if you try and chase the sun you're never gonna catch it
The snow is sun-bright and blinding, a dazzling sprawl of white that crackles underfoot and shimmers against every edge of the treeline. Laughter echoes distantly—sharp, breathless, the kind that skids along the surface of chaos. Somewhere, someone yells about rules.
And right in the thick of it, Vesper hits the ground like a stone tossed across a frozen river.
Snow crunches hard beneath his back as Iskra slams him down, a spray of cold bursting up around them like applause. The impact jars through his spine, momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs—but not the grin from his face. His laugh sticks halfway in his throat, caught between a gasp and something gleefully wicked, the silver star at his temple catching a flash of light just before he disappears.
One flicker. A ripple of shadow, a drag of displaced air. And then he’s gone.
Vesper reappears just behind Iskra, rising from the snow in a soft bloom of dark mist—tall and silent, all edges and intent, as calm as if he were still sitting on the sidelines sipping something strong.
"That all you got?" comes the low murmur, too close to his ear to be anything but deliberate.
His arm tries to slip around Iskra’s middle, not tight—just enough to shift his centre of gravity, to tip him subtly off balance. All around them the snow holds its breath, heavy with the hush of a world paused mid-chaos. Shadows slither up from the churned drifts like they’ve been waiting, sculpting a slush-packed snowball with unnerving precision. They float up, intending to press against Iskra’s chin, angled toward his mouth like a dare.
"Open up, sunshine," Vesper drawls, voice syrupy-sweet and twice as cruel, every word tasting like a grin.
And then—lower still, a breath of venom behind the ear, more smoke than sound: "Y’know she thinks you’re pathetic, right? Only sticks around ‘cause Ludo told her to." A surgical strike, placed with all the cold clarity of a blade between ribs. "It’s pity tether, not a friendship."
Set directly after [PQ] mitten in the stars
And right in the thick of it, Vesper hits the ground like a stone tossed across a frozen river.
Snow crunches hard beneath his back as Iskra slams him down, a spray of cold bursting up around them like applause. The impact jars through his spine, momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs—but not the grin from his face. His laugh sticks halfway in his throat, caught between a gasp and something gleefully wicked, the silver star at his temple catching a flash of light just before he disappears.
One flicker. A ripple of shadow, a drag of displaced air. And then he’s gone.
Vesper reappears just behind Iskra, rising from the snow in a soft bloom of dark mist—tall and silent, all edges and intent, as calm as if he were still sitting on the sidelines sipping something strong.
"That all you got?" comes the low murmur, too close to his ear to be anything but deliberate.
His arm tries to slip around Iskra’s middle, not tight—just enough to shift his centre of gravity, to tip him subtly off balance. All around them the snow holds its breath, heavy with the hush of a world paused mid-chaos. Shadows slither up from the churned drifts like they’ve been waiting, sculpting a slush-packed snowball with unnerving precision. They float up, intending to press against Iskra’s chin, angled toward his mouth like a dare.
"Open up, sunshine," Vesper drawls, voice syrupy-sweet and twice as cruel, every word tasting like a grin.
And then—lower still, a breath of venom behind the ear, more smoke than sound: "Y’know she thinks you’re pathetic, right? Only sticks around ‘cause Ludo told her to." A surgical strike, placed with all the cold clarity of a blade between ribs. "It’s pity tether, not a friendship."
Set directly after [PQ] mitten in the stars
And now it's turning out to be the worst of my bad habits
