vagabonds
troubled sea so deep, troubled home no sleep. you've been flying so high, avoiding the road, pretending to not feel alone. -- @idmilo , seasons change festival ( down time ).
it’s a nice day, at least. the sun’s bright overhead. one of those days that makes it feel like it might be summer. at least before the storm clouds swamp in and drown them all in rain and weather-affected melancholy. the fans’ll be happy. and miji’s relieved enough she won’t have to slide around the stage in heels. she rolled her ankle doing that, once. is glad whenever the company decides to spare them, throws boots or sneakers her way. who knew stilettos were a pre-requisite to dance? she catches sight of him out back, under the constructed awning hidden around the back of one of the stages.
it isn’t a surprise meeting, isn’t clandestine. she’d shot him a text a good half hour ago and mentioned meeting up. there was enough time to kill, and everyone was breaking off into chaos anyway. she figured she might as well catch up with him with how busy atlas has been lately. she’s missed him. they used to hang out more, before. when atlas and cherry bomb! were bother newer, less busy. it’s a bit different now. but they steal time away together when they can.
“you’re looking dashing.”
it might’ve been a comment if not for the sweat sticking milo’s bangs to his forehead, or the way his sweatshirt seemed intent on toppling it’s way off of just one shoulder. a precarious situation, as far as garments went. he reminds her of an overlarge puppy. a messy toussle of hair, eyes hidden behind shaggy bangs, overlarge limbs and a proclivity to tumble headfirst into things, the size of his own limbs be damned (or forgotten).
miji ruffles a hand through his hair when she gets close enough.
“practicing?” she asks, tosses a half-empty water bottle back and forth between her hands as she waits for an answer, rests her weight against some kind of metal creation jammed into place to help keep the stage aloft. she lets her eyes slip shut, listens to the murmur of people just out of sight, out of reach. it nearly feels like they’re trapped away in a bubble. something that’s bound to pop sooner rather than later. silence chased away as they’re spilled back into their proper places. barbie-doll boxes marked off with cherry bomb! and atlas (or, well, he can at least be ken). “you have a special stage too, right? should i be excited?” she probably will be. it seems to her like he soaks up the very essence of all that poetry he reads, lets it consume his body onstage when it’s paired with a beat. a little rough, overwhelming. she’s always loved his style.