REMI
The brush of Ronin’s kiss against his curls loosens something in Remi’s chest, and the gratitude that spills through the bond has no shape to it, no words, only relief and thanks tangled together so tightly they might as well be the same thing. He exhales, slow and uneven, and tugs Ronin closer by the waist, forehead angling briefly toward his shoulder as if borrowing steadiness by proximity alone.
Sunjata ’s arrival draws his attention back up, and the Bastion turns, taking him in with one quiet glance that lingers a second longer than polite, the way one does when tallying trauma rather than appearances. He nods along with Ronin’s greeting, and when he speaks it is without flourish, without forcing brightness where it does not belong. "If you need a distraction or if you need time away from everything, we are very good at pretending the world is not on fire."
The kitchen pulls them fully inside then, all warmth and clatter and the faint hum of the house watching them. When Ronin nominates him for bartender, Remi lifts both hands as if surrendering, a soft huff of amusement escaping him. "Flora made me tend bar often enough at the Hanged Man, so I think I can manage." He reaches for the gin, movements practiced, familiar, the ritual grounding in a way few things are lately. The mention of Hotaru lands like a dropped plate, sharp and sudden, and Remi’s eyes flick wide before he can stop them. There is a fractional pause—nothing anyone could point to, but enough—and then his hand tips the bottle a little longer than necessary, the clear liquid climbing higher in the glass than he'd originally intended to pour.
One drink becomes another, each poured with the same generosity, the same quiet insistence, nearly triples by the time he is done. When he straightens, the boyish edge of his earlier smile has softened into something steadier, more deliberate. He glances between Kaisel and Ronin, then back to Sunjata, before holding out a glass for him. "Drink," he suggests mildly, as though it is the most reasonable solution in the world, and for the moment, perhaps it is.
Sunjata ’s arrival draws his attention back up, and the Bastion turns, taking him in with one quiet glance that lingers a second longer than polite, the way one does when tallying trauma rather than appearances. He nods along with Ronin’s greeting, and when he speaks it is without flourish, without forcing brightness where it does not belong. "If you need a distraction or if you need time away from everything, we are very good at pretending the world is not on fire."
The kitchen pulls them fully inside then, all warmth and clatter and the faint hum of the house watching them. When Ronin nominates him for bartender, Remi lifts both hands as if surrendering, a soft huff of amusement escaping him. "Flora made me tend bar often enough at the Hanged Man, so I think I can manage." He reaches for the gin, movements practiced, familiar, the ritual grounding in a way few things are lately. The mention of Hotaru lands like a dropped plate, sharp and sudden, and Remi’s eyes flick wide before he can stop them. There is a fractional pause—nothing anyone could point to, but enough—and then his hand tips the bottle a little longer than necessary, the clear liquid climbing higher in the glass than he'd originally intended to pour.
One drink becomes another, each poured with the same generosity, the same quiet insistence, nearly triples by the time he is done. When he straightens, the boyish edge of his earlier smile has softened into something steadier, more deliberate. He glances between Kaisel and Ronin, then back to Sunjata, before holding out a glass for him. "Drink," he suggests mildly, as though it is the most reasonable solution in the world, and for the moment, perhaps it is.
Who are you? They ask. Death?
Sometimes... I say. But not today
Sometimes... I say. But not today
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.
