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“I’ll catch up with you soon--ten minutes, I promise!”
It was never ten minutes, but Celia laughed and gave her the benefit of the doubt anyway, waving her along as Rosalind pushed open the shop door and ran to the window display. The new brooms in the window had enticed her first, but she could lose hours in the shop, touching everything that caught her eye. “Gorgeous,” she breathed, barely daring to touch the wood on the new models.
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Coming to the Catapult’s party on the Catapult’s stomping grounds was a terrible, miserable, horrible idea.Â
Coming to the Catapult’s party on the Catapult’s stomping grounds may have also been her terrible, miserable, horrible idea, but she wasn’t about to advertise it, not when she was having such a terrible, miserable, horrible time.Â
All of the lads she’d danced with had used their masks and anonymity as an excuse to be handsier than hell. She’d lost both Ben and Romeo in the crowd Merlin only knew when, and-- six flutes of sickly sweet champagne later-- couldn’t quite remember what they’d been wearing. It wasn’t as if she could shout for them in the middle of this crowd without causing some sort of international crisis. (That the ballroom at this fĂŞte boasted better dĂ©cor than the Montague’s struck her as somewhat of a personal attack, but that was neither here nor there.)Â
She drowned her sixth flute and plucked up a seventh, and had only just resolved herself to having something resembling a good time even it killed her when she moved a touch too quickly and--
-- Promptly dumped half the contents of her glass down the back of the body standing far too close to her own. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, shit-- oh, I’m so sorry, let me--”Â
Sorry I’m late
“I hate to have kept the party delayed, but obviously I have, because it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a party don’t start till Ty walks in.”Â
“Now then, who’s going to be the first to take off their fancy party clothes - you or me?”
        “Right, ten sickles if you can guess who i’m dressed as.” Rosencrantz scuffs at the gravel-covered ground with the toe of his boot, an unfamiliar thread of anxiety preventing him from entering the party just yet. It was probably nothing. He just wanted to make a grand entrance, didn’t he? That was probably it.Â
“And don’t try to tell me we’re not supposed to dress up as things, you’re not wrestling the joy of Second Halloween away from me.” The strange feeling settling in his gut aside, the catapult chaser was quite proud of his attire for the evening, simple though it was–– a simple mask, a black suit, his normally dark curls lightened to a more honeyed shade.           . . . .        Then again, he did dress up as Benvolio every single year.Â
Orlando looked around the room. He played a game each Walpurgis, one he had played every year for as long as he could remember; how long can he go before someone realizes he is not aware of what they were actually saying. He had to squint through his mask to try and make out what people were saying behind masks that seemed to almost always hide their lips,. A nod here, a shocked expression there, it was all it really took to keep most people stringing along. Maybe it was the drink he had had already or maybe it was tedium at being stuck in an event like this again, but he didn’t really feel up to his game. He really only had two options, it was feigning being interested in any conversation he’d found himself trapped in, giving nods of his fully masked face here and there where it seemed appropriate or dancing. He could feel the rhythm of the music, it was playing in his veins. So he bowed down and with a flourish of his hand asked for a dance of the passerby, this he could do.
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Sorry I’m late to the party. The invitation that was so carefully worded to make it clear that this was a non optional event for all Magpie employees, had said “black tie masquerade”. Mal played along, getting a new suit and a mask, but he dones’t need people to think he’s someone else. He’s comfortable being himself, he’s not terribly comfortable in his suit though.Â
You find it stuffy in here? Or is it just me?
{ oh what a world } | open
At the back of her mind, she was worried about the impending matches the Magpies had.Â
It was always worrying being one of the most highly paid people in the league. There was little to no job security when you were a manager, especially when you were the Magpies manager. It was stress like she hadn’t ever known before--but that was how she worked best.Â
There were a stack of papers waiting for her at her desk (and she was sure that there were a thousand emails waiting to be answered, along with all of the calls, texts, and voicemails. But there was only so much even she could take, so she took the night off.
Her drinking schedule depended on the time of the season it was. The beginning of the season was always wine--it was best to be seen at a nice restaurant with a bottle of wine more expensive than some of your players. Mid season it was alright to be seen at pubs, but it was best to keep it strictly beers. You didn’t want to look like you were giving up on the season already.Â
Unfortunately, it wasn’t liquor time yet. They were smack in the middle, beer season. Not that she minded overly much, it was just tedious to find a pub that wasn’t infested with rats. However, she was lucky that her team was based close to home--her Scottish blood couldn’t stay away for long. She decided it was a nice night to visit one of her favorite pubs in Edinburgh.
The pub wasn’t packed, which she was grateful for. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone she noticed. “Are you stalking me?”
"You wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you? Bad habits--I know.”Â
