Insults and Tentative New Friends

As Hikari Fujimoto from Mahoutokoro ──────────────── Muggle London ──────────────── Mentions: @Drago Thanatos-Kholodov @Victoria Blythe ──────────────── Japanese - English - Thoughts

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London.

He had only heard of the place in passing- in quiet conversations, pictures in books. But to experience it himself, the rain-kissed streets, the sunset, tinged with shades of rose and gold, was a whole different story altogether.

It wasn't something he had planned. It hadn't even been his idea.

It had been his father's 'suggestion'. Although, like most things his father told him, it had been an order framed like a question, expectations wrapped in kindness. An arrangement. A condition. When Takeshi Fujimoto had allowed Hikari to pursue a side activity in painting, it had been on the unspoken condition that he must excel in that field as well. Mediocrity had no place in the household; especially not from the oldest son, the example.

Still, the fact had never bothered Hikari. It had come to him as easy as breathing, look, watch, observe. Then copy on paper. And so, here he was, on his way to the 'National Gallery' , a place his father had mentioned briefly in passing once before that fateful day, now his destination.

What had puzzled Hikari was the fact that this exhibition was supposedly a completely muggle endeavor. Takeshi had very little patience when it came to the non-magical world, and whatever little interest Hikari had for muggles had come from his mother, her open-mindedness, her stories. Her quiet acceptance of all and every kind of people, irrespective of blood or origin.

It left him to wonder if this brainwave had actually been his father's at all.

Something— no, a pen— sailed past him, bringing Hikari to a sudden standstill. A boy followed after it, landing gracelessly on the ground a few steps away from him.

Hikari would've kept walking. This was not the most peculiar kind of chaos he had seen in London so far. But then—

Wet. Sticky. He felt it seep into his trousers.

Hikari frowned as he lifted his feet to see the dark stain blooming across his shoe and cuff.

Please tell me that's not ink.

It was. Of course it was.

How am I supposed to go to the exhibition like this?

Hikari blinked at the boy, eyes wide in fear and panic, and a tired sigh slipped out of his mouth, "Why.. are you still on the ground?"

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interaction: @Drago Thanatos-Kholodov,@Hikari Fujimoto

Having arrived in London because her family wanted to visit old childhood friends, Victoria had bolted outside the moment her mother gave her permission to walk around the streets — under the strict condition that she wouldn't wander too far.

Her eyes gleamed as she walked. She had never really had the opportunity to explore London properly, and now that she had the chance — even a limited one — she was determined to see as much as she could.

Her soft, wavy brown hair fluttered gently in the breeze. She had tied a small section of it back with a dark green ribbon. The dress she wore — also dark green — had been chosen at her mother's insistence, who wanted Victoria to make a good impression on her friends. It was far too extravagant for walking around the streets, slightly over-the-top. Still, Victoria tried to ignore the curious glances from passersby. The only thing she wanted to focus on was this magnificent city.

Vick.

Victoria came to a sudden stop as her foot landed on something sticky. Her blue eyes dropped to the ground — the pavement was stained with ink. So was her shoe now. “Bloody hell,” she muttered under her breath. Her mother was going to kill her. The shoes were white, and the dark ink was very noticeable.

"What's-" Her gaze snapped to a boy sitting on the ground, but upon noticing the panic in his expression, her eyes softened slightly. When she then lifted her head and saw another boy standing nearby — grey eyes filled with tiredness and irritation as he looked down at the one on the ground — her brows furrowed.

Was he… bullying the black-haired boy?

Victoria hadn't seen what happened before, so she couldn’t be sure — but the boy on the ground definitely looked panicked.

Narrowing her eyes, she shot a cold look at the one standing. Then, without hesitation, she extended her hand toward the boy on the ground. She didn’t care if her hand got stained with ink — she could wash it off before heading back to her family.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice calm, yet cold.

He stared at the hand that was offered to him, then tentatively grabbed it. He noticed how the girl had narrowed her eyes at the other boy and the last remaining bit of color drained from his face. She thought that the other boy was responsible for this. Or worse, she thought that the other kid was bullying him. The other boy certainly wasn't bullying him, but he wasn't that kind in the first place either. He reminded him of his cousin Nyx. But this had to be his worst nightmare come true. As a shy kid, he hated conflict, unless it was for a good reason. This was not a good reason. He didn't want the 2 other people to fight, which was what it looked like they were going to do. He most definitely wanted to avoid that. He rushed to his feet and pushed the spectacles up his nose. He was wearing glasses because his vision wasn't so great and the glasses helped when he drew to really get the details down. He fidgeted with them again and started frantically muttering apologies. A voice in his head told him to speak louder but he couldn't beg himself to. Then, a voice like his cousin demanded that he speak louder. " I-i-i-i-I'm really s-s-s-sorry. That was my fau-fau-fault."
He said, gesturing to the ink splattered on the sidewalk.
"I-i-i-It wasn't his fault"
He gestured again to the other boy. He kept his eyes and head down, in case they decided to gang up on him and pummel him.

☞ Speaking
☞ Thoughts
☞ Narration
Current Outfit:

Reducio

Black t-shirt, black, ripped faded jeans, black Converse smudged with ink

As Hikari Fujimoto from Mahoutokoro ──────────────── Muggle London ──────────────── Mentions: @Drago Thanatos-Kholodov @Victoria Blythe ──────────────── Japanese - English - Thoughts

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Hikari blinked as a girl stepped between them like a knight dressed in silk, her green dress more suited to a tea party than the streets of London. Her glare had landed on his face like a slap. Hikari found himself raising his eyebrows at her. He was used to judgement, but being mistaken for a bully? Well, that was new.

Her hands reached to pull the boy up from the ground, gaze sharp as her question rang out, like she had decided who exactly the villain of this story was.

Which, apparently, was him.

Hikari sighed, stopping himself from just turning and walking away. He really hadn't signed up to get spashed with ink and then mistaken for a bully. This girl clearly judged before thinking. She hadn't seen what had happened. Just the ink. The boy. Him. And made her judgement.

Typical.

He didn't flinch, meeting her gaze head-on. Hikari avoided unnecessary interactions, but he had already gotten himself involved with this boy and walking away now would be rude. And Hikari didn't hide.

Then came the stammering.

The boy's voice cracked and stumbled over themselves as he tried to explain the situation. Tried to defend him. Hikari frowned, watching him mumble, glancing down at his ink-stained shaking hands and wondering why on earth he was so nervous.

Still silent, he knelt down and picked up the ink-covered pen still rolling on the ground. He held it out to the boy without a word, gaze flitting down to the sketchbook on the bench, "Do you sketch?"

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interaction: @Hikari Fujimoto @Drago Thanatos-Kholodovwc: 470 dialogue thoughts

Victoria's blue eyes softened slightly at the boy’s stammered response. His words were broken, unsure, almost afraid of how she'd react — and it was obvious he was scared, tense, like someone expecting to be yelled at or ridiculed. She could see it in the way his shoulders curled inward, the way he couldn’t meet her gaze for more than a second. A quiet sigh slipped from her lips, almost involuntarily.

She tilted her head slightly, studying the boy — the very same boy she had, until a few minutes ago, labeled in her mind as a bully. Her assumption had been firm, so firm she hadn’t even questioned it. But now, looking at him, she realized he wasn’t cruel. Not even close. Realization hit her.

Suddenly, she felt like the worst person in the world.

She swallowed hard, the taste of regret bitter on her tongue. She prided herself on being someone who tried to see the best in people — who didn’t jump to conclusions or throw around harsh labels. But bullying was different. That was her one non-negotiable. Her red line. And she'd thought she'd seen it — but now, she wasn't so sure. Maybe she had been wrong all along.

A silence settled between them — not hostile, but heavy. Thick with things neither of them knew how to say yet.

Victoria waited a few seconds, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. Then, slowly, she mirrored him — she kneeled down, carefully, her movements quiet and deliberate, until they were eye-level.

“…I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn't know what to say- she wasn't good with words.

Her pale face was still, her brows drawn together just slightly in a conflicted expression. Her cold blue eyes, usually so composed, scanned his face carefully — searching for a flicker of emotion, any sign that he had heard her, or that her words mattered. But his face was hard to read. He seemed just as uncertain as she felt.

Then came his question. She barely registered the words at first — her head was still clouded with shame and confusion. But eventually, her gaze dropped to the sketchbook lying on the floor beside them. Normally, she would kindly compliment. But right now, her mind couldn’t focus on art.

Her chest felt too tight for that.

With a quiet, almost invisible motion, Victoria tucked her knees closer and rested her cheek gently on them. The skin of her cheek squished slightly against the fabric of her dress, but she didn’t move. She just sat there, small and still, feeling like she wanted to vanish into the floor. Her gaze flickered between the boy and the other figure beside him, but she didn’t say anything.

Drago stared at the boy, then at the girl in shock, forgetting to keep his head down. He flinched suddenly, remembering and thought that maybe his brazenness would get him beat up.
But the boy just remained standing.
He saw out of the corner of his eye that the girl had come to the realization that the boy wasn't a bully and had quietly apologized.
He flinched again out of instinct but nothing happened. Then, he remembered that the boy had asked him a question.
Did he sketch?
He wanted to reply boldly that he did, that he was very good at it, one of the best artists in his school, actually. He had won some unofficial contests on the matter at school in his house and felt quite proud of his achievements. But when he went to answer, all that came out was a quiet squeak.
"Oh, um, y-y-yess. I-I do. Sk-sk-Sketch, I mean."
He winced at how shy and nervous he sounded.
Stammering and muttering.
This was a lot easier when he didn't have to talk.
Surprisingly, at Koldovstoretz, they accepted his reluctance to speak, and he only had to speak when a teacher asked him a question.
One of his teachers even quoted a famous philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche. He said, quoting one of the man's most famous quotes, "The greatest events – they are not our noisiest but our stillest hours. The world revolves, not around the inventors of new noises, but around the inventors of new values: it revolves inaudibly."
Drago felt proud that he was one of those inventors of new values, or so he thought. But back to the moment at hand. He stared nervously up at the boy.

☞ Speaking
☞ Thoughts
☞ Narration
Current Outfit:

Reducio

Black t-shirt, black, ripped faded jeans, black Converse smudged with ink

As Hikari Fujimoto from Mahoutokoro ──────────────── Muggle London ──────────────── Mentions: @Drago Thanatos-Kholodov @Victoria Blythe ──────────────── Japanese - English - Thoughts

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For the second time in the past five minutes, Hikari found himself wishing he could run away from these people.

He stared, blinking at the boy's halting answer, the words breaking like the very act of speaking was a challenge in itself. Hikari stood unblinking, shoulders frozen, utterly out of his depth.

"...right." The word slipped out clipped, not unkind but not encouraging. Just awkwardly lodged in the space between the three.

He watched the boy on the ground in thoughtful contemplation. If Hikari were to guess, he couldn't be much younger than him, although from the way he was curled up, he could easily pass for a five-year-old. Why was the boy acting like this? His hands shook, his expression spoke of fear, as if he was bracing himself for Hikari to lash out at any moment.

The latter frowned faintly, brow furrowed in confusion. Hikari had not raised his voice. He had not even moved from his spot, except to offer him back his ink-covered pen, which now dangled uselessly in his hand.

Was the kid always like this? Or had something happened to make him behave this way? As if every conversation, every glance, was a prelude to a disaster.

The girl's voice broke through his thoughts, soft, vulnerable, guilty. An apology. Hikari glanced up to catch her eyes, only to see her now kneeling on the ground next to the boy, green silk pooling around her, looking as though she was on the verge of tears herself.

He exhaled, looking on in utter confusion and apprehension. I can't be that scary looking, can I? I've barely even said a word! He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit, a warning to himself, to his metamorphmagus. Rein it in. Don't slip up.

Not now.

Seriously where are the family extroverts when you need them.

Hikari glanced down at the boy, ink-stained hands and clothes. The silence dragged on— tense, burning, not at all the kind of silence he liked— until he forced out, "Well um... you should probably wash the ink before it stains..."

The wards hung in the air, misplaced, practical to the point of absurdity, but the best that he could manage. He crossed his arms, subconsciously attempting to shield himself from whatever moment of awkward emotional sensitivity this was supposed to be.

What a mess.

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