REMI
the bastion
& my heart ran away with me
One moment the floating deck holds only the hush of waves and the muted clink of Ronin’s glass against wood. The next, there’s a gust of wind without a source, the air folding in on itself with a quiet pop of displaced pressure—then Remi is there.
No flash of golden light, no dramatic entrance, just a man appearing beside the man he loves, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His curls are damp, pushed back from his face, and his clothes smell faintly of antiseptic, rust, and Kings End clover. There’s blood at the hem of his shirt, dried now, but neither of them need to ask whose it is.
His gaze slips past the empty glass in Ronin’s hand to the fire bleeding across the ocean, then down to the slant of his husband’s shoulders. It’s the quiet that hurts most. The way the sun is still setting like nothing’s happened. The way Ronin drinks instead of screaming.
“I left her with Hotaru,” Remi says at last, his voice rougher than usual, like he’d spoken too many prayers into the dark and gotten no answer. “She’s sleeping. Or unconscious. I don’t know.” His jaw works. “She was still shaking.”
He leans in then, not to steal the glass from Ronin’s hand or coax him to stop—but to rest his forehead against the other man’s temple, his wings curling inward like a shelter they’ve both forgotten they need. “I know this is a win,” he murmurs, low and uneven, “but gods it feels terrible.”
No flash of golden light, no dramatic entrance, just a man appearing beside the man he loves, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His curls are damp, pushed back from his face, and his clothes smell faintly of antiseptic, rust, and Kings End clover. There’s blood at the hem of his shirt, dried now, but neither of them need to ask whose it is.
His gaze slips past the empty glass in Ronin’s hand to the fire bleeding across the ocean, then down to the slant of his husband’s shoulders. It’s the quiet that hurts most. The way the sun is still setting like nothing’s happened. The way Ronin drinks instead of screaming.
“I left her with Hotaru,” Remi says at last, his voice rougher than usual, like he’d spoken too many prayers into the dark and gotten no answer. “She’s sleeping. Or unconscious. I don’t know.” His jaw works. “She was still shaking.”
He leans in then, not to steal the glass from Ronin’s hand or coax him to stop—but to rest his forehead against the other man’s temple, his wings curling inward like a shelter they’ve both forgotten they need. “I know this is a win,” he murmurs, low and uneven, “but gods it feels terrible.”
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.
