if you try and chase the sun you're never gonna catch it
Vesper should’ve known better. He had known better, technically. One glance at Nova’s manic glitter eyes a few days ago and he’d known there was no way this was going to be a subtle affair. Still, somewhere between “sure, I’ll help you carry boxes” and “you’re going to love your outfit, I promise,” he’d managed to vastly underestimate just how far she’d go.
And now here he is.
There’s a hat on his head—silver, puff-painted, aggressively cone-shaped—and he hasn’t even had the chance to straighten his collar before Nova is bouncing away to fix her own like a satisfied event planner about to receive an award. The air smells faintly of citrus bath bomb and sugar, which is a hell of a combination, and his reflection in the mirrored liquor shelf behind the bar is...well.
Tragic.
The shirt—his shirt, he suspects no longer—was once black. Now it glimmers with a sheen of microglitter that he’s ninety percent sure is never coming out. The sleeves have been rolled and pinned with tiny star-shaped clips. His usual silver rings remain, of course, and he’s still managed to keep his hair mostly in place despite the cone on his head—but only barely. There’s a small shimmer dusted across the crest of his cheekbones that he knows wasn’t there an hour ago. He glances down at his pants. They look normal, but Nova had mentioned the phrase “colour-shift when you twirl” at one point, and honestly? He’s afraid to test it.
Despite the indignity, despite the rainbow glitter now embedded beneath his nails, there’s something in his expression that gives him away: a warm flicker behind the cool blue, a curl at the edge of his mouth that won’t quite flatten. He’s watching Nova spin, watching Calypso grin, watching the whole damn bar sparkle like someone broke open a comet and scattered the pieces with a smile.
"Y’know," he drawls eventually, voice dry as ever as he tugs slightly at the neckline of his shirt, "ain't no way this bar is ever gonna see another day without glitter, you know that, right?" But even as he speaks, he reaches up and adjusts the birthday hat just so. Doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t threaten to. Just slides his hand into his pocket, leans a hip against the bar, and casts a slow look over the decorations like he’s filing it all away for the memory shelf he never admits to having.
And now here he is.
There’s a hat on his head—silver, puff-painted, aggressively cone-shaped—and he hasn’t even had the chance to straighten his collar before Nova is bouncing away to fix her own like a satisfied event planner about to receive an award. The air smells faintly of citrus bath bomb and sugar, which is a hell of a combination, and his reflection in the mirrored liquor shelf behind the bar is...well.
Tragic.
The shirt—his shirt, he suspects no longer—was once black. Now it glimmers with a sheen of microglitter that he’s ninety percent sure is never coming out. The sleeves have been rolled and pinned with tiny star-shaped clips. His usual silver rings remain, of course, and he’s still managed to keep his hair mostly in place despite the cone on his head—but only barely. There’s a small shimmer dusted across the crest of his cheekbones that he knows wasn’t there an hour ago. He glances down at his pants. They look normal, but Nova had mentioned the phrase “colour-shift when you twirl” at one point, and honestly? He’s afraid to test it.
Despite the indignity, despite the rainbow glitter now embedded beneath his nails, there’s something in his expression that gives him away: a warm flicker behind the cool blue, a curl at the edge of his mouth that won’t quite flatten. He’s watching Nova spin, watching Calypso grin, watching the whole damn bar sparkle like someone broke open a comet and scattered the pieces with a smile.
"Y’know," he drawls eventually, voice dry as ever as he tugs slightly at the neckline of his shirt, "ain't no way this bar is ever gonna see another day without glitter, you know that, right?" But even as he speaks, he reaches up and adjusts the birthday hat just so. Doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t threaten to. Just slides his hand into his pocket, leans a hip against the bar, and casts a slow look over the decorations like he’s filing it all away for the memory shelf he never admits to having.
And now it's turning out to be the worst of my bad habits
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
