#indigo.

Indigo's not one to complain about a night off from practice—but having to spend the night preparing for the banquet instead of running drills isn't some great improvement. At least Exy practice she doesn't require climbing ladders to hang orange streamers, keeping an eye out for Parker in case she seizes the opportunity to, like, make Indigo fall from a height or whatever.

And, whatever they do tonight, it's not like it'll matter. All the teams will roll in tomorrow, and they'll be just as asshole-ish as they are when they're meeting up on opposing sides of the center court line. They'll be just as sure that they're better than the Foxes, and they won't be exactly wrong. A room full of Exy teams is just a room full of teams that have kicked the Foxes' ass—well, with the exception of the Southern Eagles.

And it's not like Indigo cares about what a bunch of sweaty jocks think, but it does make it difficult to feel any amount of excitement for the night to come. She's got a whole outfit picked out, and she's not fooling herself into thinking that anyone's going to appreciate it other than her.

"When do you think we say we've done enough?" She says, aware that she's most of the way to whining as the evening has stretched on and the court has gotten progressively more decked out in orange. "It's all kind of hideous, so I think we've got to be just about there."

De tudo o que Cheshire estava vendo naquele mundo novo, colorido e com suspensão da realidade o suficiente para que ele pudesse respirar em meio à chatice de Storybrooke, a valsa era a coisa que parecia mais... Normal. Pessoas dançando lentas uma com a outra ele já viu de monte-- inclusive, at~e em Wonderland, naqueles bailes que as rainhas gostavam de dar. Ele próprio nunca fora um grande especialista, sua forma gatuna muito mais ligeira para observar os outros que qualquer outra coisa. Talvez fosse aquele o motivo que o levou a pisar para dentro do salão: Nostalgia misturado a uma vontade de participar daquilo pela primeira vez. Ainda curioso e incerto, sorriu largo quando reconheceu uma figura dentre os rostos. Ah, agora sim, estava perfeito. ❛❛ —- Absolem, que coincidência te ver por aqui. Já te falei que essa sua nova forma é perfeita pra dançar? ❜❜ até chegou a oferecê-la uma mão, mas Cheshire não era o maior conhecido por sua enorme paciência, então ficou a chacoalhando na direção dela té que a pegasse. Mal a conhecida de longa data aceitou o convite, ele logo se aproximou para pousar a mão livre na cintura da figura de Indigo, começando a conduzi-la ao som da valsa que se iniciava. Infelizmente, Cheshire não era o melhor dos bailarinos, mas, ao menos, esforçava-se para não ser terrível enquanto conversava com a Lagarta. ❛❛ —- Faz tempo que não te vejo. Está gostando da festa? ❜❜

Indigo’s on her third year as a Fox, and she doesn’t know why this is the year Wymack’s decided to pull a fast one on them, turning the weekend that should have been their last hurrah before the schoolyear and the season officially started into some kind of summer camp. 

Indigo doesn’t hate the great outdoors, but this isn’t exactly a beach in the Pacific, or a safari in Africa. This is South Carolina at the tail end of the summer. It’s humid, there are mosquitoes, and tomorrow Indigo’s going to have to do trust falls. It sounds like torture. 

And Indigo didn’t exactly go to summer camp, but she did go to boarding school. She’s been sleeping in shitty dorms for years, even when you would have thought that the exorbitant tuition costs her parents paid would have gotten her something nicer. Her boarding school even had a lake to be picturesque on the front of all of their brochures, though in reality it was mostly used to get drunk next to after sneaking out from under the watchful eyes of their dorm parents. 

Going to college from that felt mostly like a lateral move. Going from college to this for a weekend feels like a step down. 

They’ve barely arrived, but Indigo’s gotten enough of a look at their accommodations to know that she’s not exactly psyched for the rest of the weekend, and the promise of a bonfire and s’mores isn’t exactly changing her mind. 

“Do you think, if we make a break for it now, we could hitchhike back to society?” She says. “I’m pretty sure this counts as cruel and unusual punishment, and we haven’t even lost a game yet.” 

She can’t remember the last time she went bowling. 

If she had to choose how to spend her Friday night, it wouldn’t be chucking balls at pins—(if you asked her, she spent enough time playing with balls at practice)—while wearing ugly shoes that had been on too many other people’s feet, but since it’s for Marley’s birthday, she isn’t going to complain. 

Or, at least, she had noble intentions of not complaining, but then someone had the bright idea that because of their natural athleticism they should play without bumpers, and Indigo has had to spend round after round watching her ball go into the gutter and not into the pins at all. 

The round isn’t even over yet, and she’s already feeling like a sore loser. 

When it’s her turn again, she make a big show out of picking just the right ball, even though she doesn’t really know the difference between any of them, before squaring herself towards the pins and half-heartedly telling herself that this time is the time she unlocks her inner bowling champion and gets a strike and makes everyone else on the team cry with jealousy, or whatever. 

But, when she lets the ball go, it’s back in the gutter again. The stupid pin picker-upper thing still comes down, though, makes its little sweep like it’s mocking her, and then it’s someone else’s turn.