𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚜, + mila simons.
It isn’t as if she hasn’t been here at all over the years, but still — it’s strange. No Headmaster, bursting in the room and demanding everyone’s attention, heads snapping at the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floors. It’s lacking. Half-space. Mila has little interest in it, the cliches of grief and the way her body seems to want to wrap itself around them, give into them, succumb to them.
In stead, she drinks wine and tries not to be angry with the intruders for being here. She moves, exchanging polite enough conversation with the interesting politicians and socialites, but feels herself pulled towards Quinn after an exhausting lament, ears ringing from having to deal with someone else’s grief. As if her own wasn’t enough.
“You look rough.” She says it dead-pan, with no consideration of whether it’s true or not. Mila is, after all, mostly occupied with how she presents. “What happened?” An impish quality reaches her eyes as she leans in, “Someone die, or something?” Around here, between them, this might as well go for how are you?
tepid condolences are met with practiced grin. fundamentals taught throughout childhood are yet to hold any significance. it’s a constant battle for quinn, a leader who made haste attempts to reconstruct himself in the image of their headmaster. naively promise that it’s no problem, rectify the inconsistencies like smudges on a mirror. yet, what to do when his absence creaks cracks in said mirror ? what training can he survive on in this moment ?
quinn keeps his glass steadily full, allow cool droplets soothe the discomposed energy that burns at the fingertips. dirty blonde eyebrows knit at the sight of the mingling crowd, mind working through detailed lists of who he’d recognise both as himself + bladebender -— as if the two weren’t interchangeable. it’s the way senses could feel mila’s presence serpentine nearby, instinctively taking a sip of amber liquor as a form of a hello.
❛ cheers, mila. ❜ tone mimics hers, periphery watching her actions. it’s certainly one of the nicer comment quinn’s heard over the years, a bittersweet graciousness for double - edged honesty. ❛ don’t you reckon kickstarting a comedy career in the middle of a funeral is a bit gauche ? ❜ hues finally flicker to meet hers, a ghost of his sardonic smirk curling at the edge, ❛ sure knox would appreciate the ambitiousness of it, though. ❜
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