He’s lost Kasamatsu somewhere between the passing trays of champagne and grumbled complaints that have long since faded into the crowd. One song and two glasses ago, he was moderately disgruntled at best — but the night dragged on, and Kasamatsu’s patience dragged thin.

(Kise’s head is still ringing from a palm coming in contact with it — blinking as he watched Kasamatsu shoulder through the crowd, and calling, “Ehh?! Is this because I wouldn’t let you lead?”)

At least three melodramatic sighs later, he’s seated at a table with his palm tucked under his chin and his gaze glossing over various tints of champagne flushed cheeks and rosy rimmed auras. (It’s funny how the two of them fit together like jagged puzzle pieces, him and Kasamatsu — one a bubbling brim of theatrics and the other a solidified set of morals with an anger working itself into the tips of his fingers. He wonders if they’ll stay this way, pushing against each other, but never pulling apart.)

Sighing again (just as melodramatic as the time before that and the time before that and), he slides out his chair to stand and turn on the slick of his heel, only to feel a head on collision with another party goer.

Frantically, he grapples for balance, reaching out to catch the other person’s hand and keep them on their feet. Offering a somewhat sheepish smile, he stumbles through an apology:

"Ah, sorry, sorry! I’ll try to pay more attention to where I’m going, huh?"