Let's not get lost in the dark blue
But darling if we do, just find me and I'll find you
But darling if we do, just find me and I'll find you
Remi inhales sharply, though there is no judgement in it, only the small, instinctive sound of surprise from a man who knows all too well what it is to blink and find your child suddenly older than they were a moment before. Mateo, Flora, and Enzo had all been aged up by the gods, and so whatever questions might have risen in someone else only settle in him as a softer understanding, threaded through with the ache of years skipped and the relief of need answered.
"Wow," he murmurs under his breath, nodding as Isla speaks of Fern and the sear cat, of driftwood and houses and the Festival of Lights beneath the Greatwood’s branches. His smile warms by degrees, losing the tired slant it has worn all morning as he listens. "All of that sounds really incredible, Isla. I am happy for you. For all of you." He nudges her shoulder gently with his own, careful with the stroller, the coffees, and the precarious arrangement of toys currently keeping Carlo and Calan from remembering their many grievances against existence.
"And when you find somewhere, let me know. I can help you move." His mouth curves, mischief returning. "Though the offer of a houseboat is always open, of course, should you decide you would rather trade a garden for the shoreline."
His eyes drop to the twins then, to Carlo’s determined hold on the ribbon and Calan’s solemn study of the manta ray, and his expression turns helplessly fond. "Of course we do not have favourite ages," he says, with the grave sincerity of someone lying, but understandably. "But Ronin really does love them when they are little like this." A laugh slips out of him then, soft and tired and brightened by affection. "Although I think even these two are testing his patience with just how loudly opinionated they can be." Not that his husband would ever admit to it outloud, of course.
"Wow," he murmurs under his breath, nodding as Isla speaks of Fern and the sear cat, of driftwood and houses and the Festival of Lights beneath the Greatwood’s branches. His smile warms by degrees, losing the tired slant it has worn all morning as he listens. "All of that sounds really incredible, Isla. I am happy for you. For all of you." He nudges her shoulder gently with his own, careful with the stroller, the coffees, and the precarious arrangement of toys currently keeping Carlo and Calan from remembering their many grievances against existence.
"And when you find somewhere, let me know. I can help you move." His mouth curves, mischief returning. "Though the offer of a houseboat is always open, of course, should you decide you would rather trade a garden for the shoreline."
His eyes drop to the twins then, to Carlo’s determined hold on the ribbon and Calan’s solemn study of the manta ray, and his expression turns helplessly fond. "Of course we do not have favourite ages," he says, with the grave sincerity of someone lying, but understandably. "But Ronin really does love them when they are little like this." A laugh slips out of him then, soft and tired and brightened by affection. "Although I think even these two are testing his patience with just how loudly opinionated they can be." Not that his husband would ever admit to it outloud, of course.
the bastion
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.
