everything has its wonders
Ronin did not expect to begin his season in Torchline. He didn't expect to begin it in borrowed clothes either, with a raging hangover and with no word from his husband in days. Nothing is as it should be, and so the Star does what he's always done best. He works.
Stripped to the waist - because it's hot, even if it's muggy and monsoon season is well on its way - Ronin has been heaving sandbags from the beach and up to the streets since dawn. Now the sun is well on its way to its zenith in the sky, and all the bags are lined up and ready to place in the doorways of those buildings which are closest to the canals.
He's dry eyed, now, though he can't be said to look remotely like his usual self (i.e. Ronin no longer looks like a charming mess, and he's just a bit of a mess these days) and his focus is singular. Grab a bag, heft it against a doorway, return for another. Rinse and repeat, until the sun burns his shoulders and sweat beads along his spine.
Stripped to the waist - because it's hot, even if it's muggy and monsoon season is well on its way - Ronin has been heaving sandbags from the beach and up to the streets since dawn. Now the sun is well on its way to its zenith in the sky, and all the bags are lined up and ready to place in the doorways of those buildings which are closest to the canals.
He's dry eyed, now, though he can't be said to look remotely like his usual self (i.e. Ronin no longer looks like a charming mess, and he's just a bit of a mess these days) and his focus is singular. Grab a bag, heft it against a doorway, return for another. Rinse and repeat, until the sun burns his shoulders and sweat beads along his spine.
even darkness and silence
