i wish we were all rose-colored, too
The forest reminds him of a scene from a fairytale tonight, made complete by the stars shimmering overhead and the girl trailing closely at his side. Her shoulder is warm against his, and something about the contact is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.
And in this fairytale, Ipomoea is no longer an orphan, forgotten and overlooked. He’s been transformed into a prince, and it feels as if he could do anything, be anything.
With every step, he wills his heart to be a little more steady, a little more quiet — it’s so loud, and pounding so heavily in his ears, he’s surprised Messalina can’t hear it. But maybe she’s just being polite, and pretending not to notice the way his heart flutters and his cheeks burn every time she looks at him.
Her voice is music to his ears, and he drinks in her words, her glances, her touches like he’s been starved of her all night.
“This is your first festival?” His surprise is apparent - but he can’t help but feel just a tiny bit special, that she had come to this one, that she’d had a choice and had chosen to see it for herself. She was a ballerina after all, had grown up within courts and ballrooms and extravagances. But never a festival? “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” his heart is soaring in his chest, and he finds himself almost relieved but her admission. It’s as if a secret part of him had been afraid she wouldn’t come or - even worse - afraid she would be disappointed in the whole affair.
As she pulls away, he has to resist the urge to press after her; it’s almost an agony, but slowly he falls into a rhythm alongside her. His wings flutter in time with the music, head bowing shyly as he looks at his dance partner from beneath his long lashes.
“If it’s a dream,” he begins, his voice is little more than a whisper, reserved only for her ears, “it’s one I never wish to wake up from.”
Slowly the dance brings them closer, but it’s too slow for his liking. He has half a mind to be bold, to be brave, to step forward and close the distance between them for good.
He almost does: his body wavers, breaking his rhythm, as if he’s on the brink of leaping forward. And all he can think of is how pretty she looks beneath the flickering lights, and how her lips might feel against his -
- he takes a sudden step backwards, feeling abashed. “Messa. I-“
He stutters on his own words, and the fairytale feeling starts to slip away inch by inch.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying the party,” he says again, even though he’s already said it once. And his cheeks burn again in the starlit night.
<3 | @messalina
art by rhiann
