i'm not the man they think i am at home
Remi inclines his head in quiet concession, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly in a knowing sort of agreement; there are some battles not worth picking at the best of times, and least of all now in Leafchange.
When Ronin lets his hand go, Remi’s fingers linger for a moment as though reluctant to lose the contact, before settling back against the bed beside the twins. His gaze follows naturally, drawn again to the small, impossibly peaceful forms nestled together between them, and he exhales softly. Any amount of translation would be helpful, he murmurs through the bond, a thread of dry humour woven through the thought. Or even nametags.
His eyes flick briefly to Ronin, a quiet, adoring smile touching his features, because the idea of separation—of being pulled apart and left searching—lands in him with a familiar sort of ache he knows his husband shares.
At Ronin's suggestion that they might share his abilities, Remi stills, the softness in his expression tightening into something more uncertain, his brow furrowing as he looks back at Ronin with sudden, unguarded concern. You don’t think so, do you? The thought is quieter now, edged with something that feels uncomfortably close to guilt.
His gaze drops again to the twins, watching them more carefully this time, as though trying to read something new in their calm. The idea settles too easily, slots into place with a logic he doesn’t like, and he swallows against it. Gods...it was a lot for me to handle, he admits, the memory of it still sharp enough to catch at him even now. I cannot imagine what it would be like for them.
When Ronin lets his hand go, Remi’s fingers linger for a moment as though reluctant to lose the contact, before settling back against the bed beside the twins. His gaze follows naturally, drawn again to the small, impossibly peaceful forms nestled together between them, and he exhales softly. Any amount of translation would be helpful, he murmurs through the bond, a thread of dry humour woven through the thought. Or even nametags.
His eyes flick briefly to Ronin, a quiet, adoring smile touching his features, because the idea of separation—of being pulled apart and left searching—lands in him with a familiar sort of ache he knows his husband shares.
At Ronin's suggestion that they might share his abilities, Remi stills, the softness in his expression tightening into something more uncertain, his brow furrowing as he looks back at Ronin with sudden, unguarded concern. You don’t think so, do you? The thought is quieter now, edged with something that feels uncomfortably close to guilt.
His gaze drops again to the twins, watching them more carefully this time, as though trying to read something new in their calm. The idea settles too easily, slots into place with a logic he doesn’t like, and he swallows against it. Gods...it was a lot for me to handle, he admits, the memory of it still sharp enough to catch at him even now. I cannot imagine what it would be like for them.
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.
