#roseateroyal

It wasn't busy today. Ayato preferred the busier hours of the evening where he was always called around and beckoned for, but hey, he gets paid either way. Money for his pockets at the end of the week, he felt. A student couldn't get much of a better-paying job, but this will have to do. He enjoyed the constant attention, anyways. (If he wanted all eyes on him all the time, he really should have invested in a job as a stripper.)

Notepad and pen at hand and (finally) a patron in sight on this slow span of time, Ayato's trek to the table was an expedient one. Finally, something to do and bide his time with on this droll day. 

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?"

With as good as a lifetime of ballroom experience behind her (for better or for worse), she's managed to build something of an immunity to the peculiar buzz of such venues as these. The combined hum of music, murmuring, and clinking glasses, the crowds of bystanders not participating in the dance at present standing some way off the dance floor, the venue's staff flitting from here to there with perfectly balanced trays of hor d'oeuvres... 

All in all, it makes for a tremendously familiar world - theme of anonymity notwithstanding -  with which she feels quite at home ─ but even veterans, if she may dare call herself thus, need their rest from time to time.

Far from weary enough on her feet to call it a night yet, the blonde seeks the comfort of cool evening air, slyly taking her leave via one of the many doors which line the sides of the hall. She's none too surprised to find a fair few have had the same idea once stepping out onto the veranda, whether they be part of a couple, a small crowd, or by themselves: and it's one of the latter folk that she settles on moving towards (if not quite sidling up to them), without wish to eavesdrop on the conversations of strangers as she is.

Initially, she has her reservations about asserting her company to this lone stranger, although these are reservations soon overcome as she reasons there to be no harm in a spot of small talk.