i wish we were all rose-colored, too
He remembers his first festival, when the traveling merchants had come to Solterra.
He was just a boy then, an orphan begging in the streets of the capitol. They had been the most extravagant people Ipomoea had ever met, their liveliness clashing wonderfully with the heat and tensions of the Day Court. He had been drawn to them, hopelessly, romantically - how could he not? They had everything an orphan like himself could ever want, freedom and spirit and hope.
“No,” he hummed. Ipomoea had been to many festivals since that one. “Definitely not the first.” And yet there was a feeling blossoming in his chest, the sense that this one was important, more so than the others. He already knew he would remember tonight above all others.
She drifts closer to him, ever closer, and Ipomoea is unsure if it has more to do with the wine and sweets they’ve indulged in, or simply a desire to be near one another - but he hopes it’s the latter. If it were any other night he might have at least tried to keep his distance, he might have reverted to his mask of shy and overt politeness, a mask that would keep her carefully at arms length, all while laughing over the sound of his frantically beating heart. Perhaps he would have shied from her touch, or led her back to the crowds where the lights were bright and left no place for them to hide, excusing himself on the slim basis of needing to “take care of something,” which of course actually meant running off and catching his breath before the fire rising in his cheeks could give him away for good.
Any of those options would make for an appropriate choice. He was a Regent, and she a Champion; there were no explicit rules that dictated a relationship between the two, but surely it was implied? Surely that was what they all meant when they said “Duty, Honor, Country” and stitched those words into every sworn oath.
But tonight Ipomoea is selfish, surprisingly so.
Those three words are far from his mind, fading away alongside the party and the lights and the noise. It’s all just background, a dull and colorless world that pales in comparison to the slow and languid dance they’re locked into. Overhead the stars are bright, smiling down in knowing silence as they pass beneath their silvery glow, and it seems to Po that they don’t seem to shine quite so brightly on any of the other swaying couples.
He wants to listen to those stars - he does - but uncertainty clings to the ends of his coattails, holding him back. When he pulls away they seem to dim, his heart and soul alike roaring at him to do the opposite, to move forward and lose himself in her bright, blue eyes that smile up at him. ”Are you saying that because you are leaving?”
It sounds like an accusation. His mouth opens and closes, and he realizes too late that they have stopped dancing, and they alone were still amidst the other dancing pairs. “No -“ he starts, but she cuts him off before he could think of what else to say. ”I am thirsty. Let us go for some refreshments.”
And then she is spinning away, like a ballerina exiting the stage in the middle of her act, leaving the crowd - leaving him - confused and wanting more. It felt unfinished, in a slow-burn, maddening sort of way; and perhaps that was what she wanted.
The fairy lights sparkle across her pale skin, the rose in her hair red and bright and alluring, a symbol for love yet in stark contrast to her formal, even stiff carriage. The crowd parts around her, the Champion of wisdom in a room full of scholars, and Ipomoea feels something like a kid watching the festivals of Solterra again, as he watches Messalina weave across the floor.
“You know, I’m not actually sure what’s in these,” he says sheepishly, as he gestures towards the sparkling pitchers. “I can’t say I’m not curious.” He hadn’t even bothered to ask - there were so many kinds of mead and wine and spirits, it all was hopelessly out of his league. And yet the basins were half-empty, and he routinely saw caterers returning to fill them, so clearly his advisor had made a deft choice for him. He wouldn’t know - he’d only had one drink tonight, and there were enough options to make his head spin before even indulging.
He shifts his gaze sideways to Messalina, peering at her from beneath long lashes. A fleeting smile brightens up his features, and he hopes to brighten up her’s with it. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asks innocently, and a glass rises into the air, hovering midway between them. Inside its spirits are red, as red as his eyes and her roses.
@messalina <3 <3 <3
