curtain call | aspect ratio: 1:1 [ benito x trylle, blitz ]
Jan 2, 2022 15:18:20 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 2, 2022 15:18:20 GMT -5
↳ BENITO BRIDGERTON
And that’s curtain call on ‘The Last Days of Summer’.
Scattered applause wafts up from the crowd as the credits roll on Trylle Fray’s face, most of the claps originating from a group of girls who have Trylle’s face sequined on their shirts. Benny makes a wave once he climbs up the stage despite his heart’s in his throat, a scarlet mess there, because of course Trylle isn’t there. There’s a feeling to a room that lacks his presence: it’s too quiet, no traces of a sparkling ego or arrogance. Benito loathes the part of him that reaches out to see if he can catch a hint of the golden boy’s three-month-salary worth perfume.
Static rings out as he picks up the mic. “Thank you for, uh,” his eyes scan the crowd again, oh Donata’s here?, “thank you for coming to see my little passion project. It was uh, yeah, it was dearly personal to me. Fun fact, I took only a week to finish the scri—”
“Where’s Trylle!”
“Yeah, we were told he’d be here!”
“Uh,” he stammers.
“Get Trylle!”
As quick as that, the group of girls are now standing up from their seats, annoyance writ across their faces. “He’s uh, he’s busy. At least he told me he was busy.” Benny chuckles uneasily. “In our next showing, I’ll make sure he’s—whoa!” He tilts his head, evading the wrath of a flying lipstick that struck the project screen behind him with a clank. “Who threw that!”
The fans rise, beginning to approach the stage, and he becomes regretful of the fact that he hadn’t invested in proper security then. “Show over!” Benny announces, drops the mic, and makes for the exit hidden within the theatre’s walls.
The dark that embraces him is a relief. He sighs, and riding on the tail-end of that is a swear.
“Damn it, Fray.” Benito pulls out his cellphone from his jacket.
He pauses for a second, reconsiders.
Fuck it. His fingers punch in a number they already have the muscle memory for.
Scattered applause wafts up from the crowd as the credits roll on Trylle Fray’s face, most of the claps originating from a group of girls who have Trylle’s face sequined on their shirts. Benny makes a wave once he climbs up the stage despite his heart’s in his throat, a scarlet mess there, because of course Trylle isn’t there. There’s a feeling to a room that lacks his presence: it’s too quiet, no traces of a sparkling ego or arrogance. Benito loathes the part of him that reaches out to see if he can catch a hint of the golden boy’s three-month-salary worth perfume.
Static rings out as he picks up the mic. “Thank you for, uh,” his eyes scan the crowd again, oh Donata’s here?, “thank you for coming to see my little passion project. It was uh, yeah, it was dearly personal to me. Fun fact, I took only a week to finish the scri—”
“Where’s Trylle!”
“Yeah, we were told he’d be here!”
“Uh,” he stammers.
“Get Trylle!”
As quick as that, the group of girls are now standing up from their seats, annoyance writ across their faces. “He’s uh, he’s busy. At least he told me he was busy.” Benny chuckles uneasily. “In our next showing, I’ll make sure he’s—whoa!” He tilts his head, evading the wrath of a flying lipstick that struck the project screen behind him with a clank. “Who threw that!”
The fans rise, beginning to approach the stage, and he becomes regretful of the fact that he hadn’t invested in proper security then. “Show over!” Benny announces, drops the mic, and makes for the exit hidden within the theatre’s walls.
The dark that embraces him is a relief. He sighs, and riding on the tail-end of that is a swear.
“Damn it, Fray.” Benito pulls out his cellphone from his jacket.
He pauses for a second, reconsiders.
Fuck it. His fingers punch in a number they already have the muscle memory for.
