[ Parties make him uncomfortable, and it's even worse when he doesn't know anyone else there.
The atmosphere is good--or could be, for those that like this sort of thing. It reminds him a little of being back home, at least as far as he can remember, with the town getting together on holidays to have little parties or bring food to each other's doors; he can't quite remember the specifics, almost like they've been burned out of his mind, or--or maybe it's just that it's from so long ago, right, it makes sense that he wouldn't remember much. The harder he thinks about it, the more that his head hurts, so he tries to leave it there.
In the reflection of the liquid in his glass, he can see the grimace he's wearing on his face; there's a group of girls singing some sort of sweet song, near one of the tables, and a few people surrounding them are clapping along. Further, towards the door, there's a group of men engaged in a rowdy, boisterous discussion; a few children run for the sweets table, snagging a few cookies and chasing after each other. All of these people seem to have somewhere to go, or someone to be with, and: he's here because it's a little warm, because he wanted to observe, and because winter feels a bit lonely, in this place.
To his surprise, he's not the only person here that doesn't seem to have a particular place to be. When his gaze lifts from his glass, he sees the girl that he helped out after the attack at the end of the harvest festival: the one that was stubbornly bleeding everywhere. His lips press into a thin line: with a tilt of his head, he angles a few steps closer to her, politely keeping some distance. ]
Guess you survived. [ This is his way of teasing. ] You like parties...?
closed — kainé
The atmosphere is good--or could be, for those that like this sort of thing. It reminds him a little of being back home, at least as far as he can remember, with the town getting together on holidays to have little parties or bring food to each other's doors; he can't quite remember the specifics, almost like they've been burned out of his mind, or--or maybe it's just that it's from so long ago, right, it makes sense that he wouldn't remember much. The harder he thinks about it, the more that his head hurts, so he tries to leave it there.
In the reflection of the liquid in his glass, he can see the grimace he's wearing on his face; there's a group of girls singing some sort of sweet song, near one of the tables, and a few people surrounding them are clapping along. Further, towards the door, there's a group of men engaged in a rowdy, boisterous discussion; a few children run for the sweets table, snagging a few cookies and chasing after each other. All of these people seem to have somewhere to go, or someone to be with, and: he's here because it's a little warm, because he wanted to observe, and because winter feels a bit lonely, in this place.
To his surprise, he's not the only person here that doesn't seem to have a particular place to be. When his gaze lifts from his glass, he sees the girl that he helped out after the attack at the end of the harvest festival: the one that was stubbornly bleeding everywhere. His lips press into a thin line: with a tilt of his head, he angles a few steps closer to her, politely keeping some distance. ]
Guess you survived. [ This is his way of teasing. ] You like parties...?