RONIN
the darkstar
light is easy to love.
"Why did you?" Ronin wonders, moving to perch on the piano bench, wincing as he sinks down and his ribs protest the matter. "Also, fuck you." For no other reason than it's better than letting the other man get the last word. "Humble rockstar beginnings, mm? I'd say you're climbing the ladder, with a crowd like that. Bras thrown at you and everything."
But then Bandcamp's phone rings, and Ronin is left to nurse the brewing headache from where he's had his skull rung like a bell, tilting his head to hear the language play through the air. He snaps his fingers, suddenly, seeming triumphant. "Italian," he says, sounding almost relieved about it, like whatever was bothering him is over now.
He shrugs out of his leather jacket as well, revealing the oil streaked t-shirt and the glint (the other man was correct) of dogtags. When Ronin looks up, it's to see a drink coming his way - one that he accepts eagerly, caring not one iota for the state of the glass. "Cheers." He knocks it back, then hisses in a breath at the sting it brings to the cut on his lip.
"Anyone fun?" he asks, fishing around in his pocket at last for his phone. There's a beautiful spiderweb on the front from the fight earlier (fuck, shit, fuck) but it still works, thankfully. Peering at the message from the man before him, he smirks as much as he's able. "Oh? What makes you say that?"
But then Bandcamp's phone rings, and Ronin is left to nurse the brewing headache from where he's had his skull rung like a bell, tilting his head to hear the language play through the air. He snaps his fingers, suddenly, seeming triumphant. "Italian," he says, sounding almost relieved about it, like whatever was bothering him is over now.
He shrugs out of his leather jacket as well, revealing the oil streaked t-shirt and the glint (the other man was correct) of dogtags. When Ronin looks up, it's to see a drink coming his way - one that he accepts eagerly, caring not one iota for the state of the glass. "Cheers." He knocks it back, then hisses in a breath at the sting it brings to the cut on his lip.
"Anyone fun?" he asks, fishing around in his pocket at last for his phone. There's a beautiful spiderweb on the front from the fight earlier (fuck, shit, fuck) but it still works, thankfully. Peering at the message from the man before him, he smirks as much as he's able. "Oh? What makes you say that?"
show me your darkness.
