[P] night poem. || ieshan party

[Mesnyi]

♡
but I am a dance and the dance goes on,

H

e immediately dispenses with their titles and aims for flirtatious familiarity. She plays right along, giggling at his little joke (is it a joke, really, if you are, actually, quite wounded?) and bumping his shoulder lightly. At the very least, he can make light of something dark. Mesnyi, to her credit, thinks he is handsome, but in the dull sort of way that one might think all rubies are pretty enough rubies, if one’s jewelry box happened to be full of them. (Perhaps, in retrospect, that is not a good analogy for anyone who is not disgustingly wealthy or associates with the disgustingly wealthy. Maybe, a better example would be: all jays have lovely feathers, even if they are - arguably - more similar in looks than most equines. Adonai, to her, is simply a jay with an extra-plush nest, and if anything, his feathers are dull, though she imagines they have potential.) 

“Ah,” she says in response to his comment on the tart, though she isn’t quite convinced, whether that is of the tart’s scrumptious taste or that he might be interested in eating at all. “A drink sounds delightful,” she says, wind-chime voice clear and bright. “I haven’t had the chance to try anything yet. And to think I have done all my polite laughing without it!”

Mesnyi’s violin continues to follow them, finally picking up a solstice tune as the crowd parts before them. ”It can play anything I know, so if it starts heading off on some distasteful tangent, let me know what you’d like to hear.” She motions towards the violin, but her focus is on Adonai. She throws a glance and a coy smile to an important guest now and then, but for the most part, she looks before her, or to Adonai, his presence more significant to her than any other noble she could’ve picked up for the night. And she is glad of it, of course - there have been too many small fish in her pond for far too long. It did get a bit boring, after a while. (And it had been a while. Gods - how long?) They arrive at the bar, and Mesnyi begs her own favorite cocktail of the bartender; she’d seen Pilate’s drinks set out, but she wasn’t quite sure if it would be a poor choice to pick one whilst attending to Adonai, and besides that, her favorite tastes good and would keep her (relatively) coherent if she was in for a long night of diplomatic conversations (picking up rich boys). (Sometimes, she had to be drunk for that. Especially if her options were unappealing.) Her drink is something frothy and clear, an extra shimmer in it, she imagines, as a festive touch. ”And what will you be politely laughing behind, Adonai?”

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