We never painted by the numbers [se]

RONIN

Of course, at the sound of the applause - Ronin is shutting the window to keep any more mischievous birds out - he turns to his husband, sweeping into an elegant bow worthy of any blue blood with a smile creeping across his lips. ”I can think of a few things,” he remarks, winking ever-so-charmingly at Remi before returning to the kitchen. ”Though you can leave my bunts out of this, thank you very much.”

Leaning in, he kisses Remi’s crown of soft curls, slouching back into his seat and tidying up his triangles into a neat little pile. A pile that he keeps out of the Alchemist’s waggling reach. ”There’s another one, you know. If you flick to the back of the book.” He nods at the sketchbook without looking at it, seeming nervous all over again. ”Perhaps we could put that on Aoife’s grave as well.”

If Remi looks at the back of the sketchbook, he’ll find a small but detailed piece in pencil. It’s of their daughter with the Alchemist, Aoife sitting on Remi’s lap with joy written across her features, the two of them reading some book of bedtime stories or another. ”I meant to finish it, or make something more of it, but...” He doesn’t need to finish, he thinks. Remi gets it.

soft spoken with a broken jaw
we step outside, but not to brawl