Benzaiten
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 Location ⋗ Dormitory > The Patch. Interactions ⋗ Hanna@Prisk. School of Magic ⋗ Evocation & Abjuration. Items ⋗ N/A.  | ___  |
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‘Casual, casual, casual . . . ’
A handful of passes by the leaning corner mirror was enough to leave the otherwise empty room as a mess of slacks and overcoats. Not that the simple bedroom was decorated to his standards, or his clothes organized to his liking; he used to have maids for that. So he didn’t care. But, his selection of clothes was still a galore of luxury and opulent fashion, an armoire of garments he was familiar with. Still, how could he show himself in this new small-town life wearing a five thousand dollar Salvatore Ferragamo set. And despite its price tag, it still found its way to the floor, ruffled in with the rest of his absurdly expensive wardrobe. He was narrowing down his choices as he was approaching his final hangars. Enzo ended his overly-melancholic debacle wearing a simple, tan sweater that hugged tight to his arms and chest, draping down to slim jeans and leather boots. In silent tantrum, he adorned his wrist in a silver Rolex with a beautiful blue watch face – If he couldn’t have his clothes, he could still have his jewelry, he told himself.
One last examination and he cheered a shot of Angel’s Envy against the glass of the mirror, whispering to himself, “A ogni uccello il suo nido è bello.”
A scoff and slam of his door, and he was on his way to the event. The dorm he now resides in was no match to his home back in Italy, but it did leave his commute much shorter – no halls to run through, no courtyards to cross; just a small number of long-legged strides and he was met with the happening of Shipden Peak.
Enzo breezed through the motions, a little stiffer than he’d like, but he still felt the weight of a mask that interfered with his normal mannerisms. He didn’t cut himself any slack, and he knew that trauma was just a step or two behind him wherever went, but he had to learn to fit into these new shoes in order to adapt. Even now, he hasn’t processed the recent events of his life. Instead, he buried them deep. A sigh was a result of such subconscious feelings, and his gaze weighed a little lazier; his hazel irises reflecting the light show beneath somber eyelids. He ignored the bustle, he ignored the cheering, he ignored the smiles, he ignored the fun. Enzo reminisced of the pop of champagne and the bite of a chilled bourbon, wishing he had just brought over the entire bottle from earlier to get him through the day. He explored the terrain, the tents, and the crowds. He enjoyed a few nibbles of some mediocre dishes, and found himself pacing too much that made him look suspicious. His ear twitched at a conversation near him.
"Mom, it's me."
The sentence pricked at him. It came out of nowhere, the trauma that followed. It brushed against his back like needles, causing him to wince from the sharp sting. He turned his attention to the rest of her conversation to get his mind off of it. The phone call was quick, and it gave him an opportunity to end his sluggish pacing. One brush through his hair and he approached her.
"I bet if she tasted that apple pie, she’d be a little bit more ecstatic about it," Enzo spoke audibly. A proper accent dancing within his words, but not pinpointing his heritage very well. More precisely, it suggested a certain strict discipline of his past. And if she’d look over, he’d give his signature smirk to welcome her to conversation in a tasteful allure.
A handful of passes by the leaning corner mirror was enough to leave the otherwise empty room as a mess of slacks and overcoats. Not that the simple bedroom was decorated to his standards, or his clothes organized to his liking; he used to have maids for that. So he didn’t care. But, his selection of clothes was still a galore of luxury and opulent fashion, an armoire of garments he was familiar with. Still, how could he show himself in this new small-town life wearing a five thousand dollar Salvatore Ferragamo set. And despite its price tag, it still found its way to the floor, ruffled in with the rest of his absurdly expensive wardrobe. He was narrowing down his choices as he was approaching his final hangars. Enzo ended his overly-melancholic debacle wearing a simple, tan sweater that hugged tight to his arms and chest, draping down to slim jeans and leather boots. In silent tantrum, he adorned his wrist in a silver Rolex with a beautiful blue watch face – If he couldn’t have his clothes, he could still have his jewelry, he told himself.
One last examination and he cheered a shot of Angel’s Envy against the glass of the mirror, whispering to himself, “A ogni uccello il suo nido è bello.”
A scoff and slam of his door, and he was on his way to the event. The dorm he now resides in was no match to his home back in Italy, but it did leave his commute much shorter – no halls to run through, no courtyards to cross; just a small number of long-legged strides and he was met with the happening of Shipden Peak.
Enzo breezed through the motions, a little stiffer than he’d like, but he still felt the weight of a mask that interfered with his normal mannerisms. He didn’t cut himself any slack, and he knew that trauma was just a step or two behind him wherever went, but he had to learn to fit into these new shoes in order to adapt. Even now, he hasn’t processed the recent events of his life. Instead, he buried them deep. A sigh was a result of such subconscious feelings, and his gaze weighed a little lazier; his hazel irises reflecting the light show beneath somber eyelids. He ignored the bustle, he ignored the cheering, he ignored the smiles, he ignored the fun. Enzo reminisced of the pop of champagne and the bite of a chilled bourbon, wishing he had just brought over the entire bottle from earlier to get him through the day. He explored the terrain, the tents, and the crowds. He enjoyed a few nibbles of some mediocre dishes, and found himself pacing too much that made him look suspicious. His ear twitched at a conversation near him.
"Mom, it's me."
The sentence pricked at him. It came out of nowhere, the trauma that followed. It brushed against his back like needles, causing him to wince from the sharp sting. He turned his attention to the rest of her conversation to get his mind off of it. The phone call was quick, and it gave him an opportunity to end his sluggish pacing. One brush through his hair and he approached her.
"I bet if she tasted that apple pie, she’d be a little bit more ecstatic about it," Enzo spoke audibly. A proper accent dancing within his words, but not pinpointing his heritage very well. More precisely, it suggested a certain strict discipline of his past. And if she’d look over, he’d give his signature smirk to welcome her to conversation in a tasteful allure.
