( @matsvoka )
It’s not her preferred type of thing. Most knew her to be the definition of a ‘ social butterfly, ’ and though she often times did lean towards this definition, the fact of the matter was that blown out parties, like the one she currently found herself locked in, weren’t exactly exciting to her tastes. Finger foods, obnoxious attire, and honestly boring conversations revolving around who’s succeeding where and idle gossip, just hadn’t ever appealed. Maybe it was her ‘ small town ’ side, maybe Iwatobi had forever spoiled her in actually fun festivals and get-togethers, with actually real friends, and then real conversations that always dissolved in healing laughter, all those years back…
She’s quick to bat the thought away. The truth was, no matter what it was that had made for this distaste with Tokyo’s glamorized script, she was found in it. And being found in it meant playing her roles obediently, as was her track record. Especially when she’d inflicted this present on herself, when she’d traded the comforts of a warm seaside town for this charmed city life–! Her nose wrinkles slightly at the melodrama of her own thoughts. Honestly, you have it so good, she’s quick to think; a growing journalist for one of the most respected magazines in the city. Sure the job could get demanding ( especially where PR and its parties were concerned ) but at the end of the day it provided damn well. Surely she’d grow out of her nostalgia soon enough.
Shaking her head as if to mentally reset herself, she heads out over towards the refreshment table to grab a drink. Seeming almost natural to her nature, being so lost in her own train of thought, she doesn’t notice the figure she’s walking into till it’s a tad to late–
❝Ah,❞ she starts, pulling back immediately with a faint blush partially hidden behind a black lace mask–yeah, PR also liked going all out with their party themes too, tonight’s being ‘ masquerade. ’
❝I’m so sorry,❞ she adds once looking up;
❝I wasn’t paying attention–❞ Her words stop suddenly, and she’s not sure why but that previous nostalgia rushes back with a nearly dizzying force.
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HOW.
An entire orchestra, an entire brass, woodwind, strings -- there was even a freaking triangle for God's sake! How, How in God's name, was it possible that the only song they knew was Claire de Lune?! How?! As if the song itself wasn't haunting enough -- listening to six year old Gou mangle it in every instrumental way possible ( the girl was ingenius in so many other ways, but truthfully, calling her a musician was a kindness that no composer six feet under would ever do her. ) had all but ruined it for him and left him with a very prominent cringe during the first opening chords. Honestly, he was all but certain that he had saved sound forever by having her enroll in dance. Another chill crawled its way down his spine as he swore there must still be water in his ear from the morning practice session. After all, a repreive from the overplayed elevator music was too kind wasn't it?
As a rather opulent couple passed by the bandstand, it caught his eye -- a flash of gloved digits and instantly the song changed. A smirk found it's way on to his lips. Well played conductor. Well played. The song that had begun was one that seemed to stirr something in the back of his mind...like a moth slips through a window's crack into the ephemeral evening did a smile geniunely curve at his lips. This was THE song, wasn't it? he shook his head slightly, the memories catching on the softer notes of Coldplay's Sky Full of Stars, instrumental style, of course.
The song he'd had his first and last moment with her...Gazing up into the brilliant night sky, unspoiled by the psedo-starlight of the city's stratosphere, the cool ocean air tickling his face under the slow roll of a moonless night's easy ebb and flow. God, the moment had been his. His and his alone, just the two of them under their own cosmos, their own microcosm unto itself...the words were there, poised on his tongue and prying his lips into shape...
Crackle...Boom...Boom!
They say youth is wasted on the young, but he was sure that there were so many people at that moment who couldn't have picked a better night for the Iwatobi graduating classes to celebrate with some spectacular pyrotechnics. Brilliant, blazing light celebrating the unbridled future of the young adults soaring to new heights as so many celebrated their last night of childhood...and while he couldn't deny, a fire inside his own soul had him set on blazing his own trail through that sky...for just a moment, just the smallest space between heartbeats, he wondered...wondered what it might be like to find himself a true star of his own making, woven seamlessly into the fabric of midnight, to watch the spell cast over the unsuspecting world's slumber, what would it be like indeed...to burn his own light into the allconsuming darkness? For the moon's light to touch him and him alone? For the clouds to part and recognize him?
Black... to blue... to purple...violet...and precious pink.
Night was never meant to last, was it?
The sun would always rise, wouldn't it? Chasing away any and all majesty of the night and giving way to the light's first morning rays. Those greedy, creeping gold fingers clawing through the purity of the evening and drenching every inch into the most vivid, brilliant sunlight.
This was what we woke for, this was what each daybreak promised us... and that was exactly how the world worked.
And it was this conclusion he came to, years and years ago, which made him falter long enough to watch her slip from his fingers and trail once more up into the light. It was half way between a sip of his scotch and a smirk at his lips that he caught sight of the banner hung proudly over the orchestra's pit.
'Reigning Olympic Champion's 22nd Masquerade Ball: From one Olympian to another, funding the Special Olympics one medal at a time.'
Wasn't the sun a star, after all?
with an ever loosening red tie fitting seamlessly into his intricately framed black and red mask. The design over all a fitted cut out accentuating his angular features and highlighting the hue of his brilliant crimson eyes. It was something the media had thrown together, the guise of goodwill, masks and sophistication a ploy to get atheletes comfortable enough talking to the press that they'd have enough gossip material to last them the year. Which, naturally, was entirely ridiculous -- because if you were serious about the job, you had zero time for any kind of front page level gossip.
It was paramount to his career to keep them eating out of the palm of his hand, and Rin was all but a master of dropping just enough information to stay mysteriously infamous. It was why he was on his second scotch of the night, enough to keep him relaxed, but engaged with whatever reporter the press threw his way.
A tinkling of the rocks in his glass was his first clue that he'd slammed sharply into a slender figure on his trek to the h'ordervs table on the other side of the room. Immediately, he cringed at the impact, before allowing the blow, steadying himself instantly as he catches her arm immediatly to prevent any further incidents, he allows his empty scotch to clink softly to the red carpeted floors.
It was all the force of a frieght train that one look into those emerald eyes set him back years, all at once he was a gawky ambitious kid with a second home in the water's depths, he was a lonely kid playing on the beach of Australia outside Russell and Lori's house, he was a captain of the best swim team in the nation...and a gold medalist.
So, why did it feel like in fact, the woman he'd had a near collision with held more weight in his eyes than all of the gold medals he could get his hands on? His brain screamed as he found his lungs starved for a breath, a breathless exhale of her name was all he had in him, all that his processes could piece together. The world tilting completely as he found a universe amongst a verdant sea.
❝...Makoto.❞