just because the fog is there
He snorts without looking at her, something soft and disbelieving that she'd tried to offload part of her litter onto a god. "Nature Frey might’ve taken him. Seems like the one who would." A shrug follows, like maybe the pup wasn’t worse off for having been kissed by a god.
He’s already half into the rhythm of grilling when he feels it: the faint pressure of her mind brushing against his awareness like the stir of wind before a door opens. He doesn't need to turn to know she’s coming, and he doesn’t—until her footsteps find the porch and that glass sets down near his elbow. One brow arches as he glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking from the glass of rum to her easy lean against him, the brush of shoulder to shoulder not lost on him. "Either you just lost your bartender’s license," he says, "or you don’t like the wine I brought."
He knows the actual reason, of course. That’s the problem. Knowing the quiet why behind every half-smile and swallowed sigh. Knowing when logic is just fear dressed up in sense. When kindness is masking guilt, when judgment is self-defence. Telepathy made it easier to be sharp, but it also made it easier to be distant, impossible to get close to. Because knowing didn’t soften the blow, it just made it land cleaner. Still, he takes the drink without comment, lets the warmth of rum settle on his tongue instead of any leftover tension because it didn't do him any good to sour the evening.
As he turns to look at her, curled into the porch swing, something eases a fraction. Maybe not trust, but a step toward it. He studies her for a moment longer than necessary before tipping his gaze skyward, the bruised twilight a smear across the heavens, stars flickering through like they’re hesitating. "Hmm." The hum rolls low as he sets the vegetables down with a hiss and leans against the porch rail, rum glass in hand. "The ripples," he says finally, voice quiet like he’s not sure he wants to say it aloud.
His eyes flick back to her, steady. "From that high up, you could see how shit spilled outward. One choice in one place, how it fucked with another somewhere else. Not in a ‘divine plan’ kinda way. Just...consequence." He rolls the glass gently in his palm, thoughtful. "Watching people from that far up, you start to see how connected everything is. Like dropping stones in a pond, but everyone’s doing it, all at once." He takes a sip from his rum. "Harder to see it now that I’ve got my feet on the ground," he admits, not quite smiling. "But it's still a hobby of mine."
He’s already half into the rhythm of grilling when he feels it: the faint pressure of her mind brushing against his awareness like the stir of wind before a door opens. He doesn't need to turn to know she’s coming, and he doesn’t—until her footsteps find the porch and that glass sets down near his elbow. One brow arches as he glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking from the glass of rum to her easy lean against him, the brush of shoulder to shoulder not lost on him. "Either you just lost your bartender’s license," he says, "or you don’t like the wine I brought."
He knows the actual reason, of course. That’s the problem. Knowing the quiet why behind every half-smile and swallowed sigh. Knowing when logic is just fear dressed up in sense. When kindness is masking guilt, when judgment is self-defence. Telepathy made it easier to be sharp, but it also made it easier to be distant, impossible to get close to. Because knowing didn’t soften the blow, it just made it land cleaner. Still, he takes the drink without comment, lets the warmth of rum settle on his tongue instead of any leftover tension because it didn't do him any good to sour the evening.
As he turns to look at her, curled into the porch swing, something eases a fraction. Maybe not trust, but a step toward it. He studies her for a moment longer than necessary before tipping his gaze skyward, the bruised twilight a smear across the heavens, stars flickering through like they’re hesitating. "Hmm." The hum rolls low as he sets the vegetables down with a hiss and leans against the porch rail, rum glass in hand. "The ripples," he says finally, voice quiet like he’s not sure he wants to say it aloud.
His eyes flick back to her, steady. "From that high up, you could see how shit spilled outward. One choice in one place, how it fucked with another somewhere else. Not in a ‘divine plan’ kinda way. Just...consequence." He rolls the glass gently in his palm, thoughtful. "Watching people from that far up, you start to see how connected everything is. Like dropping stones in a pond, but everyone’s doing it, all at once." He takes a sip from his rum. "Harder to see it now that I’ve got my feet on the ground," he admits, not quite smiling. "But it's still a hobby of mine."
don't mean nothing's behind it
☆ 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.
