REMI
Ronin barely looks at him.
It's such a small thing, such a natural thing—he's grieving, he's exhausted, he's been curled in bed all day—but gods, it nearly unravels Remi right there on the spot.
Because if he hadn't spoken with Sunjata today, if he hadn't been told, if he hadn't seen the grave weight in the Flood's expression when he admitted what he'd learned—Remi wouldn't have noticed anything at all.
The realization tightens in his chest like a vice. For all the times he'd believed that he knew Ronin better than he knew himself, he'd missed this.
Taking a slow breath, Remi makes himself move. Not too fast, not too slow. Casual, unhurried, normal. Every step toward Ronin feels like stepping toward something unknown, something vast and terrible lurking beneath calm waters; Ronin has been a leviathan for years now, but gods he's never seemed more like one.
Remi forces himself to hum in acknowledgement, quiet, the sound an easy thing on the surface even if it claws its way up his throat. Not hungry. Of course he's not; but was that the grief, or the infection? "You should try and eat, just the same, Remi murmurs, stepping past the bed, dragging his fingers lightly along the windowsill, and, noting a glass of water that had been left untouched the Bastion frowns to himself before sitting down, his hand strategically placed against his husband's shirt rather than his skin.
"Would seeing her help?" They could find out what had happened and, painful as it would be, at least Ronin could say his goodbyes to her daughter rather than a pile of timber and bones.
It's such a small thing, such a natural thing—he's grieving, he's exhausted, he's been curled in bed all day—but gods, it nearly unravels Remi right there on the spot.
Because if he hadn't spoken with Sunjata today, if he hadn't been told, if he hadn't seen the grave weight in the Flood's expression when he admitted what he'd learned—Remi wouldn't have noticed anything at all.
The realization tightens in his chest like a vice. For all the times he'd believed that he knew Ronin better than he knew himself, he'd missed this.
Taking a slow breath, Remi makes himself move. Not too fast, not too slow. Casual, unhurried, normal. Every step toward Ronin feels like stepping toward something unknown, something vast and terrible lurking beneath calm waters; Ronin has been a leviathan for years now, but gods he's never seemed more like one.
Remi forces himself to hum in acknowledgement, quiet, the sound an easy thing on the surface even if it claws its way up his throat. Not hungry. Of course he's not; but was that the grief, or the infection? "You should try and eat, just the same, Remi murmurs, stepping past the bed, dragging his fingers lightly along the windowsill, and, noting a glass of water that had been left untouched the Bastion frowns to himself before sitting down, his hand strategically placed against his husband's shirt rather than his skin.
"Would seeing her help?" They could find out what had happened and, painful as it would be, at least Ronin could say his goodbyes to her daughter rather than a pile of timber and bones.
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
