eye contact is a powerful thing. some doubted her abilities, but she'd already stared down this loser long enough to ditch his date and bring her a drink. sending him away now that she got what she wanted, though? proving a mammoth task. she scanned the small crowd around them for someone, anyone. this was a banquet of her entire school, her closest peers, and yet none of those fuckers were there when she needed them. she was so irritated she didn't realize the loser actually spoke.
and asked her what her name was. she blinked, if only to give herself more time to calm down. her name? he didn't know her name? she opened her mouth only to close it again, chewing on the slight to her family, her entire existence. the only thoughts coursing through her very expensive and famous head, was what the fuck? and oh god, please god, someone save me.
“and then, the guy goes–” kit pauses, exaggeratedly acting out the doorman flipping through pages of student’s names. “huh, you're not on the list, buddy.” he shook his head incredulously, mouth open as wide as he can. “i fucking work here! i know the doorman that said that to me!” he groaned, pulling and pushing at the collar of the turtleneck shirt he wore.
“i bet you didn’t have any trouble getting in, you look like royalty!” he nudged the student next to him, his eyes rolling. but his tone was good-natured, and the chuckling that spaced his every syllable harshed his annoyance. “is this like, prada, or something? i borrowed this from my co-worker, but i think it’s like, a size too small.”
the grandeur of a banquet is not something unaccustomed to eira, a girl who had grown up in the world of glistening galas and the charade of fancy dress. such things seem to her merely trivial now and almost boring. yet in the sea of her experiences, something about her debut into the daskalos society appeared so much more daunting, almost suffocating. sitting idly in her seat, amidst her mentorship cohort, eira feels as if eyes are following her. many pairs of eyes in fact, blinking in the back of her mind, piercing into her and revealing the secrets she tries so hard to consume. they taunt her, her demons. she has long since learnt to hide them behind the facade of her charming smile, eyes bright and innocent but in her own head she can hear them muttering. don’t let them sense your insecurity, your fear. they will eat you alive.
she paints an image of confidence, of casual charisma that makes her appear the shining star she ought to be seen as she forces herself to stand. her food is barely touched by the time she steps out of her seat, slipping out into the crowds of faceless students who gather towards the venue's outdoor patio to observe the view. too many unfamiliar figures, too many impressionable people. eira knows must act the part they want of her so as to be adored, in other words dance to their tune like a puppet pulled by the strings of an invisible master. and so a champagne flute is in her hand before she consciously realises it and she settles into leaning out upon the railing overlooking the sea. her head turns to her nearest companion, a lone person standing standing idly beside her, whose eyes are watching the same sunset. "it's pretty isn't it? like a work of art," she comments casually, her tone its usual wistfulness. "if i had any talent for painting i'd be memorising this view right now. it's almost magical, wouldn't you agree?"
“this stinks!” a bit too loud. a sea of titanic eyes flipped towards him: judging and volatile. their gazes bore into him, dissecting his audacity. kit gave them a sheepish smile before flopping into the seat next to his roommate, a haven in the midst of disapproving glares. “the inside bar is cash unless you want piss ( beer ) or acid ( champagne ).” he groaned, a child’s reaction, but grinned wildly at his friend.
“and the food was so-so. i eat here all the time! we all do! why they choose this place every year, i have no idea.” he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “did you have fun at least?”
closed starter, kitron : post - dinner. @hiercphant , for milo
he'd better be actually dead, was what she told her friend ten minutes ago. the worst part of this whole ordeal? people knew before she got here what happened this summer between her and fitzgerald o'callaghan ⸺ and like the sniveling rats they are, searching for any sign of weakness in the foundations of her, they asked anyway. she had just gotten through explaining the whole situation when she saw him.
her heart's dropped in fitz's presence before. when he drunkenly took a swan dive off the dresser in her dorm, or when he whispered things he did not mean into the charged air between them on nights they never speak of. her heart dropped now because of a familiar, wretched feeling: hurt. she narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and tilted her head. "forget something, fitzgerald?" she asked, as sweetly as she could. her friends behind her tensed, and, smartly, found somewhere else to be.
closed starter, kitron : post - dinner. @fvlsegcd for fitz
