#volot

Your performance was wonderful. May your passion never burn out.

     She is no stranger to this—to opening the doors of her dressing room after the final drop of the curtain with the bow of her head, only to be met with the sight of flowers. Singular roses with letters tied to the stems, bouquets of shapes and sizes too varied to categorise. Lillies and carnations and irises— of pinks and reds and yellows and lavenders— chief among them. Silent praise and admiration to continue both applause and cheers for once she has left the stage, chances for those within the thousands of pairs of eyes to be seen, to be heard, to have their emotions felt. And this time is of no exception—not the sea of colour her eyes are met with, nor how they are so carefully strewn about the room, as though an attempt to convince her that she might truly be back home. Knee-deep in that meadow, instead of all that awaits her outside.

     Florges trailing at her side, Serena closes the door behind them both with a soft click, fingers loosening the back of a bodice, and in the slackening of ties comes a sigh of relief, the release of tension among muscle and bones and lungs. Sits herself before that wide mirror bordered with round and yellowed bulbs and polaroids so that ribbons secured around ankles might be untied and shed from her feet shoes once brand new, now soft and dead. To free hair so meticulously pinned and sprayed back. All the while, scanning over the surface of the counter, among antique bottles and well-loved brushes and hairpins and the contents of a make-up bag, to look at the flowers laid out before her. The usual bouquets from philanthropists and benefactors and prominent figures of the self-described Kalosian elite—marked as much with a tag and fancifully written family names—, that same arrangement from her cavalier, another no doubt from her mother, from her father, and those of dear friends.

     And yet among them all, a kind she does not recognise. That catches her eye.

     She regards it with the faintest twitch of her brow, a rightening of her posture in the chair as pointe shoes slip to the floor. The sight of an unfamiliar arrangement not cause for intrigue, but rather the type of flower that is laced throughout it. Flowers from her home—that could only be sourced from there, and by those with permission to do so. Hands reach to take the bouquet in her arms, cradling it as one hand of fingertips trace over petals, take the note out from where it had been placed. There is no name. No name, and not the slightest indication of who could have sent it. The handwriting familiar, achingly so—as if from a dream or memories from her childhood long passed—, and yet foreign. Surely, had someone from her home been there would they have signed their name, waited for her backstage, asked to see her.

     Brows knit themselves together, and Serena draws her lips into a line soft and yet contemplative. If not her mother, nor her father, if not those who would have signed their name, then who else from home—who else of family—could it be?

     Sarana would liken him, in this moment, to her Ninetales confronted with the dreaded concept of perceived dismissal. All theatrics and exaggerated sighs and faux-pouty looks from the corners of calculating eyes. Vying for a reaction. Searching to be noticed, incessant and oh so very subtle in their minds only. What was given before perhaps not enough— not in emotion, or of her attention given to him in the most obvious of ways, or perhaps both. No matter, her gaze flickers over to him for a moment so fleeting it renders itself little more to her than a blur. Discreet, behind hair long pulled over a shoulder, from under a head angled to the ground. The kind to catch the faintest glimpse of his expression, and force Sarana to keep the corners of lips drawn in that line so fortress-like and unreadable. To mask the ghosts of vague amusement under words of any kind, so long as they did not betray neither herself nor him.

          "...Oh dear,"

     She says, and eyes stay resolute in keeping away from Volo, resting as they had been before he spoke— when she had offered in response a single laugh that died against her lips something muffled and short. Upon her shawl, which she chases dust and glittering droplets from. He is a clever man— deceptively so. Of that much is she aware. This moment, those words, created with their roots steeped in parts of it all. Yet it is harmless, or so she tells herself. And it was, in truth, a stroke of genius to spare them from the rain. But why not feign ignorance?

          "Oh woe is you, indeed. Such a terrible tragedy has befallen you. We should make haste to the village then, yes? I'm certain someone there will appreciate your—"

     Her free hand lifts. A roll of her wrist, fingers spreading so that the might comb through the air and somehow catch the words that escape her so. And in the second pass does a click of her tongue sound. The silence that trails long, drawn out. Calm and yet pulled impossibly taut.

          "—...awe-inspiring genius."

     Fabric flutters but once more, and she folds the garment over her arm. Eyes following the movement as though nothing could catch her focus more. That nothing should.

❝ —GRANDPA VOLO ? ❞

there's no mistake about it; same hair, same get-up, if nothing but slightly worn out. he hadn't changed at all. strelitzia immediately BEAMS, a surprised smile stretching her lips in ways they hadn't in A REALLY LONG TIME. ❝ haven't seen you in forever ! the hell are you doin' in KALOS ?! ❞

he  has  his  face.  not  in  the  same  way  one  might  glance  at  a  passersby  and  find  trite  bemusement  in  a  similar  hairstyle  or  manner  of  dress.  he  has  HIS  face  —  as  though  his  reflection  has  stepped  out  of  the  mirror  and  took  on  a  life  of  its  own.

volo  laughs,  his  chest  squeezing  with  a  sharp  and  sudden  pain.  he  raises  a  hand,  fingertips  ghosting  across  his  own  cheek  —  as  if  to  confirm  the  uncanny  resemblance  for  himself.  (  there  is  a  part  of  him  that  expects  to  feel  smooth  glass.  )  ❝  i  don't  understand.  ❞  yet  he's  smiling  as  he  says  it,  a  grin  that  bares  teeth  as  if  to  accentuate  his  hunger.  i  don't  understand.  i  NEED  to  understand.

@volot &&.  liked  for  a  STARTER.

^_^ takes her hand. brings it up to kiss the bends of her knuckles

❝ aw ... have you missed me so ? ❞

she knows better than to take such gestures wholeheartedly; ALWAYS SOMETHING with volo. she knew, because she was the same. fingers slip so delicately from his grasp, brushing against his lips in a WARNING. ❝ careful ... ❞