And then the pale boy in white crashes into Trowa. While on the way down he may have looked like he was floating, a feather on the breeze, he lands like what he is: a boy who's (somehow) fallen from a really high tower.
Some sharp observer may recognize two things about the pale boy. First, he has a sort of haunted beauty about him. The sort that makes all the ladies swoon. Second, and perhaps more worrisome, he is wearing no pants.
Trowa is wearing the particular kind of impassivity that signals a certain degree of what the hell, world; Mytho, in his arms, is limp and serene.
And then, from somewhere offstage, comes an exuberant run of chords, and voices lifted in song:
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Re: TAKE FIVE
"Oh oh oh oh I got this one I got this one!" she shouts, bouncing. "Magic Flower Waltz Powers . . . MAAAAAAAAAKE UP!"
TAKE SIX, and for god's sake REMEMBER THE BLOCKING THIS TIME
Some sharp observer may recognize two things about the pale boy. First, he has a sort of haunted beauty about him. The sort that makes all the ladies swoon. Second, and perhaps more worrisome, he is wearing no pants.
Trowa is wearing the particular kind of impassivity that signals a certain degree of what the hell, world; Mytho, in his arms, is limp and serene.
And then, from somewhere offstage, comes an exuberant run of chords, and voices lifted in song:
"IT'S RAINING MEN! HALLELUJAH! IT'S RAINING MEN!"