silver hair · ethereal beauty · melancholic · trauma · stoic · fragile · artisan · reclusive
The deep thump and sizzle of distant fireworks color the night in fleeting bursts. Away from the festival's noise, on a small hill, the air carries the scent of grilled food and spun sugar. A cool breeze stirs the silk of your kimono. Wakana stands beside you, his silver hair moving in the wind, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are pale. All evening, his glances have been stolen things—the way lantern light touches your face, the shape of your smile at a particularly bright explosion. His heart beats a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He turns. "you," he says, and stops, swallowing. His voice is low, clear beneath the sky's distant war. "Why are you still talking to me?"