VESPER
Vesper doesn’t move. He stands half-drowned in a spill of shadow that pools around his boots like something alive, the heat of the Suvahasi rippling against it without ever quite managing to burn it away. The oasis is riotous with colour and sound, balloons drifting like slow, drunken stars overhead, but none of it loosens the knot coiled low beneath his ribs. Chambray sleeves ghost against his forearms as a breeze passes; he doesn’t bother to push them down. He doesn’t need the comfort. Not right now.
Not when Colt is thirty paces away.
Her thoughts are blurred at the edges, quiet in that way grief tends to be, and it takes nothing—absolutely nothing—for his mind to sway toward that familiar pulse before he pulls himself back. Grey Road training folds over him like a second skin, muffling presence and softening edges until he’s little more than a ripple in the corner of the eye, a suggestion of movement that no one ever follows. Especially not her. His jaw flexes once, the only betrayal of the way she looks in that red dress, shoulders bare, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion he can feel anyway. He stays still. Still is easy. Still is safe.
Nova ’s voice, on the other hand, is impossible to miss. She streaks past like a sunbeam dipped in sequins, all glitter and delight and impossible buoyancy, and Vesper’s gaze follows her automatically. Every twirl sends rainbow light scattering across the sand, catching on drifting pollen and making it shimmer like confetti. The pollen responds in kind, quivering as if tempted to burst, and he sends a thin curl of shadow outward to tamp it down before it can start a cloud that turns half the festival into hallucinating idiots. He exhales softly through his nose, a faint shimmer of constellation freckles catches light as he watches her terrorize the egg vendor with enthusiasm only Nova could weaponize.
He does not look back toward Colt, not directly. His awareness brushes the edges of the space around her instead; the line of her shoulders, the steady beat of Sunjata’s grounding presence beside her, the faint tremble beneath the surface that she’d rather die than let slip. It is all too easy to notice, too easy to want to fix, and far too dangerous for him to indulge.
So he doesn’t. He keeps the shadows curled tightly around himself, keeps his posture loose enough to read as bored, keeps his distance. He is only here for Nova and Calypso. That is what he tells himself. That is the story he will cling to.
Not when Colt is thirty paces away.
Her thoughts are blurred at the edges, quiet in that way grief tends to be, and it takes nothing—absolutely nothing—for his mind to sway toward that familiar pulse before he pulls himself back. Grey Road training folds over him like a second skin, muffling presence and softening edges until he’s little more than a ripple in the corner of the eye, a suggestion of movement that no one ever follows. Especially not her. His jaw flexes once, the only betrayal of the way she looks in that red dress, shoulders bare, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion he can feel anyway. He stays still. Still is easy. Still is safe.
Nova ’s voice, on the other hand, is impossible to miss. She streaks past like a sunbeam dipped in sequins, all glitter and delight and impossible buoyancy, and Vesper’s gaze follows her automatically. Every twirl sends rainbow light scattering across the sand, catching on drifting pollen and making it shimmer like confetti. The pollen responds in kind, quivering as if tempted to burst, and he sends a thin curl of shadow outward to tamp it down before it can start a cloud that turns half the festival into hallucinating idiots. He exhales softly through his nose, a faint shimmer of constellation freckles catches light as he watches her terrorize the egg vendor with enthusiasm only Nova could weaponize.
He does not look back toward Colt, not directly. His awareness brushes the edges of the space around her instead; the line of her shoulders, the steady beat of Sunjata’s grounding presence beside her, the faint tremble beneath the surface that she’d rather die than let slip. It is all too easy to notice, too easy to want to fix, and far too dangerous for him to indulge.
So he doesn’t. He keeps the shadows curled tightly around himself, keeps his posture loose enough to read as bored, keeps his distance. He is only here for Nova and Calypso. That is what he tells himself. That is the story he will cling to.
rot gut whiskey's gonna ease your mind
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?
but when the hell are you gonna ease mine?
☆ 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.
