#Also me going Gale feels pangs of recognition like whatever. Im red thread of fate-ing this.

[recitedemise]

Now, that's a line of thought, indeed. As a wish, to who do you truly belong to tonight? Well, certainly not to him. He hasn't wished for ages.

Wishing is too indulgent for a soul like his.

But seeing you strut up to him now, a flash of surprise, perhaps even frazzling anxiety, creeps up strange and fluttering in the pit of his chest. Gale reasons it's just his muscle, that one that's atrophied egregiously in his most silent of years. Fortunately, he's still sense enough in him to scrounge up the barest modicum of charm. If your ears are truly burning, fortunately, he thinks it's just his vision.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were luring me into a trap where I ply with you praise. Truthfully, the bass might have rattled my more mental faculties more than I'd care to admit, but if I'm not somehow mistaken, this is supposed to work the other way around." After all, asking for one's ego to be pampered and stroked? Who ever wins company with words like that? Evidently, the answer is you if this one's man's stillness isn't declaration enough. Neither turning on his heel nor bolting for the door... He meets your gleaming eyes. You look--familiar. "You were enchanting. Perhaps it isn't like celestial, but it is magical, and I argue what difference is there between one abstract realm from that of another? Were you to ask me, they're both the very height of fantasy. With the power to spellbound and profoundly enthrall, they're more sisters than cousins. You find great passion in your work." The way you'd closed your eyes and lost yourself... Gale's smile twists, realizing. "Oh, you're good at this."

tabloids and a tyrannical father are far from your mind. you are not the blue devil or heir of a wretched family legacy on stage. you have been remade. under the neon moon, you are born from a wish.

whose wish, perhaps you will discover tonight.

you've been in the game now for a couple of years. good fan rapport is vital to maintain. mister superlunary isn't the first to seek you out at the end of a performance. no fan before him have complimented you quite so . . . thoroughly. the tips of your ears burn with color. mister superlunary's fidgeting endears you to speak.

"hey, don't stop there," dressed down from leathers and silk the color of sin, you amble closer in an open-throat shirt and simple denim. the sensuous and indolent devil from stage falls away with every step. your smile shifts towards the whimisical. "what else do you like about me? it'll be hard t' follow-up "celestial.""