it feels like we're ready to crack, these days, you and I
"You ride?" Isla smiles briefly at that, her own gaze lingering on the motorbike, but ultimately she shakes her head. "You could live in the best neighbourhood in the city, but the keys are in Ronin's pocket, I think. Besides, that thing's his baby. He'll want to come back for it himself." She trails off, brow furrowing, that quiet and unspoken relief between them: at least he's still here to come back for it.
Clearing her throat and straightening up as if realising that a hairline crack has started to appear in her stoic mask, Isla smooths a wrinkle out of her ruined shirt; she isn't as soaked through as Remi and Ronin had been, but her clothes are going to need more than one wash if she wants to keep them. "Yeah," she says thickly. "I am too."
With a deep inhale, she gives Remi a parting nod, before crossing to the bike to collect the motorcycle jacket and helmet. "I'll text you," she says again, before drifting back to the van.
//
The first message comes the following morning: Ronin is OK, but they are keeping him for another night to make sure.
The next comes the evening after that: He's still in hospital, but there are no concerns.
And then finally, the following morning: He's asking around for you, if you want to visit.
This comes accompanied by the hospital address and Ronin's room details.
Up in said room, the television is off but the blinds and drapes are drawn wide open, letting in a stream of cool afternoon light. Ronin is in bed, more colour to his cheeks now, but the deep shadows beneath his eyes suggest very, very little sleep, and the bruising - it feels as though he's been mowed down by Isla's van. They're a deep, moody purple by now, a chain of them around his throat and down towards his sternum, as if he's been grabbed by a too large hand with impossibly long fingers.
It's the reason they won't let him out of here just yet, but what they don't know is that he'll be discharging himself after dinner. (Not before dinner, that's just stupid).
Clearing her throat and straightening up as if realising that a hairline crack has started to appear in her stoic mask, Isla smooths a wrinkle out of her ruined shirt; she isn't as soaked through as Remi and Ronin had been, but her clothes are going to need more than one wash if she wants to keep them. "Yeah," she says thickly. "I am too."
With a deep inhale, she gives Remi a parting nod, before crossing to the bike to collect the motorcycle jacket and helmet. "I'll text you," she says again, before drifting back to the van.
//
The first message comes the following morning: Ronin is OK, but they are keeping him for another night to make sure.
The next comes the evening after that: He's still in hospital, but there are no concerns.
And then finally, the following morning: He's asking around for you, if you want to visit.
This comes accompanied by the hospital address and Ronin's room details.
Up in said room, the television is off but the blinds and drapes are drawn wide open, letting in a stream of cool afternoon light. Ronin is in bed, more colour to his cheeks now, but the deep shadows beneath his eyes suggest very, very little sleep, and the bruising - it feels as though he's been mowed down by Isla's van. They're a deep, moody purple by now, a chain of them around his throat and down towards his sternum, as if he's been grabbed by a too large hand with impossibly long fingers.
It's the reason they won't let him out of here just yet, but what they don't know is that he'll be discharging himself after dinner. (Not before dinner, that's just stupid).
when it's just the two of us, only the two of us, I could die
