RONIN
”You know, I thought it would be,” Ronin says with a sunny smile, abandoning the half-finished sketch to concentrate on what they’d decided to do. Even so, he’s blushing a bit as well as he reaches for another sip of wine; not from the subject matter - that hardly bothers him - but his husband’s smile is enough to fluster him any day of the week. And the bastard knows it, too. Still, engrossed as he is with his supremely fantastic and not at all ridiculous triangles, he doesn’t notice Remi with the sketchbook until it’s already in his hands.
Snipping right through the centre of the triangle by accident, Ronin tries to stop the Alchemist with a mix of hand flailing and an assortment of noises that try and fail to be words, but fuck if it isn’t too late. His cheeks are flushed a real crimson now, Ronin laughing awkwardly and rubbing at the back of his head. ”I’ve been working on it when I have the time,” he says - an attempt at an explanation.
The book is filled with Remi, some in pencils or charcoals, others in paint. Where there are colours it’s in Ronin’s usual style (i.e nothing belongs in a traditional palette, expressing emotion rather than reality), and they span through the mundane - the Alchemist deep in concentration over his workbench, watching the sea through the bay window, napping on the couch - all the way to the spectacular - Remi in flight on a manticore’s wings, or turning sand to glass with fire magic.
”I did say I loved you.” Ronin shrugs bashfully.
Snipping right through the centre of the triangle by accident, Ronin tries to stop the Alchemist with a mix of hand flailing and an assortment of noises that try and fail to be words, but fuck if it isn’t too late. His cheeks are flushed a real crimson now, Ronin laughing awkwardly and rubbing at the back of his head. ”I’ve been working on it when I have the time,” he says - an attempt at an explanation.
The book is filled with Remi, some in pencils or charcoals, others in paint. Where there are colours it’s in Ronin’s usual style (i.e nothing belongs in a traditional palette, expressing emotion rather than reality), and they span through the mundane - the Alchemist deep in concentration over his workbench, watching the sea through the bay window, napping on the couch - all the way to the spectacular - Remi in flight on a manticore’s wings, or turning sand to glass with fire magic.
”I did say I loved you.” Ronin shrugs bashfully.
soft spoken with a broken jaw
we step outside, but not to brawl
we step outside, but not to brawl
