CLOSED STARTER for @bladecaught, at the wake.
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?