Neon Nightmare

// Different night, same rodeo //

Preparations were coming to a close for the rodeo, but the one thing she still needed to iron out—the bulls+. She had decided if this would be a real show, she needed more than the classic events, she needed something a little more awe-inspiring to end the festivities. She'd been asking around all season, but other than a very few who agreed, her list had ended up rather short. So she's taken up a more pointed approach.

Nursing her second beer, Colt spins the nude bottle idly in her hands as she waits for Remi. The label has already come undone, folded and rolled into a toy to put all her distant troubles into, at least until the movement and the moisture melted it into something limp and dull. It sits beside the other label on the side of the table, a collection of worry. 

Over the top of the bottle she watches the crowd, having taken a particular interest in a desperate man who seems to be doing everything wrong by the look on the girl's face. Colt's placed a bet that she'll last ten more minutes tops before sneaking out with some excuse about her house suddenly flooding, or her cat getting lost. She might've gone over and interfered, just for fun, if not already committed to her own date.

Colt

// Set me on fire, put me out like smoke //

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

The door creaks open behind a gust of humid evening air and the scent of fresh-cut grass, and in steps a man who doesn’t quite look like the harbringer of death that many stories paint him as. Remi's dressed in a worn chambray shirt with the sleeves haphazardly rolled, its collar open and soft with age, the fabric clinging to the shape of a body built more for battlefields than barstools. His curls are still damp from a recent flight, pushed back from his brow by a careless hand, and his presence—when noticed—turns a few heads more from instinct than recognition. Like the room remembers something ancient before the mind can catch up.

But Remi doesn't act like someone worth watching, and for the most part, prefers that no one does.

His sea-glass gaze slides through the crowd until it catches on her—bottle-spinning, bet-placing, giving-off-too-much-heat-to-be-ignored Colt. He knows her, of course. By reputation, and by rumour, so as he heads toward her, it's with a hint of a crooked smile. He comes to a gentle stop beside her table, then tilts his head toward the half-wilted label pile. "You look like you’ve been here long enough to start making paper art," Remi says, his accent warm and melodic like distant waves on rock. "Sorry I’m late,"

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// Different night, same rodeo //

She's angled herself purposefully to keep watch over the door, but she's abandoned her post, so to speak, just long enough that he slips in unnoticed. She's too caught up on trying to put words to the lips and expressions passing between the couple, wondering if he's actually that oblivious to the way her laugh is all nervous and placating, or if he's better fed by it.

Remi's presence pulls her back to the table a moment before his voice does, eyes flicking to his with a warm register. Can't say she's really ever had the pleasure of getting to know the Bastion beyond a glance and the reputation that prevails, for better or worse. A smile dawns across her features, a hand waving away his apology quickly, "don't be, I came early." She also has the benefit of not having to travel. "Can I get you something?" she asks with a tilt of her bottle towards him and a tap of her fingers along the table, an invitation for him to settle and join her. "Could make your own artwork to take home," she suggests wryly.

Colt

// Set me on fire, put me out like smoke //

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi huffs out a low chuckle, his head tilting slightly as a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Usually it’s the man who says that," he says, of coming early. Ruffling his hand through his curls and grinning boyishly, his fingers linger in his hair for a moment before falling to the table, palm open and relaxed.

"But," he adds, slipping smoothly back into something a little more polite, "if I remember right, Sunjata keeps a few bottles of my waterfall gin stashed behind the bar." He lifts a hand to flag down a passing waiter, offering a warm smile and a quiet request for a glass before turning his attention fully back to Colt.

His sea-glass gaze lingers on her label pile with playful intrigue before sliding upward, warmer now that they’re face to face and settled. "So. The rodeo," he says, resting his forearms lightly on the table. "Why don’t you tell me what you’re planning? I’ve heard enough to be curious, though not enough to know what sorts of shifts of mine and Ronin's I should be offering." The tone is light, teasing, touched with that affectionate exasperation he tends to reserve for the braver souls who ask things of him without flinching.

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// Different night, same rodeo //

A sudden laugh escapes her at his remark, because out the gate he's throwing out her brand of humor, and she's positive now more than ever that she'll be able to convince him to partake in the dusty good-time event. He's every inch the type of person she can respect the most, someone strong enough to do the work, but light enough to still enjoy the fun. People often seem to struggle with the balance, tipping one way or another too heavily.

"Oh? The secret stash," she murmurs with a gleam to her gaze as it meets his. She leans into a hand that's propped up on the table, no hint of trouble about her now that they've shifted to business, one she's got complete confidence in. "The main event is usually bull riding," she drawls, "but so many of you won't even break a sweat with that challenge." She's never really considered herself weak, maybe in matters of the heart, but not with most everything else. She is absolutely aware she lacks the strength and talents of those around her though, Remi chief among them.

"So I need your help to make it a bit more exciting for those who are too capable." She grins, her hand falling away from her cheek as she draws the belt buckle from her back pocket and lays it out on the table, catching the soft bar light with a gleam. "Frey made me this, a prize for the winner, some extra luck and some coin for whoever can manage to stay on one of Caido's shifted for 8 seconds." The buckle is more about what you earned, but the luck can always be useful. It's also rather pretty, she thinks.

As for where Remi and Ronin come in? "Of course you can participate, if you want," she says with a shrug, "but I was hoping you'd set some people on their assess too. Whatever form you think will be the hardest to hang onto. Something to give a show."

Colt

// Set me on fire, put me out like smoke //

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi chuckles, warm and low, the sound slipping easily between the two of them like a familiar thread. "Bit rude, maybe, only drinking my own gin in a bar this nice," he says, glancing toward the bottle as it’s placed before him. He pours himself a modest amount with an easy flick of his wrist, his smile never quite leaving. "But I’m sure Sunjata won’t mind. He’s always said it tastes better when someone else’s pouring it for me anyway." Which is true, despite the fact he's pouring it for himself now.

As for her you—the insinuation, the confident little sparkle in her eye—Remi just shrugs, a touch bashful in the way that only those who know their power intimately can be. "We do have a habit of ruining the usual curve," he admits mildly, mouth twitching with the threat of a grin.

He leans in slightly as she lays the belt buckle on the table, his gaze catching the gleam of it in the bar light. His fingers don’t reach for it, but his attention sharpens all the same. "Frey made it?" he asks, sounding a touch wary. "That certainly seems like the sort of thing most would take a few bruises for." Though based on his tone, Remi wouldn't be won, even if he did come out on top.

As she finishes, Remi leans back again, swirling the gin in his glass before offering her a nod. "Ronin and I would be happy to help," he says simply. "Though fair warning—our larger shifts do take up a good bit of space." He lifts a brow, playful now. "I can become a kraken that’s bigger than a galleon, and Ronin can shift into a leviathan." Both of which, by definition, were colossal.

He takes a slow sip, setting the glass back down with a faint clink. "But if you’re looking for something with a little less risk of accidentally flattening the spectators, I’ve also got a pixiu shift—winged lion, heavy and fast in the air. Ronin’s got a dragon and a luxere, if that suits your showmanship better."

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// Different night, same rodeo //

She doesn't miss the way his softness stiffens a bit at the belt buckle, Frey's name almost like a warning when he says it. Growing up with a family that served Frey, in lands touched by them, and now with an Archon that is their demi-god, she has admittedly not heard many bad things against the deity. So there's a spark of curiosity that tilts her head as she glances from the buckle to him, "oh?" One of her fingers near it trails over one of the engraved edges, tapping it thoughtfully. This buckle carried a lot of weight for her, given how small and light it ought to be. "Did earn a few bruises getting Frey to make it," she agrees with a twitch to her lips. Then again, she doesn't expect any god doles out gifts and items without consequence.

She leans back into her seat more, a bit of the edge removed as he agrees to it. She grabs for her bottle, thinking as she takes a sip. "The arena probably can't hold those safely," she admits, but there's something in her gaze that says she wishes they could. "But..." she's devious now, able to picture it too perfectly, "the pastures are large. You both could fit there, depending." They'd be large enough the crowd could probably still see.

Her livestock might have a heart attack, but she's hoping to shove all them out and away to further sections of her property before she lets anyone start shifting into anything, since they're liable to panic at a breeze that blows wrong much less a dragon or a lion. "Maybe see who's gettin' on top," she advises, "gonna try and match rider and bull skills, if I can." She can't imagine some poor sap riding Remi's kraken shape when all they've got is their thighs to hang on, but ultimately that'll depend on the entrants she gets.

Colt

// Set me on fire, put me out like smoke //

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi winces, the expression fleeting but honest, like the aftertaste of something that stings going down. "Bruises?" he echoes, brows lifting slightly. "No, I never got off quite that easily." Actually, that wasn't true. The problem was that he'd gotten off exceptionally easy. He tips his glass toward her as if in ironic salute before downing what remains with a smooth tilt of his head, the liquid burning softer than the memory. "Frey’s the reason my twins exist," he says, voice just light enough to suggest the weight it’s holding beneath. And then, after a pause—long enough to make the silence itch—he adds, "But...they weren’t conceived with my husband. Or, importantly, I suppose, with his knowledge."

The flush creeps into his cheeks almost immediately, and for a man who’s faced down gods and monsters and more, he suddenly seems very interested in the bottom of his glass. There’s a quiet sort of shame in the way his jaw sets, but it’s worn, weathered. Something long since accepted, even if it hasn’t softened entirely.

Thankfully, Colt offers an easier path forward, and Remi takes it like a man grateful for a lifeline. "I’m sure we can make it work," he says, grinning now, his voice pulling back into that familiar boyish cadence. "Ronin’s good at adjusting. I’ll just aim not to accidentally level your fences." A pause, then a dry smile. "Unless that earns me points?"

As for the pairings, Remi nods thoughtfully, the edge of his mouth curling up again. "Makes sense. And we’re all capable of healing, so worst case...no one stays broken for long." His fingers toy with the rim of his glass, casting a sidelong glance at her. "Though I’ll admit, seeing someone try to ride Ronin’s dragon without magic or tack might be worth a few broken ribs."

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

// Different night, same rodeo //

It's an uncomfortable thing he works out, like it once had such sharp edges that pressed too sharply into him that even now when they've worn down, he gives the proper space for those pointed angles to still fit. Once he explains why though, she can see what's made him so uneasy with anything Frey's had a hand in. Though, admittedly men have managed to make children with someone other than their lover well enough on their own without any direct influence from Frey. As for not telling Ronin, that certainly sounds like a fault born of him rather than Frey. "Well, I promise the belt buckle won't get anyone pregnant," she reassures with a broken smile, not wanting to cheapen his past struggles, but giving them something lighter to drift away on.

A smirk settles when he makes a point to tell her how good Ronin is at adjusting, but it's the afterthought he chases that shakes a laugh free. "Yeah, negative ones," she attempts to warn, but it doesn't much sound like it above the hum of humor.

She tips her bottle a bit between her hands, spinning it on one edge of it's bottom with her fingers wreathed around it to catch it should it grow upset. "Perfect. Not much you can ask for than not being broken for long." They all know there's no sense in trying to avoid any breaking, that's just life. "They might break something just trying to get on him" she grins, the image of scales and leather among settling dust working up behind her eyes. "Sounds like it's settled, then. It'll be towards the end of Longheat." The bottle spins to a standstill and she tilts back the rest of the drink, setting it down and sliding it to her trash corner. She makes to stand, horses to feed and all. "Thanks, Remi. Pass it along to Ronin too."

[FIN]

Colt

// Set me on fire, put me out like smoke //