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When today arrives, Soap can tell it's going to be golden. She can just feel it, like a sensation that rushes through her whole body and nervous system when she looked out the window and was met with a sky painted orange (she does get up around dusk almost every day, she's just not the type of person to sleep in. No matter what, she always rises to see the sun set contently in the morning). She's always had that ability, that little quirk, though she can't recall ever mentioning it to anyone.
The golden hour, magic hour, is the period of time that passes when the light from the sky matches every streetlight and every lit window. Soap has always loved this time of day, and right now everything is simply golden.
She's not a photographer, but she does know her way around a camera lens. She can tell, in that motherly, observant way of hers, that anyone even remotely interested in photography would be a fool to let this opportunity go to waste. She only knows one person in the hotel with an interest in it, and he was rather secretive about it, but she's sure she can crack his shell. Soap always does. Though Trophy is as stubborn as a mule, and perhaps even as strong as one, he wavers at the slightest affection.
Soap scrubs the walls and mops the floors throughout the corridors, she vacuums and cleans and hopes of seeing the jock somewhere, but she never does. It's not a surprise, everyone often does their own things, but she would've hoped of at least catching a glance of his dyed blonde hair.
It's not until afternoon, when the sky isn't golden at all anymore but still has a yellow tint similiar to a dandelion, that she can hear a faint mumble that sounds like Trophy in the corner of her ear. A hushed voice, he's smiling but in a way that he doesn't want anyone else to know about it. Maybe that should've given her the hint to mind her own business. But, to her defense, Trophy never wants anyone to see him smile anyway, and everyone in the building are so nosy that the only place you really had privacy in was either the basement or the bathroom. Word went around quicker than the milliseconds it took between a lightswitch flicking to the light to spark with life. Soap can see why Test Tube practically lives in her lab.
Out of curiousity, she pops her head out from the kitchen and scans the hallway. Her pink hair flows in the air, the ponytail on the top of her head bounces. The air is strangely melancholy, there's always been a sense of etterath surrounding the hotel. Soap loved the competition and what she did, but when it came to end, it was hard to figure out what to do next. She scrubs and wipes and cleans every surface she can reach, but it never seems to be the same. She often assumes this was the same for everyone, and she comes to realise that maybe she's been wrong now.
She does find Trophy out there, shining golden as always, but he's not alone. Cheesy is there, right beside him, right under his nose and on his lips. It takes Soap a second to realise that the two boys are, in fact, kissing. Trophy is bending down slightly, Cheesy on his tippy toes. He's reaching up at his best ability to connect their lips in a playfully soft peck.
Out of all people, Soap never saw those two connect, and she quickly ponders on why that is. Trophy opens his yap again, knit eyebrows and flushed cheeks. If he's embarrased over the situation as a whole, the affectionate kisses or just the idea of being caught with Cheesy of all people, it's hard to tell. Cheesy doesn't seem to dim, he doesn't seem to register anything over his dopey grin and adoring eyes. He giggles, and Trophy is quick to press his index finger against Cheesy's soft lips that met his own just a few seconds ago.
"Shh! Someone'll hear us!" Trophy yells in whispers, though no signs of annoyance could actually make it to his face. He just couldn't stop the infectious smile that traces his lips.
"Oh no, whatever will we do?" Cheesy dramatizes, tossing his head back and even throwing his hands in the air for a theatrical touch, his movements spontaneous and impulsive like a toddler in a play.
Trophy laughs, a genuine laugh that rings crisp and clear as a church bell. His laugh is shining golden, he's always been gold, and Cheesy has always been yellow and bright like a sun. His light reflects on Trophy and they bland so well together, it's like an intangible painting.
He plays with his friend's? Boyfriend's? Hair. As they touch each other foreheads sweetly, though still discreetly enough to be able to pretend as if nothing in case someone walks by, Soap decides she's seen enough and goes back to whatever she was planning on doing. They didn't see her, too wrapped up in each other, but she still smiles fondly. If only she had a camera.