he sun hung low in the lavender sky, round and full like an orange on a limber branch. Golden dots swam across Messa’s vision as she stared as long as she could at that sun, until at last she heaved a breath and closed her aching cerulean eyes.
And fell backwards against a carpet of plush, green grass. Ivory curls fanned around her like a halo, and white lashes fluttered as she took in the sights and smells from a wholly new perspective. How surprisingly pleasant it was. A bumblebee hummed from flower to fragrant flower, and she watched as pollen fell in golden clumps from its fur.
The sparrow-boned dancer was a nymph of flowers and curls, her braids awry and flowers askew. The change was so drastic, she hardly recognized herself. She wouldn’t be surprised if no one recognized her as she was, as unkept as the children who scampered like deer through the legs of the crowd.
“What am I doing?” she sighed, flipping onto her stomach to prop her chin upon her limbs. The sun was setting on the second day of the festival. The eve of the second day, and Messalina had yet to indulge in any of the festivities put on; yet to meet anyone she knew well enough to greet; yet to even speak to the flower-wreathed Regent, before he’d been claimed by one festival goer after the other. Instead, she’d wandered the venue like a wraith, floating from one booth to the next as she’d examined their wares with a polite smile, considered their offers with a graceful curtsy.
It was exactly how she’d acted at Mother’s side, and she despised herself for it. Come fall, it will be a year since my departure. How has time flowed so fast? The blood-red rose, stark amongst the carnations, glowed like a ruby behind her ear.
Where is Eros, I wonder? A dandelion twirled in the air as blue eyes scanned the distant crowd for a flash of ivory and gold. She had seen him for only a moment the day before, a hurried hello all she could spare before she’d dashed off to her performance. Had he seen it? Idly, she remembered the flowers he’d braided into his tail the first time they’d met — more than ever, she wished he were besides her so she could ask him to do the same to hers.
Ivory and gold. Ivory and — gold. Eros! In an instant, Messa was up on her hooves in a swirl of leaves and petals, barely pausing to brush the grass from her mane before rushing from her tree towards his silken tail. A glass of sparkling drink trailed after him as he made his way delicately across the glade.
Weaving through limbs like vines, she emerged breathless on the other side. “There you are, Eros.”
"blue must be your color; love the way you wear that dress even though your hair's a mess"
The festival is proving to be an apt escape for Eros, an excuse to gulp down drink after drink and lose himself in the music. Eros—never one to drink out of sadness or dance to forget—finds himself lost in a mindless undulation. It’s not the dance he’d prefer to be doing (a couple’s sway, in Aion’s arms), but it’s a dance nonetheless.
Ordinarily, he would have been more enthused by the artistic aspect of the festival, as well, would’ve seen it as a chance to share his work and admire that of others in addition to the opportunity to rave. As it is, he struggled even trying to complete a piece of his own, nevermind in compelling himself to be overly excited about others’. Still, his friend was to perform, and he’d be remiss to not attend.
But that was the first day. He wonders now, idly swirling the liquid in his glass, what he’s still doing here. He has nothing to present himself, no one else to support, and, most disappointing of all, no Aion to dance with. Back at the capitol, however, all he has is an empty bed, which is, admittedly, not the most attractive of alternatives.
So he stays, and drinks, and dances (alone). And drinks some more. The alcohol warms his throat, sits heavy in his stomach. Helps him forget how lonely he feels.
Then makes him wish all the more that Aion were here.
He’s just beginning to feeling sorry for himself again when a familiar voice startles him from his misery. It’s Messalina, the speckled dancer he’d found a friend in. “Hi, Messa! Were you looking for me?” His alcohol-altered brain can’t possibly imagine why, but he certainly won’t turn down the company.
“Your performance yesterday was wonderful,” he tells her, friendly, a slightly lopsided grin pulled about his pinkened cheeks. @messalina
<3 !!
Her lips lift into a smile. For Eros, her smiles are always genuine. She shields her eyes from the shining ivory of him when she nears. A glass of liquor, half empty, floats idly by his side, and Messalina notes with a curious stare the slight sway of his hooves when he halts.
"I was. I knew that you were coming, so I kept on the lookout for white and gold and blue," she quips, lifting her eyes from his glass to him. Her eyes, as blue as the sky, shine bright with humor. A rare sight; she is only becoming familiar with it herself.
Swiftly, the girl lowers into a light, elegant curtsy. An overly formal gesture entirely — but the action is so instinctual to her that she only catches herself doing it after she has done it.
Hopefully, Eros will not mind.
Something scrapes against her neck, and Messalina's brows knit when she plucks a stray piece of grass from her mane, fixing it a look of vexation. She does not need a mirror (and she would rather not look into one) to know that her braids are hopelessly disheveled.
Only Ipomoea's flower crown remains perfectly threaded through her curls, and for that she is glad. She glances at Eros' perfectly groomed tail in lament.
“Your performance yesterday was wonderful.”
"You saw it?" Her smile wings into a grin. "Thank you. I had not thought it satisfactory, I admit, but I am glad to hear it was well-received." She had slipped on her landing from the grand jete, she remembers, and her smile dims. If Mother were here...
If Mother were here, Messalina would not be. She would be practicing, drilling and drilling and drilling, forcing all thoughts of the festival from her mind. Sunup to sundown.
A sudden rush of dread spreads through her, drying her throat. Without thinking, she leans towards Eros' floating glass of liquor.
"May I try a sip?" Alcohol has never been appealing to her, the bitter tang and burning fire of it unpleasant enough that she wonders how anyone could bear it. But she has heard of fruitier things, like champagnes and jewel-colored cocktails.
Perhaps Eros' drink will be pleasant — he seems to like it, she thinks, by the speed it is disappearing from his glass.
@Eros | notes: eons later c': hi I still love them though
The festival is proving to be an apt escape for Eros, an excuse to gulp down drink after drink and lose himself in the music. Eros—never one to drink out of sadness or dance to forget—finds himself lost in a mindless undulation. It’s not the dance he’d prefer to be doing (a couple’s sway, in Aion’s arms), but it’s a dance nonetheless. 
