it was me who wrote onto the wooden door your name
"No, that's the long and short of it. I just didn't know if you had a more elegant way of putting it." Then again, that really was rather elegant, and
It's very like Ronin to think of open windows and towels; Remi is content to fall clammy and wet into bed, had his thoughts not been so unceremoniously shoved down into one of the deepest and darkest holes his mind had ever dug.
Wordlessly accepting the towel but doing nothing with it, the alchemist swallows. He can hear the bones of his jaw subtly shift with the movement and is suddenly acutely aware of the chill against his skin. Half-blinking several times, his lashes fluttering, eventually Remi just sags onto the bed, the towel draped carelessly across his lap.
"There is a reason I do not speak like that." He replies, pale eyes trained on the floor and his accent thickening. Nibbling the inside of his cheek with relentless zeal, he pulls in a breath that seems to expand his entire body before he releases it in a slow stream. Rather than explain, Remi chooses instead to close his eyes. Around them their bedroom is replaced by a different one: shabby and dingy and small, it's poorly lit, smelling of stale air and alochol. There is a woman laying beneath a patchwork quilt that is threadbare and has been repaired so many times likely there is nothing left of the original. She is gaunt and dying, but singing with the most beautiful voice, in a language Ronin has recently heard Remi speak.
"It was the language my mother spoke." Remi explains, his words blowing away the illusion as one might blow out a candle.
It's very like Ronin to think of open windows and towels; Remi is content to fall clammy and wet into bed, had his thoughts not been so unceremoniously shoved down into one of the deepest and darkest holes his mind had ever dug.
Wordlessly accepting the towel but doing nothing with it, the alchemist swallows. He can hear the bones of his jaw subtly shift with the movement and is suddenly acutely aware of the chill against his skin. Half-blinking several times, his lashes fluttering, eventually Remi just sags onto the bed, the towel draped carelessly across his lap.
"There is a reason I do not speak like that." He replies, pale eyes trained on the floor and his accent thickening. Nibbling the inside of his cheek with relentless zeal, he pulls in a breath that seems to expand his entire body before he releases it in a slow stream. Rather than explain, Remi chooses instead to close his eyes. Around them their bedroom is replaced by a different one: shabby and dingy and small, it's poorly lit, smelling of stale air and alochol. There is a woman laying beneath a patchwork quilt that is threadbare and has been repaired so many times likely there is nothing left of the original. She is gaunt and dying, but singing with the most beautiful voice, in a language Ronin has recently heard Remi speak.
"It was the language my mother spoke." Remi explains, his words blowing away the illusion as one might blow out a candle.
it'll last there longer than in this body i can stay
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.
