REMI
the bastion
Darling, you never could scare me
Set me ablaze like you do
Set me ablaze like you do
Remi nods, not because Ronin can see it, but because he feels it—knows exactly what he means. Those little moments, the offhand dreams shared by children who never got the chance to grow into them, echoing now like unfinished sentences. Their lives had always felt stretched out before them like the ocean, endless and full of time. And now? It all just slips away, like sand through open fingers.
He doesn’t let Ronin apologize—not really. Remi exhales roughly, shaking his head where it rests against his husband’s shoulder. "Don’t," he murmurs, voice low and raw. "You don’t need to be sorry." His arms tighten once more, holding Ronin like the act might ward off the memory of all the times they couldn’t hold them.
His breath slows eventually, heavy and measured as his eyes flick back toward the wagon—toward the still, painted gaze of Seren, of Aoife, of Enzo. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.
"They’re really good, you know," he says after a long, hushed moment, though the words land quiet and awkward in the air. Like he’s complimenting the light in a mausoleum. Like he should whisper. He reaches out, hand brushing against the wagon’s doorway. His thumb hooks gently against a weather-warped edge of wood—too gentle to be deliberate, too knowing to be accidental—and a small splinter cracks off beneath the pad of his thumb. He doesn’t react. Just lets it fall into his palm, light and brittle like a memory.
"One day," Remi murmurs, eyes still fixed on the ghost-lit gallery inside, "we should find somewhere for them. Somewhere they can...belong." His voice hitches faintly, because he doubts if either of them are ready for that.
"Maybe a gallery in Haulani. We could name it after Seren."
He doesn’t let Ronin apologize—not really. Remi exhales roughly, shaking his head where it rests against his husband’s shoulder. "Don’t," he murmurs, voice low and raw. "You don’t need to be sorry." His arms tighten once more, holding Ronin like the act might ward off the memory of all the times they couldn’t hold them.
His breath slows eventually, heavy and measured as his eyes flick back toward the wagon—toward the still, painted gaze of Seren, of Aoife, of Enzo. It’s too much and not enough, all at once.
"They’re really good, you know," he says after a long, hushed moment, though the words land quiet and awkward in the air. Like he’s complimenting the light in a mausoleum. Like he should whisper. He reaches out, hand brushing against the wagon’s doorway. His thumb hooks gently against a weather-warped edge of wood—too gentle to be deliberate, too knowing to be accidental—and a small splinter cracks off beneath the pad of his thumb. He doesn’t react. Just lets it fall into his palm, light and brittle like a memory.
"One day," Remi murmurs, eyes still fixed on the ghost-lit gallery inside, "we should find somewhere for them. Somewhere they can...belong." His voice hitches faintly, because he doubts if either of them are ready for that.
"Maybe a gallery in Haulani. We could name it after Seren."
I'd walk over coals in my bare feet
If that gets me closer to you
If that gets me closer to you
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.
