we shall heal our wounds, collect our dead
Ronin sits and kicks the sand in front of him into a little mound, like he can ward off the creeping tide with it and save his shoes. (The idea of removing said shoes obviously doesn't enter his brain). Having successfully grappled the bottle - no matter that it was willingly given - he takes a long swig of whiskey and listens as the other man speaks. And he doesn't really have anything to say to that, something quiet and sad overtaking his expression - Ronin surrenders the bottle back and lets clumsy fingers clasp his friend's shoulder.
"My perfect for me's havin' a baby with your ex... wife? Were you married? I dunno. Anyway," he mumbles, letting out a long sigh that puffs out his cheeks. "But I still love 'im. I dunno if anyone can say it's wrong if you still love someone. Or at least, if it's a wrong choice for them it's still the right one for you. And you're the one living with it, mm?" Is it reassuring or melancholy? Fuck if Ronin knows. "I'm sorry that things are so shitty, Jata."
"My perfect for me's havin' a baby with your ex... wife? Were you married? I dunno. Anyway," he mumbles, letting out a long sigh that puffs out his cheeks. "But I still love 'im. I dunno if anyone can say it's wrong if you still love someone. Or at least, if it's a wrong choice for them it's still the right one for you. And you're the one living with it, mm?" Is it reassuring or melancholy? Fuck if Ronin knows. "I'm sorry that things are so shitty, Jata."
THE DARK STAR
and continue fighting
