#i could not find a way to fit in my description of trelawny in this moment

[gwidien]

@gaskills asked: ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink . 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  sentence starters (accepting)

The end of the year winds down, and he hadn't intended to meet her here.

Mary-Beth, several years older since he last saw her at Beaver Hollow, now an up-and-coming author, Leslie Dupont. She must have been invited here. Her newfound name may have gotten her foot through the door. Or perhaps she snuck her way in. Either way, in the heart of the city and inside a glinting, bustling venue, everyone dressed to the nines, they've reunited. 

She finds her way back to him with flutes of champagne, pale gold and sparkling. Trelawny thanks her, taking it by the stem. "This will hit the spot," he says, a punch to it. For a moment, he takes her in. "Let - me - look at you."

He hadn't had the time to before. Not really. There'd been too much in the way of it. The music and the how are yous. The surprise of seeing each other again. Light eyes and a red dress, the same but different.

"Aren't you the belle of the ball." He said it with gusto. Because she is. Because he flatters. He saunters on. "Making a name for yourself. From modest abodes," he recounts, lifting his hand, "...to silver spoons." He gestures back down to her. Then, he brightens. "You wear it well."

Beneath strung-up rosy ribbons and shimmering chandeliers, the lights throw themselves into Mary-Beth's eyes. They dance in them like little lighthouses. Like merry-go-rounds. And when she smiles, the clusters of her freckles bunch together, and Trelawny is aware of the fondness he has for this moment. One reserved for unexpected reunions. From the long years apart.

Partygoers buzz, jam-packed together, ready for the countdown.

He raises his glass to hers, as puckish as ever. "To happier trails, Miss Gaskill."