So caught up in thought, Willow was barely paying attention to his surroundings while he meandered towards a certain row of seats. This row was almost a habit for him, he sat near the front of the stage every year and during school meetings. His thoughts of the fire last year had his eyes curtain-ward, aloof.
Someone bumped into him with a fair amount of force, sending him pirouetting towards his row. A quick jump landed his boots upon the seat-top of the first chair, and the returning force of his body acted as a weight towards the back of the chair in front of him. With the suave display of Captain Morgan himself, he reached an arm upwards, curled into a moment of passion and victory.
A number of new student found this disquieting, perhaps arrogant or otherwise pointless. Many returnees knew how Willow tended to react strangely, perhaps with an air of showmanship in possibly adverse situations. Regardless of their perception, the white-haired instrumentalist found himself uplifted by a distant display of musical talent.
His curled arm came down with fanned hand tight over his eyes, espying the performance of the McFearson sisters.
After they finished he casually dropped to the floor, and walked to his usual seat; associates pulling in around him.