we shall heal our wounds, collect our dead
It's not really sleeping so much as it's passing out. Ronin doesn't slip into the dreamworld - he all but crashes into it with a groan, the Star pulling himself to his knees and rubbing his eyes. He's glowing, at least, a beacon to those who might want to find him (one man in particular, of course), and although he feels like shit, he still couldn't be happier to be back here. "Remi?" he calls, rising unsteadily back to his feet and rubbing at his stubbled jaw.
Ronin is bruised all over even in his dreams, and his memories are clouded and strange things. Around him the world warps into dimly lit dens and screaming crowds; the sound of skin hitting skin echoes, a slapping ripple across his consciousness. The taste of whisky prickles along the walls of his subconscious, painting it in honey colours and a stinging at the back of his throat. Honestly, the Star isn't a fan. All he really wants is to find his husband, to fall into Remi and never climb back out.
Ronin is bruised all over even in his dreams, and his memories are clouded and strange things. Around him the world warps into dimly lit dens and screaming crowds; the sound of skin hitting skin echoes, a slapping ripple across his consciousness. The taste of whisky prickles along the walls of his subconscious, painting it in honey colours and a stinging at the back of his throat. Honestly, the Star isn't a fan. All he really wants is to find his husband, to fall into Remi and never climb back out.
THE DARK STAR
and continue fighting
