I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi shrugs, shoulders lifting like they’ve done this conversation a hundred times. "In Italy, two wheels are easier than four most of the time." His mouth quirks with something that’s not quite a smile, though it softens when Isla looks back toward the bike. As if hearing the part she doesn’t say aloud, Remi’s eyes drift to where Ronin’s still stubbornly fending off the EMTs, waving off hands meant to steady him. He exhales, nods again, gaze lingering for a moment too long before he glances away.
When Isla heads for the jacket and helmet, he offers her a tired, lopsided smile. The kind that says everything’s over, even if it doesn’t feel like it. And then he’s alone, the sound of gravel crunching under the crew’s boots fading behind him as he finally turns and walks toward his car.
//
He replies to Isla’s first message before the read receipt has time to blink. Glad to hear it. Keep me posted? The next one gets a Thanks. I’ll hold off on bothering him until you say it’s okay.
But when the final text lands, Remi’s already halfway to the front door before he finishes reading it. There’s no hesitation in getting there. It’s only once he reaches the threshold of Ronin’s hospital room that his steps begin to slow.
He pauses just outside the door, fingers grazing the gold chain at his neck. With a soft breath, he tucks the cross beneath the collar of his sweater. Under his breath, something slips out in Italian. Not quite a prayer, but close enough: a ward against malocchio, against bad spirits that like to linger where near-death has stirred the air. He doesn’t throw salt, doesn’t gesture overtly, but there's intention in the way he glances around the room.
Only then does he clear his throat, quiet but deliberate. Waiting to see if Ronin is awake before he lets himself cross into the room properly.
When Isla heads for the jacket and helmet, he offers her a tired, lopsided smile. The kind that says everything’s over, even if it doesn’t feel like it. And then he’s alone, the sound of gravel crunching under the crew’s boots fading behind him as he finally turns and walks toward his car.
//
He replies to Isla’s first message before the read receipt has time to blink. Glad to hear it. Keep me posted? The next one gets a Thanks. I’ll hold off on bothering him until you say it’s okay.
But when the final text lands, Remi’s already halfway to the front door before he finishes reading it. There’s no hesitation in getting there. It’s only once he reaches the threshold of Ronin’s hospital room that his steps begin to slow.
He pauses just outside the door, fingers grazing the gold chain at his neck. With a soft breath, he tucks the cross beneath the collar of his sweater. Under his breath, something slips out in Italian. Not quite a prayer, but close enough: a ward against malocchio, against bad spirits that like to linger where near-death has stirred the air. He doesn’t throw salt, doesn’t gesture overtly, but there's intention in the way he glances around the room.
Only then does he clear his throat, quiet but deliberate. Waiting to see if Ronin is awake before he lets himself cross into the room properly.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
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.
