"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.
@messalina
<3 !!
