RONIN
the darkstar
light is easy to love.
"Aren't we all just assholes with spray cans?" Ronin says airily, a hand fluttering to his chest in a mockery of how he'd likely respond if he'd become an art lecturer instead of a scarred, ex-army biker. Perhaps that's why he appears like so much of a contradiction to Remi a lot of the time - because he is. Of course, then there's a knock at the door and before he can so much as shift to his feet, his guest is already up and wandering through the apartment like he owns the place.
And Ronin finds himself not minding it at all, as he watches, and that definitely brings a few awkward insinuations with it. Only when the smell of herbs and cheese and meatballs hits he air does he come back to himself, all but drooling as well around his explanation of the fight. "Yeah, some asshole with a polo shirt and too much gel in his hair. He came to the bar to offer me a shove back - pretty sure it was to keep his girlfriend sweet - and so we went outside." If it sounds lame it's because it is, and yet the bruises on Ronin's face are still bruises.
"Two years is a long time to be straightish," he remarks, finally able to see the sandwiches and practically able to feel his eyes light up. The implication that he doesn't have plates, though?
He snorts. "Bottom cupboard on the right." Like the tumblers he served the whiskey within, Ronin's plates barely look as though they have been used. It's all white, minimalist porcelain, more out of practicality than preference.
And Ronin finds himself not minding it at all, as he watches, and that definitely brings a few awkward insinuations with it. Only when the smell of herbs and cheese and meatballs hits he air does he come back to himself, all but drooling as well around his explanation of the fight. "Yeah, some asshole with a polo shirt and too much gel in his hair. He came to the bar to offer me a shove back - pretty sure it was to keep his girlfriend sweet - and so we went outside." If it sounds lame it's because it is, and yet the bruises on Ronin's face are still bruises.
"Two years is a long time to be straightish," he remarks, finally able to see the sandwiches and practically able to feel his eyes light up. The implication that he doesn't have plates, though?
He snorts. "Bottom cupboard on the right." Like the tumblers he served the whiskey within, Ronin's plates barely look as though they have been used. It's all white, minimalist porcelain, more out of practicality than preference.
show me your darkness.
