[ three minutes in and haru ditches him in search of the fabled ponds sequestered somewhere in the gardens. it's disappointing, but not unexpected, given that it'd taken nothing less than first-class enticement with pools, like makoto's usefulness was only proportional with immense bodies of water. forlorn, he spends some time meandering in and out of crowds seeking out his friends before turning to the refreshments stand for refuge. emotional intelligence really only went so far in impeding makoto's preternatural ability to make rash decisions. in any case, he doesn't bother thinking too deeply when indulging in drinks of the questionable (suspicious) variety.
it's only when he's staring back at the dredges of the fifth cup he's downed that lightheadedness really sets in, so makoto resigns himself to standing off to one side to spectate on the better part of the night, elbows hooked back on a nondescript table, mouth curved in a dopey, lenient smile. inebriation's phased out what little skittishness he managed to retain on arrival — he's fumbling just to keep his fingers properly splayed around his drink, tension rapidly melting away in lieu of a feverish giddiness. when someone manages to snag the hand left dormant at his side, it's all makoto can do to insouciantly hand off his cup to a passing waiter. ]
Oh! Hey, hey. Are you sure?
[ even his uncertainty falls flat under scrutiny.
makoto allows himself to be reeled onto the lacquered floor and messily pitch in-step, back and forth, back and forth. he breaks out in laughter after the first swiveling turn, resplendent with laughter and a good deal of alcohol-induced hyperactivity.
eventually, he settles for steadying his gaze at point-blank range on kisumi, roughly boasting the same degree of inebriated levity typically sported by guys who eschewed logic for spontaneity. this close, they're practically the concept of mimicry in practice. ... well, whatever. when the music trickles to a momentary lull, he leans in, eyes incredulously wide and taking over his face. ]
You didn't tell me you knew how to dance, Kisumi. That's so ... so unfair.
[ beneath the breathy undertone and slipshod amusement, makoto sounds absolutely scandalized. ]
phase iii!
it's only when he's staring back at the dredges of the fifth cup he's downed that lightheadedness really sets in, so makoto resigns himself to standing off to one side to spectate on the better part of the night, elbows hooked back on a nondescript table, mouth curved in a dopey, lenient smile. inebriation's phased out what little skittishness he managed to retain on arrival — he's fumbling just to keep his fingers properly splayed around his drink, tension rapidly melting away in lieu of a feverish giddiness. when someone manages to snag the hand left dormant at his side, it's all makoto can do to insouciantly hand off his cup to a passing waiter. ]
Oh! Hey, hey. Are you sure?
[ even his uncertainty falls flat under scrutiny.
makoto allows himself to be reeled onto the lacquered floor and messily pitch in-step, back and forth, back and forth. he breaks out in laughter after the first swiveling turn, resplendent with laughter and a good deal of alcohol-induced hyperactivity.
eventually, he settles for steadying his gaze at point-blank range on kisumi, roughly boasting the same degree of inebriated levity typically sported by guys who eschewed logic for spontaneity. this close, they're practically the concept of mimicry in practice. ... well, whatever. when the music trickles to a momentary lull, he leans in, eyes incredulously wide and taking over his face. ]
You didn't tell me you knew how to dance, Kisumi. That's so ... so unfair.
[ beneath the breathy undertone and slipshod amusement, makoto sounds absolutely scandalized. ]