the memory of those gray eyes.

Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 05:36AM CST
It's a cloudy morning. One of those slightly smoggy ones where one doesn't quite know which way the weather is going to go. Either way it won't much bother Evie, she won't be out to enjoy it. She'll be stuck inside a room, rehersing till twilight approaches. This morning though she sits still, reclining her tall willowy frame back against her chair outside a small cafe, one slender hand clasped around the warmth of the small cup of steaming coffee, the other resting upon one thigh. She could be called many things, one would not immediantly pin her down as a Kinfolk, especially not a Fianna. There is almost too much elegance about her. The carefully coiled blonde hair wound in a loose bun atop her head, the creamy skin with no hint of makeup save some glossy coat upon the pink lips, the fine bone structure of her cheeks. Her movements betray to some degree, her occupation. There is something in the way a dancer holds themselves. A certain air in the way every movement is made. And of course, there is also her attire. Simple, a pale blue leotard over which she has thrown a pair of faded jeans and a loose knitted jacket. Little feet drawn up beneath the table enclosed in slippers.

She lifts her chin, opens her eyes as fellow creatures of the early morning hour pass by her encloaking her for a moment after they pass with their individual perfumes and aftershaves. All around her are the sounds of the city waking up, and she reveals in being able to witness it. Especially given most recently most of her time spent out as been during the night.


Vast

Wed 05:52AM CST
Early birds come and go in the all-night cafe. Tired-looking businessmen and women attempt to energize with their cup of joe. Students passing through slouch by in sandals and t-shirts proclaiming their affiliation with the University of Chicago. Through this ever-moving mosaic of people and socioeconomic classes, there are two points of stillness this morning.

One is the ballet dancer with her particular poise that trumpets her occupation to those who know. It's in the perfect straightness of her swan neck; in the certain birdlike precision of motion. Even the way she walks and moves would give her away. A dancer who has dropped her pen, for example, bends straight from the waist, knees straight, to retrieve it. None other would do so.

The other point of stillness is less pleasant. Slouched in a corner of the gated outside patio, his dirty feet up on the table, Vast is chasing his mug of steaming coffee with a half-bottle of scotch from the nearby, recently-closed bars. His dark hair is mussed; his jaw sports 24 hours of beard growth, and the faint smudges under his eyes gives testament to a sleepless night. Worn blue jeans and simple white shirt stand in contrast to the eclectic student attire, and the sharp modesty of business casual.

The customers steer clear of him and his little corner. A few of them give him disapproving stares. None ask him to leave.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 06:01AM CST
There's a understated murmuring coming from the table directly across from her. It's a couple of the disaproving stares, which belong to a couple Evie is sure she's seen around her apartment building before. Either that or carbon copies of the two currently discussing the stranger slouched in the corner.

The sable eyes flicker over the two, and then, whist keeping a hand upon her thigh, the other lifting the cup to her lips, she flickers her gaze Vast's way. She doesn't care personally either way if he sits brooding in the corner. But she does find the constant whining from the snobbish pair irratating. A perfectly groomed brow lifts slightly as she takes in the young man. Well, at least he's keeping her morning from being completely boring. She continues to watch him out of the corner of her eye.


Vast

Wed 06:09AM CST
Thing is, the simple, rough attire looks good on him. Damn good. Too good? Take a look at the tags on his jeans and the penny will drop. Not your average Goodwill secondhand old jeans, these, but the sort deliberately worn and scuffed and roughened up at a price increase of roughly $150. Shirt's probably equally high-qual, every last burst seam and trailing hem meticulously designed, unique, all that shit.

Nevertheless. At first glance, he seems to have risen beyond his ranks. And something about him keeps second glances away. People look once; then their eyes sidle past. A chill runs up their spines and they attribute it to irritation. Shouldn't he be down south somewhere? -- that's the thought going through the minds of more than a few patrons passing through. And he, with his pale eyes and steady cold stare, watches them right back.

Watches Evie right back, in fact. A realization made in the two or three seconds after the whining couple finally gets up and moves away, out of the way, the line of sight laid clear between. She's been caught watching, or maybe he was just staring. Strong stubbled jaw; strong big-boned hands, dirt-smudged (at least that was real) in which the coffee mug seemed small.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 06:15AM CST
She catches herself before she can find herself caught and drawn into the pale eyes. Her own brown eyes catch and hold his gaze even as the couple moves between them and it does take her a moment, but finally she just snaps the invisible link and looks instead out over the street. Lifts the cup to her lips with both hands, sips and feels the slide of the bitter liquid down her throat. A small tongue darts out to collect the last traces caught on her lower lip. She finds herself, slightly unwillingly, drawn back to gazing across at the scruffy gentleman. There's no unease in her gaze, it's simply...intense. And so she sits, legs crossed, body relaxed against her seat, watching him across the court. A smile teases her lips after a moment.


Vast

Wed 06:20AM CST
Another early-morning coffee-drinker passes between, knocks into a chair, and spills her drink all over herself with a curse. A nearby gentleman rushes to help her, bringing napkins. The minor chaos that erupts breaks the line of sight again; when the women thanks the man and heads off with her suit jacket tightly buttoned over her ruined blouse, Vast's table is empty.

A beat later there's the scrape of a metal cafe chair against concrete. He drops down at an adjacent table just behind her, straddling the back of the chair, and crosses his arms over it. In one hand is the booze; the coffee is nowhere to be seen. Who needs to be sober, anyway.

"Wanna tell me why you're staring?" It could be a midwestern drawl, nondescript, farmer-boy. Could be, but it's not. There's a hint of wellbred East Coast in it. Prep schools and privilege -- and this, an extended vacation, where all the world's his personal playtoy. His confidence surrounds him like a cloak.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 06:28AM CST
When his seat appeared empty after her field of vision cleared, Evie discovered she was feeling some pang of disappointment. Damn, just when her morning was getting interesting. And then, the drawl from behind her and the swan like neck turns slightly, just so she can glimpse a figure blurred in the corners of her vision. Her own voice quieter, some faint trace of accent seems to spring up now and again. Sounds..Irish? A recent occurance. Too much time spent getting pissed with the Irish will rub off on you. Still, it does add a certain something to that delicate voice. It reeks of grooming, just like her appearance.

"Maybe I find you interesting. Wanna tell me why you came over?"


Vast

Wed 06:32AM CST
"Maybe I find you interesting," he parrots back at her. His pale eyes - what color, anyway? gray? blue? blue-gray? silver? - glint at her, almost playful; his charisma is considerable. When he chooses to ply it, anyway. He knocks back his bottle of scotch, then, and when he lowers it he's patently bored again. "Or maybe I'm just killing time." His eyes pick over her, clicking from point to point like a hawk's. "You a dancer?"

He must've seen her poster somewhere.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 06:36AM CST
There's the sound of metal scraping against the concrete again, only this time it's her chair. She's turned it with her foot. Pushing out with one dainty little shoe, leveling the playing field as it were. The response seems to elicit some humour within her and she gives a soft sound. Almost a laugh. But caught before it transends more than a sniff really. She has charisma herself. A dancer would. She lets the humour leave her lips, but it remains dwelling within her gaze as she returns his careful inspection. Responding silkily.

"What gives it away? The shoes or the hair?"


Vast

Wed 06:40AM CST
"The bearing," he counters, smoothly. Another swig of scotch. Lowering it, his elbow on the low back of the chair, the lip of the bottle against his own lower lip, the ice-pale eyes sweep her up and down. "The body."

Reaching forward, he sets his bottle down on her table with a soft click, as a man might set down a chesspiece in a particularly good move. Drawing back his hand, he runs his fingers through his hair, kneads briefly at the bridge of his nose where a slight hangover was beginning to build.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 06:50AM CST
The eyes flick to the bottle, and she shifts her weight in the seat, lifting a brow in silent query. Does he expect her to take a swig? Now? He must be joking. Still, she lets her eyes wander. Several pairs of eyes are watching their discourse. They know her. She's often in here. Lovely girl, slightly on the quiet side. Often seen with a thin young man with dark hair and a nervous disposition. She's a dancer. Like he says, it's the body. Again, she shifts said body and the eyes watch him rub at his nose. Hmm. Hangover is it.

"Sobering up?"

Oh, sharp tongue on this one today. Still, there is amusement in the words too.


Vast

Wed 06:54AM CST
"Hm - no." He slides a glance her way, a hint of smirk carried on thin, well-formed lips. "Getting ready to get drunk."

And no. The scotch was apparently not set out for her, because he doesn't make the slightest indication that she was even welcome to a sip. Sharp tongue on her; less than friendly disposition on him, though his mood seems mutable enough.

"So where do you dance? Are you any good?" There's always a hint of tease (or taunt) in the words; and perhaps he hasn't seen her posters, after all.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 07:02AM CST
She doesn't want to brag now, does she? No, it isn't really in her nature to. So she plays with a loose thread in her sweater and doesn't even meet his eyes as she focuses on her little task. "Mmm. Well I guess that depends on what you deem 'good'." She lifts her eyes, meets the glance with a little smirk of her own. Maybe she does like to boast. A little. Or maybe this stranger is just bringing out the worst in her.

"I dance for the Chicago Ballet."

She says it quietly, now a hint of color highlights the fair flesh of her cheeks.


Vast

Wed 07:06AM CST
Doesn't seem to phase him. Certainly, he's not falling all over himself to get her autograph now. Vast just shrugs, broad shoulders moving under his plain white ($70 a pop A|X) shirt. Meeting his gaze is easier said than done. There's a cold fire there, a burn like a glacier on bare skin.

Still, she seems to manage well enough.

"I didn't ask which troupe you danced for," he replies. "I asked, are you any good?"

Go on, boast.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 07:14AM CST
She stirs. Or rather, anger does. What, does he want her to get and and show him? Her features remain impassive however, despite the slow roll of warmth suffusing her cheeks. The sable eyes narrow just a little. She turns, reaches for her cooling beverage, takes a sip, cups it in her palm. Does all this, and only then turns her attention back to him. Her words laced with a barely noticable anger.

"I suppose if I were to judge myself than I'd say yes, I'm damn good."

The chin juts up. Now a smile curves the lips. She lifts the cup to the pink lips, eyes him above the rim.

"What's your name?"


Vast

Wed 07:24AM CST
"Sevastian." He gets up, surprisingly smooth of motion for all the impressive musculature on his frame. Snags his bottle off her table. Doesn't offer his hand to shake. "Call me Vast," he adds, offhand, and before she can introduce herself in turn, "And you're Evelyn Bryant. I know."

A slight tilt of his head indicates one of those posters ubiquitous to the more cultured parts of town: Chicago Ballet Company presents this-or-that, opening night June this-and-that, call for tickets.

"And you're right," he continues. "You're damn good. But a little too aware of it yourself, maybe." He flashes a grin at her like a blade; you get the feeling it's all for his fun, somehow. "Nice meeting you, Miss" and that's Miss, not Ms., "Bryant."


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 07:28AM CST
Does she gap like she's been slapped? Scowl like a woman insulted? No. Rather, she sits and watches him rise, listening, perhaps with some inner sense of shame that she's been so caught out boasting. Her father always said she was too proud. Damn Irish blood. She lets a brief smile touch her lips.

"Likewise. See you around."

Maybe. Maybe not.


Vast

Wed 07:31AM CST
Pause; decisions made or broken in an eyeblink. Impulsive, though the utter bland unperturbedness of his tone belies that, "I'd like to get your number."


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 07:36AM CST
She feels some flicker of guilt as she watches him. Okay, so there's some basic level of attraction there. But she should say no. Say no. Evie. Say it. N-O. Think of Will.

"Okay."

She blinks once. Oh God she's going straight to hell. No, it's nothing she can't handle. Besides, it's not like she's going to throw him down on the table and screw him. She reaches back into her bag, lifts out a small business card. Holds it out between her fingers.

"My numbers are on it."


Vast

Wed 07:44AM CST
There's a beat where, after she'd held out her card, he keeps looking at her. There's an animal behind his eyes; a wolf behind the pale. Then his eyes flicker away, down to the card; his mouth curves a little, lopsidedly. He scissors the card neatly between middle and index finger on a carelessly smooth arc of arm; his fingers don't brush hers once.

Icy (they're blue-gray after all, his eyes -- a blue-gray so light it was the color of mist), his gaze flickers back up to her. There's a hint of smile there now, or perhaps it was only a smirk. He flips the card once between his fingers, easily, then tucks the card away into his pocket.

"Thanks." Casual confidence: predator-king amongst prey-subjects. It defines him. On that note, Vast takes his leave.


Evelyn 'Evie' Bryant

Wed 07:48AM CST
She'd watch him leave and then, and only when she's sure he's gone, would she let a soft laugh escape her lips. Words barely audiable.

"Oh boy..."

She won't focus on the memory of those gray eyes. She just won't.