unresolved | federico & araminta
He'd been looking for her since he arrived. Not that he hadn't seen her — she was impossible to miss, the rich gold of her dress (she couldn't have chosen that herself) threw the flashing light around the Circle Room like a prism. But every time he caught a glimpse of of Araminta, there was someone else there; a small group of admiring fans, some glittering starlet, a man who'd made the poor decision to come too close. And so he waited, declining offers of refreshments — the night was m a d enough already — and lingering near the fringes of the room; not so far out that he'd draw attention to himself, but distanced from the throngs of civilians who gathered to lay eyes on the Hollywood elite.
Holding an untouched flute of champagne, drawn in and out of meaningless conversations, Federico began to wish he hadn’t waited so long. Or perhaps that he waited longer. That was, admittedly, not at the top of the list of things he regretted, but wouldn’t it be so much simpler to find a time to talk to Araminta when she didn’t have admirers swarming her like bees on a flower?
(Federico then spent a moment vowing never — no matter how indirectly — to compare Araminta to a flower again.)
Security at least had kept out paparazzi, though there was nothing they could do about those eagerly snapping photos on their phones of every passing celebrity. Nor about the gossips, circulating rumors faster even than scandals could occur (and he’d seen plenty; if that were his style, he’d have blackmail material to last decades, and he couldn’t say it wouldn’t ever be useful). Finally, however, he saw that tell-tale blaze of gold in the corner of his eye and noted that Araminta seemed to have separated herself from the crowds at last. Extricating himself from another tedious conversation, me made his way towards her, the throbbing beat of the music ever louder in his ears.
As Federico crossed the floor he remembered the champagne in his hand and downed it too quickly, hoping liquid courage would bolster the faltering actuality. It was a compulsion of his to reflect, replay moments he wished he could shut away, and now all he could see was the flashing anger in Araminta’s eyes the last time they’d talked, the fury in her voice... the sensation of her lips against his own.
He had found he couldn't entirely regret that.
“Araminta.” He hoped the use of her real name, not one of the half-dozen equally loathed nicknames he called her, would catch her attention though his voice was likely too low to be heard over the music. "I’m back.” Well, that is blindingly goddamn obvious. “I was a fucking idiot for going in the first place.”
