It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses
It's a long afternoon of incorrectly answering Jeopardy questions in between poorly writing music. Remi keeps coming back to this same melody that isn't very good, but his fingers won't play anything else no matter how hard he tries. So eventually he gives up and goes downstairs to the laundry room where he washes Hallway's clothes and tries to spell the Gaelic words he thought he heard the man sneer at him earlier.
By the time 6 pm rolls around, Remi has been pacing down the street of Ronin's shop for a good twenty minutes. He's always early, or at least aims to be. Anytime he's late, it's because of something he's chosen: an extra line before going onstage or needing to hear the answer to the Daily Double before heading out. Tossing his cigarette into a trashcan (littering is for assholes), Remi makes his way toward the chilly light spilling out onto the street. Dressed in blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket (it's cliche, but from what he knows of motorcycles, it's also the only things he owns which might prevent against road-burn), he carries Ronin's clothes, neatly folded, in a bag.
"Hey." He says lamely, not allowing himself to be distracted by the slow roar of the motorcycle or the cut of Ronin's jacket. "Here are your clothes. I don't want there to be any more excuses for you to come back to mine." Remi adds a touch curtly, holding out the bag. Then, his expression softening dramatically, he tries to pronounce something he read earlier on the internet: "Tá brón orm." His accent butchers it, he's sure, to the point he thinks he probably needs to translate. "It means I'm sorry." Nodding toward the bag of clothes, Remi ruffles a hand through his curls. "I meant that. I don't want any more excuses. I don't want to pretend that you're coming over for clothes, because the truth is...I want you to come over." It's a lot already, and so Remi just lowers his eyes toward the motorcycle, wondering why none of it was sounding as good now as it had done in his head, on the walk over.
By the time 6 pm rolls around, Remi has been pacing down the street of Ronin's shop for a good twenty minutes. He's always early, or at least aims to be. Anytime he's late, it's because of something he's chosen: an extra line before going onstage or needing to hear the answer to the Daily Double before heading out. Tossing his cigarette into a trashcan (littering is for assholes), Remi makes his way toward the chilly light spilling out onto the street. Dressed in blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket (it's cliche, but from what he knows of motorcycles, it's also the only things he owns which might prevent against road-burn), he carries Ronin's clothes, neatly folded, in a bag.
"Hey." He says lamely, not allowing himself to be distracted by the slow roar of the motorcycle or the cut of Ronin's jacket. "Here are your clothes. I don't want there to be any more excuses for you to come back to mine." Remi adds a touch curtly, holding out the bag. Then, his expression softening dramatically, he tries to pronounce something he read earlier on the internet: "Tá brón orm." His accent butchers it, he's sure, to the point he thinks he probably needs to translate. "It means I'm sorry." Nodding toward the bag of clothes, Remi ruffles a hand through his curls. "I meant that. I don't want any more excuses. I don't want to pretend that you're coming over for clothes, because the truth is...I want you to come over." It's a lot already, and so Remi just lowers his eyes toward the motorcycle, wondering why none of it was sounding as good now as it had done in his head, on the walk over.
ThE RoCkStAr
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.
