thread the needle [Alphonse x Astrid | Blitz]

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

I love seeing the wheels turn in the old man's head. When Jacquard hates an idea of mine the reaction is almost always an instant dismissal followed by swift instructions of some job around the restaurant that needs action tout suite! It's when he stops to think it through that I know he sees the merit behind whatever I've proposed.

In this case it has to do with the Academy. Some big-wig Capitol stylist seems to have gotten himself in a pissing contest with a rival stylist and has taken to outsourcing some talent. So now we all have been given an assignment to put our creative minds to work, come up with something fresh and exciting he can take and claim as his own.

The plagiarism is shitty, but I see this as a chance to put my name up there if I can really outperform the others, get my name on the radar. Jacquard, after thinking over just how good this might be for our main goal, decides it merits a bit of extra cash to bring down to the market for some fabric of real quality. It's rare to get cash from the man at all, so I know to him this is a really big step forward. And one I might pay for if I fuck up.

I quickly go put on my go-to nice shirt and my cleanest pair of pants. Before long I'm there in the market with riches in my pocket almost as if I could be a regular visitor to the place like the well-to-do with their seemingly bottomless pockets. If the mission wasn't so important I might've taken some time to let my sticky fingers see just how bottomless those pockets may be.

Instead my eyes stick to a stand full of rich fabrics, full of detail, colour, and care. Not like the usual fabrics with monotone colours or cheap quality that plague the place. I make my way over and lock eyes with the girl at the stand, not much older than I am. I can see her eyeing me up and down as I get closer, perhaps gauging my worth or trying to determine whether I'm here to cause a bit of trouble.

"Nice fabrics you have here," I start, putting on a voice I use for people I want to take me seriously. I'm not so sure this girl doesn't see through it. I point to one that catches my eye, the patchwork of colours intertwines with sprinkles of metallic golds. "That one there caught my eye. How much for it?"

[WC: 433]

[Bella 🌻]

A S T R I D

I’ve been sitting in this market long enough today to consider taking up another profession. The customers amble about, some with such perfect blasé expressions that I imagine many of them had to cultivate their looks quite carefully in order to seem aloof and uninterested, and thus, unbotherable. So be it– my days of boisterous market hawking are long past, a balance between luck and volume in my work. Since the photos Mars took a few months ago, business has begun to pick up considerably. It allowed the garments to speak for themselves.

Today, though, things have been slow, and my pockets are starting to itch. After a few years of selling in the market, you develop a habit of counting in your head, tipping the scales one way or another as the coffers fill. And my balance isn’t quite where I’d like it to be before leaving.

Just as I’m thinking of packing up, I notice a bloke dressed in a nice shirt and a pair of well-pressed trousers who catches my eyes. For whatever reason, he perplexes me. I can’t get a read on him. I narrow my eyes slightly as he approaches, eyeing him up briefly, and decide that he exudes a slightly haughty nervous quality, as if he’s watching others watching him.

I sit up a little straighter as he points at one of my fabrics–gold woven with burgundy and dark green, highlights of royal blue–mentally dusting off my sales points, keeping them at the ready. He asks a price and I pause before upselling him with an easy smile.

”For you? A hundred per yard.” It’s much more than I would usually charge, but this boy looks like he might have some pocket money. Running my hand over the fabric, I add, ”It’s alpaca yarn, the best you’ll ever wear. It keeps you dry all year. You won’t find that in a department store, I promise you.”

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

The girl gives me a price that slaps me in the face. A hundred?! Jacquard gave me eighty, and even then I'd been hoping to save a bit of that cash to treat myself (What, can't a kid spoil himself every now and then?). I stand dumbstruck for only a moment as the shock of the high price washes over me. I recover as the girl launches into her sales pitch, talking about the alpaca yarn and all of its benefits. I try and look interested but I already have all the information about alpaca wool uses locked in my mind with the others, comes with the territory of trying to be the top student in class. Instead my mind is already turned to the art of the barter.

As she wraps up her pitch I launch into the act. If the girl had seen schmuck written across my face, this was my one shot at showing the girl I meant business. It might surprise you to know that not all of my business dealings involve a five-finger discount. Jacquard has done well to teach me some of the more… legitimate practices. The art of the barter had been lesson number one.

I open the dance with a compliment. "I can see you're right about that, the quality is incredible." I then feign a sigh of disappointment. "The price, however, seems a little bit higher than I was expecting. I thought I saw another vendor at the other end of the market with their alpaca line selling at around fifty-five a ream…" I trail off. There is no other vendor, no mysterious fabrics at such a low price. I don't actually expect her to cave to that price, either, or else she's a fool and I've made off like a bandit. It's merely an opening in the dance, for her to pick up and take the lead once more.

[WC: 319]

[Bella 🌻]

A S T R I D

I maintain a pleasant smile at the compliment, then fight to stifle a laugh as the boy continues with his bluff about the other merchants selling alpaca. I’ve been coming here long enough to know who is selling what, and at what price; some of the merchants even make agreements with each other to keep prices of certain fabrics relatively similar, leveling the playing field. What he doesn’t know, and what I cannot say, is that this is the best alpaca wool he will find because Anyas smuggles in the good stuff from District Ten. Still, I nod politely as he speaks, reluctant to lose the sale this late in the day.

The haggling game has begun, and the gears start to turn in my head, adding up the possible totals. He mentioned fifty. And he’s not quite as well-off as his clothes might suggest, if he balks like that at a hundred dollars. I’d be willing to bet that he’s either here running errands, or his rich parents have tight pockets and his allowance is running dry. It’s clear that I’ll need to explain the worth of my work, as I’m accustomed to doing at this point.

”Well, if you want to buy from amateurs, I won’t stop you,” I say casually, leaning back in my seat and daring a confident smile. I used to be practically begging to sell my stuff. But since Mars’s photos went viral, with my business on the rise, I’ve found that the best way to hook a client is to make them believe I feel indifferent to their money.

”My family has been weaving since before Panem rose from the ashes of the first rebellion. I guess the question is,” I pause, taking a moment to look around at the other vendors, then back to the customer, meeting his eyes, ”Do you want fast fashion, or a garment that will last a lifetime?”

I wait for his answer with another sympathetic smile.

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

I had tried to start up a bartering dance with the girl, opening her up for the waltz of back and forth until we reach a middle ground with a number that fell nicely in the range of the money burning a hole through my pocket. But it seems like this girl has eyes that can see right through me, and she rejects my waltz for a tango of her own. It's clear as day she didn't buy my shit about the other vendor, so instead of erasing the schmuck from my forehead, I only managed to give it a nice, bold underline.

I brace myself for the blow of being turned away with grumbles of time wasted. Only they don't come. The girl still seems to be willing to entertain me as a customer. Tells me all about her family's craft being traced back to days before Panem. Damn, if she's not lying then that's some old family tradition going on. See, it's this kind of stuff that makes me a little bit bummed out that I don't really have a family of my own to pass on some kind of ancient family stories to me. Tie me to something beyond this horrible world we're stuck in. Maybe I'll settle on actually paying attention to Jacquard one of these times the old man goes on about French, just to get the gist of what that's like.

The girl asks me if I'm looking for fast fashion or something of actual good quality. My bluff has been called out; this girl's a pro. Now I'm all torn about what I should do. Now that I've seen the glorious fabric she's got on sale I know it's exactly what I need to boost myself into the minds of the head honchos at the Academy. Just… that price! I think maybe she'd settle on eighty if I offered it, but it's so rare I get to have any money to spend for some of the little things that I'm struggling something real with the idea of spending it all on this one thing.

Something occurs to me though. That bit about her family's craft being older than Panem. About them holding onto that craft even now when the world has changed into something cruel to reminders of times that existed before the Capitol and its glory. I start to wonder whether this girl, too, sees how fucked up things are now. I wonder if she secretly is craving for something to change. Is it worth the risk to test those waters?

I take a deep breath and decide to drop the act, level with the girl a bit more. "Alright, I get your point. Look, I can't do a hundred, I don't have that kind of cash on me. But is there any way I can get it from you for less? I need it, or else everything I've worked towards could be on the line." I meet her gaze earnestly, hoping she'll meet it with mercy for the poor schmuck.

[WC: 509]

[Bella 🌻]

A S T R I D

”I need it, or else everything I’ve worked towards could be on the line,” the lad monologues, meeting my eyes. I raise an eyebrow at him. This guy is truly full of surprises; one minute he’s shamelessly trying to lowball me, then he’s laying his vulnerability out on the table, essentially telling me he’s desperate: I need it. I contain the urge to smirk, feeling like I’ve got him on my hook now, though that sounds more predatory than I mean it.

Lips pursed, I stare back at him for a moment, holding his gaze. ”High stakes, huh?” I wonder aloud.

Now I’m really curious what it is he’s working on that could be so important. Is he a fellow hustler, pressing his nose to the grindstone each day like many of us here, behind the tables? I’m only just noticing the slight hump in his upper spine, the same that I have, a dead giveaway that someone spends a lot of their time hunched over a workbench. My read on him is all starting to come together. A set of nice clothes, carefully curated rather than casually worn. A precious pocket full of cash, but a tight fist around it, too. And a burning desire to acquire what he came here for at a fair price, to achieve everything he’s worked towards.

As cliché as it sounds, being a weaver, you tend to notice how all sorts of threads come together in a tapestry.

In the end, I’m not a high-rolling mobster trying to squeeze anyone’s pennies; I’m an artist. Though I hate to go soft on a deal, I can feel the wall between us falling. My heart goes out to the guy; I can’t help it. Just a few months ago, I was the one waiting on a big break. Is it too much of a stretch to go from customer to comrade?

”How about this?” I ask covertly, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the table. ”You let me in on this all-important project of yours, and I’ll sell you two yards for eighty.”

I trust that old saying: A good friend is better than money in the pocket.

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

That was the ticket I needed. I can see my plea has managed to grab hold of the girl's interest. She looks me over once again, and this time I feel certain schmuck is no longer labelling my freckled face. There's a reappraisal going on, and I can tell she's trying to figure out exactly what to make of me. Something definitely had shifted between us, the dance no longer about the price of alpaca wool but instead about the potential costs of honesty. Whether or not we should trade in something more dangerous.

Her next offer is within my range, and quite a good deal in terms of money. So long as I put that more dangerous thing on the table with it. My heart starts to race on me like it's trying to break out of my chest or something. I can't tell if it's the fear of what could happen if I make this deal with the wrong person. Now it's my turn to give this girl a look over. Can I trust her with this mission I'm on? Will this girl put and end to my work before I can even get it going?

Damn it all if I'm wrong about this. But I get the feeling I'm not.

And so there I am, leaning in close and all secretive-like, spilling the plan to someone other than Jacquard for the first time. "Look, I may be an Academy boy but I swear I ain't like the others okay? I'm sure you can see as clear as I how shit things are for a lot of us here. I have a plan to try and change it all up, make it better. But doing it the right way, from the inside of it all. The Academy is supposed to be my ticket in. Your fabric… well, it's just the ticket I need to get on the radar. That's the truth, okay?"

As I finish I look back at her with my breath held tight, bracing myself to see how the girl reacts.

I hope I didn't just fuck it all up.

[WC: 354]

[Bella 🌻]

A S T R I D

Huh. That wasn’t what I had expected him to say.

But I have to admit, it’s refreshing to meet someone so intense.

Despite the wary feeling I get from any conspiratorial tone, a smile curls at the corners of my closed lips as I listen to his soapbox speech. I like him. He strikes me as earnest– self-assured, if not self-aware. His tense shoulders, hunched towards me as he speaks, hum with the potential energy of his plan. He needs an outlet, and I have his canvas. This, I understand completely.

When he’s finished talking, I watch his expression intently, considering my options. It all depends on what kind of change he’s talking about. Yes, we all know what it’s like for, well, just about everyone in the district who spends their days working with their hands to buy their bread. But I’ve worked my ass off to carve out a space for myself in this market without shaking up the status quo. Both my parents tried to change the system, selfishly, in my opinion, and now that they’re behind bars, their temporary bravery only feels like a cruel punishment for our whole family.

Still, doing it the right way, from the inside of it all suggests this guy wants to keep it all above board. Changing the world, with fashion? I’m not sure where this is going, but I am intrigued. If he is actually from the Academy, his design skills might be the perfect medium to take my work to a wider clientele. Besides, I like to help where I’m useful.

”Okay, I’m listening,” I say, resting my chin on my hand. I cock an eyebrow at him. ”What’s your name, Academy boy? I’m Astrid.”

Just one more question that I’m really hung up on.

”Lots of people have tried to change the system from the inside. What makes you think your plan is the one that will finally work?” I ask this without a hint of judgement in my voice. Skepticism, maybe–but genuine curiosity.

As the spark in his eyes starts to kindle something that's been sitting there in my ribcage, dormant awhile, I hope I'm not making the worst mistake of my life.

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

The girl stares at me, silent and just looking me over and processing what she just heard. For a long time. Long enough for me to start panicking a little. Like oh shit, what the hell did I just do kind of panic. Maybe telling this girl had been a mistake, maybe she's a Capitol spy placed here in the market to sniff out stupid kids with conspiratorial plans like me? I want desperately to look around for the Peacekeepers that were sure to materialize out of every nook and cranny to take me away. Itching to try and book it back to Jacquard's and tell him how fucked we are because of me. I don't know whether I'd rather die by the Peacekeeper's hands or his (alright I'll admit, the man intimidates me sometimes. He's a burly guy! Don't tell him I said that). But I don't do any running or looking away. I'm held onto this girl's line of vision like it's the only thing keeping me afloat in angry waters.

"Okay, I'm listening."

Man, the relief I felt as she said those few words was absolutely indescribable. I judged right; I could trust this girl with the plan, the secret. I could go home tonight and not have to worry about whether Jacquard will wring my neck or not. Beyond that relief though I was also very excited! Astrid (as she now introduces herself to me) seems close to my age, a few years older at the max. Much younger than the only other confidante I've had for this goal. It might be nice to be able to actually have someone to share this journey with who isn't also barking orders at me every day of my life. "Pleasure to meet you, Astrid. I'm Alphonse." Although I have a sinking worry whether she'll end up preferring Academy Boy. Are embarrassing nicknames a part of all friendships?

She throws another question at me, why I'm so sure my plan will work where others have failed before. Her question this time doesn't feel skeptical, or cautious. If anything, maybe there's a hint of eagerness. Maybe she's hoping I'll have a good answer. The truth is a demon I'm not ready to face yet. That if it fails, I will have nothing. I will succeed because I must succeed, it is all I have left.

Maybe I'll tell her, in time. For now I throw on my ruggish charm in mock cockiness, a little smile on my face. "Well Astrid, just wait until you've seen me with a needle and thread and see if that answers your question." Friends joke with each other, right?

[WC: 444]

[Bella 🌻]

A S T R I D

”Pleasure to meet you, Astrid,” he says, rather formally. ”I’m Alphonse.”

Alphonse, I repeat mentally. Something about our names both starting with A strikes me as surprising, and fitting that we should be allies. Sure sounds like an academy boy–they all have names that sound like they could be composers or something. Smirking, I wonder if he’d be too mad if I called him Alph.

”Well Astrid, just wait until you’ve seen me with a needle and thread and see if that answers your question,” he says, and smiles at me like he’s just won a chess game or something.

”Ha!” I scoff, leaning back in my chair with my arms folded, my skepticism returning. So that’s his plan? Sew our way to a new status quo? Next thing we know, we’ll be knitting ourselves out of jail. For centuries, my family has been weaving secret messages into cloth, and we still haven’t been found out. Mom and Dad might be behind bars, but that doesn’t mean the peacekeepers figured out how they managed to smuggle all those XXXXXXXXXXXXXX* across multiple borders. The point is, I know that fiber arts can be a force to be reckoned with, one that makes real change happen. But it has to be organized. Methodical, applicable, beautiful and simple all at the same time.

”Okay, I get it. You don’t have a plan yet, do you?” I can’t help laughing, grinning from ear to ear, feeling like I’ve really figured him out. This kid is an open book. No, I don’t think he’s much different from other Academy types I’ve met. Overconfident; convinced he’ll be the next big thing as soon as he gets his chance to shine, yada yada yada.

Still, for some intangible reason, I like him. I think it must be that he seems so interested in trying, whatever that means.

”Let me make something clear, Alph,” I say, lowering my voice, leaning in again. I’m playing hard-to-get today, and I think I’m not half bad at it. ”I’m an artist, and I want to change things just like you do. But I am not a rebel. If I smell trouble–if the hairs on the back of my neck stand up even once--” Out of habit, I glance at the peacekeepers, then back to Alphonse– ”I’m out. So if there’s a plan, it had better be a good one. Because I’ve got an entire family depending on me to keep a roof over their heads.” On me and my brother, I don’t mention.

”I don’t doubt that you’re talented,” I continue, softening my tone. I pronounce the words carefully: ”I only want to know if you are trustworthy.”

I hold out my hand expectantly, searching his gaze. I only hope he can’t see, behind my eyes, all the wounds that have made me so cautious in the first place.

*redacted for secrecy

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

"Ha!" Astrid spits out and I see her close back up a bit more. Fuck! I worry that I just messed this whole new friendship I'm forming up before it's even actually started! I guess I can't blame her though for throwing caution to the wind. Hell, I've already taken more risk with this secret goal of mine and Jacquard's than ever before in just letting her in on it all! Jacquard's always telling me how I'm not the wise and mature guy I like to think I am. I roll my eyes at him each time he says it. I mean, I'm fifteen already! Right now though, with the way this has turned out, I guess maybe he's got a bit of a point. Maybe.

Thankfully Astrid doesn't close the door all the way, not yet. She's still analyzing me with those eyes that feel like they can pierce down to my very core. Maybe all of that fine work she does, weaving intricate patterns in the fabrics, that has made her good at spotting the fine details of a person. Thank Ripred I'd never been as foolhardy as to try that old five-finger discount at her stall before. Fabric like that was far too nice to be turned into stolen goods.

Finally she breaks out into a smile, calling out my lack of an actual plan. "Hey!" I protest playfully, "Give me a break here, I've barely just gotten a foot into the place! Plans have to start somewhere, don't they?" Underneath the protests though I'm relieved again that she's kept the door open. I hadn't messed it all up after all.

Then Astrid gets all close and serious. She's decided I'm worth the risk that comes with some honesty of her own. She's not a rebel, she's got a family to feed. If things with my plan start to stink she's out. It's reasonable terms for someone who has other people she needs to worry about. I've got about one of those and he's the guy helping prepare me for all of this stuff. I know it's serious business so I stay serious, giving a stoic nod of acknowledgement with her terms. But there's one thing that stood out above it all.

She called me Alph. Alph. You gotta be kidding me! I can't decide if it's better or worse than Academy Boy. I guess embarrassing nicknames come with the friendship after all. I'll have to think of one for her. Ace? Strid? Hm. I'll have to think on it.

Her tone softens as she lays it out in plain terms. She wants to know if she can trust me. I wonder if her caution comes with the conspiratorial territory, or if maybe she's been burned before. And by whom.

I hold a hand over my chest and raise the other with the palm towards her. "On my honour, I'm trustworthy, okay? I want to do things the right way too. That rebel shit just causes more trouble to the district. That's why I want to try making change from within the system, you see?"

I hold my breath. Man, I really hope that she sees.

[WC: 529]

[Bella 🌻]

A S T R I D

Alfie skips the handshake, holding one hand up and the other on his chest: scout’s honor. He wants to make change from within, he says, not that rebel shit.

Why do those last two words sound so ugly when they’re said out loud? They hit me like needles in the chest, just pinpricks, but causing a general sense of unease. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t fully convinced myself that I’m not a rebel, despite what I might say when you ask me. My mother’s blood runs deep; try as I might, I don’t know if I’ll ever rid myself of the sensation that I’ve been marked at birth by some long standing rebel cause I never wanted a role in. Not if it meant ending up like my mom and dad.

It’s not his fault, though, I think, offering a friendly smile in return for this eager supplication. How old is he, 16?

In the end, despite my emotional seesaw of skepticism and enthusiasm, I think it would be nice to have a project to focus on outside of work. All my siblings have been telling me that I need a hobby, or some friends to keep myself busy. A third space.

”Alright, Alfie,” I concede, trying another nickname on for size. Reaching for my receipt book and pen, I total up his purchase, then scribble an address on the back of the page. ”Let’s meet up next week?” I press the sheet of paper into his hand. ”Here. You still owe me eighty bucks.”

[Tyler]

[googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]

I see the wide smile painted in shades of genuine-ness across Astrid's face. I could feel my heart leaping up in my chest, jubilant in the certainty that this was a sign that she did, in fact, see. And no, I'm not too stubborn or proud or whatever to admit that I was relieved too, okay? See? I can admit it! I know I had come here for some fabric, but there's just some kind of energy about the girl that tells me that my goals won't be such a hassle if I have her on my team. I still can't believe how I'd set out to be the buyer today and instead I was out here selling myself to a girl I met a few minutes ago. If Jacquard had been here I probably would've been ripped apart for the entire evening. Or worse, he'd sent me to scrub out the trash bin behind the restaurant. With the trash still in it.

Alright, I guess I can't blame him much for it. It had been a pretty foolhardy move to spill out any information about my goals anywhere outside of the safety of Jacquard's restaurant. Out here in the market there were sure to be Peacekeepers and informants stalking around on silent paws, ears fine tuned to pick out traitorous utterings from among the chaotic barters and calls echoing around. For all I know Astrid, too, could be sitting here strategically, dangling out her fabric to bait a poor sucker like me into the Capitol's trap. It was just a gut feeling telling me she could be trusted, You're supposed to follow your gut, right?

"Alright, Alfie." Shit, another nickname already? This one seems even worse than Alph had, like I'm a kid playing pretend at the shops. I'd protest but her tone sounds playful, as if she's toying with me to see if she can get me all riled up. I like her style. Plus, she's agreeing with me! Better to not throw that away with a tantrum about a dumb nickname. "Let's meet up next week?"

"Perfect!" I try my best to sound professional more than giddy with excitement, although I gotta admit it's a pretty tough task. "This time next week, meet me at Chez Jacquard." It'll be much safer there to meet and talk freely than the hidden ears of the market. A week should be enough time to convince the old man she's a good addition to our little team… I hope. At least it should be enough time for me to come up with a good nickname for Astrid and get revenge for Alfie.

Astrid packs up the gorgeous threads that had brought me here in the first place, extending her arm out to me with the tiny paper that'll cement the second agreement we've made today. "Here, you still owe me eighty bucks," She tells me. The price knocks a bit of the wind out of my sails, the daydreams I'd been having about buying one of the candied apples at a stand on the far end of the market popping right out of existence as I cough up all of the money Jacquard gave me for this one piece of cloth. As soon as the money leaves my hand and the fabric takes its place, I know it was worth the price. The brilliant threads so soft, surprisingly lightweight for how sturdy it feels. I know it's exactly what I need for this next project.

"Thanks a million, Astrid. I'll see you next week!" I start off back towards the restaurant, the package of fabric wrapped protectively under my arm as I move. A few steps away a thought comes to me. I turn and call back to her with a playful little wink, "If any other Academy kids come looking for some fabric, charge them two hundred for me!"

[WC: 649]