingling, pulse-sparking feeling had diminished, so she would just have to consider that progress in her efforts to cleanse herself of this flirtation.

Yet Arista frowned as she mulled over the other revelation of Saoirse's. Privately, or perhaps not so privately, she was relieved that that hadn't changed. The tenets of their pact together, made some time ago now, had been good ones, and she stood by them still, but she figured… Well, Saoirse had said she and Howell were together all through December, in addition to the months they'd been unofficially involved prior to that. Surely sex had to have arisen at some point? She took a thoughtful sip of her tea, choking on the copious amounts of sludge-like sugar she'd absently added.

Refilling the cup, Arista licked her lips. It would be good to know how Saoirse was handling that pressure, if there was any, wouldn't it? Not that, of course, Arista had cause to have such knowledge now. Theoretical knowledge was always good to possess… Clearing her throat, she studied, the intricate tablecloth with intent as she asked, "And—Howell—" she said the name as graciously as she could manage, which was not very at all, "he's—he doesn't mind, that you haven't, well… broken the pact?"

One would think Saoirse might have gotten use to the tiring feeling that came along with questions concerning her private life, but, unfortunately, she hadn’t much yet. Tiredness, mixed with a strikingly intense shot of unease was quickly taking over her, and she suddenly felt the deep urge to plead this topic be let go. Surely Arista, of all people, would understand how uncomfortable it made her? Or maybe that was the reason why Arista asked, because when it came down to it, she could only... they only had each other, concerning this matter. That was true; she knew if she ever needed to talk about intimacy, Arista would be the first, and most likely only, witch she would be able to confide in.

Nonetheless, that did not help Saoirse feel any better, and she pressed her lips together tightly to show it. No point in prolonging the inevitable, was there? She let out a silent breath and tilted her head slightly as she spoke.

“No,” she responded in a short manner. “He doesn’t mind,” Saoirse finished lightly, calmly dunking her spoon into her tea despite very much lying through her own teeth. That topic had yet to come up between them, so Saoirse had little idea, and frankly had no desire to find out at this current time, if Howell was bothered that they hadn’t... done. That. Yet. She would leave it to him, to bring it up, if he was truly troubled. That seemed fair.

But for now, that really was enough about that. She felt like she had endured too many seizes during this short conversation alone, an incredibly unhealthy feat considering what they were here for in the first place, so Saoirse was keen to change the subject entirely. Even if that meant losing what little information Arista had given her concerning her New Year’s dalliance with Galvin Gudgeon.

“Well,” Saoirse piped, her back straightening once more to proper form. Her fingers wrapped around her cup of tea, and she felt her hair fall behind her shoulders once she nodded it back. “That’s a lot of talk about someone deemed too distracting to be around right around,” she said, nothing less than a formal tone in her voice. And, without a hitch, she asked, “Have you noticed how rowdy the Italian team is? Their floor is practically a menagerie.”

Arista barely resisted pouting at the change of subject, but found she didn't much have the heart to pursue it doggedly. In truth, whatever she had told or agreed with Saoirse about on the subject of Howell Williams went double for her about Galvin. It was those Falcons, she thought with a decisive nod. Weren't the other men she'd thought of moments ago also, or had at one point been, Falcons? That left one solution, to Arista's mind.

The whole bleeding team ought to be disbanded.

But no member of the male species needed to be dwelled upon by either of them any longer, as Arista already knew that as soon as she had a moment to herself, she'd be unwillingly thinking through the new information she'd gleaned today. Her momentary sulk was quickly uplifted.

"It's disgraceful," she said in agreement, though her thoughts immediately flashed to the bombshell trio of Italian Chasers. They were the competition and therefore not fit to lick her boots, etc., but Arista rather thought they were the epitome of all a witch in Quidditch aspired to be. "One of their Beaters tried to pinch me in the stairwell."

She nudged the curl of orange peel off the top of her semolina cake, trying not to feel too guilty as she speared a generous forkful. "But I've heard Spain is the absolute worst. One of the Chasers from France was telling me about the biggest commotion in the kitchens because their Seeker is on a diet…"