I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi nods along, because no, it doesn’t seem great. Still, he’s only half-awake, and so when Ronin’s voice trails off, Remi doesn’t notice it right away. His fingers are curled loosely around the edge of the table, his gaze dropped toward the grain of the wood, mind still worrying at the difference between something stronger than him and something that simply turns him off.
When he does look up, frowning, it's in time to see Ronin disappear. With a sigh that sounds more resigned than surprised, Remi pushes himself to his feet. "Mm," he mutters to the empty kitchen, as if this is somehow an answer to all of it. Crossing to the stove, he takes up the nearest utensil and begins nudging the bacon before it can burn.
Ronin is gone for all of six seconds, and when he returns, his apology is only half-heard before Remi feels the pull catch beneath his ribs. "Oh, for—" The Northaven vanishes as Remi too is spat out in the desert.
When he returns, he's still shifted; the pixiu is far too large for the kitchen, all muscle and wings and startled momentum, and the table shrieks backwards across the floor as one massive shoulder shoves into it. For one awkward second there is too much of him everywhere, too many claws for the boards and not enough room to breathe, before the shift collapses back in on itself and leaves Remi standing barefoot in the kitchen again, Ronin’s too-tight sweatpants still clinging stubbornly to his hips.
He hauls in a breath, sharp with desert heat and adrenaline, then rakes both hands through his curls until they’re hopeless. "What the hell was that thing?"
When he does look up, frowning, it's in time to see Ronin disappear. With a sigh that sounds more resigned than surprised, Remi pushes himself to his feet. "Mm," he mutters to the empty kitchen, as if this is somehow an answer to all of it. Crossing to the stove, he takes up the nearest utensil and begins nudging the bacon before it can burn.
Ronin is gone for all of six seconds, and when he returns, his apology is only half-heard before Remi feels the pull catch beneath his ribs. "Oh, for—" The Northaven vanishes as Remi too is spat out in the desert.
When he returns, he's still shifted; the pixiu is far too large for the kitchen, all muscle and wings and startled momentum, and the table shrieks backwards across the floor as one massive shoulder shoves into it. For one awkward second there is too much of him everywhere, too many claws for the boards and not enough room to breathe, before the shift collapses back in on itself and leaves Remi standing barefoot in the kitchen again, Ronin’s too-tight sweatpants still clinging stubbornly to his hips.
He hauls in a breath, sharp with desert heat and adrenaline, then rakes both hands through his curls until they’re hopeless. "What the hell was that thing?"
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.
