frostbite

the wounds are open and bleeding out

It has become almost routine, for Ronin to stir when he feels Remi leave in the middle of the night. Most of the time his husband's demigodly duties are little more than an inconvenience, but as hard as Remi can be at times, he's not impervious to things like silly human emotions. And so even if the alchemist returns, sleepy and calm and not at all fazed by his work, Ronin still likes to be awake for it if he can.

And so as Longnight yawns on, the lanterns in their little houseboat are merrily burning a welcome for the Lullaby's return. The smell of cocoa and peppermint laces the air, and Sugar busies herself watching at the windows for Remi to come home. In the meantime, dressed only in sweatpants and a blanket cape, Ronin continues to stir the cocoa, oblivious to the way the world has rocked and fractured, never to be the same again.

THE

DARK STAR

Table coding by Sky

I've been sleepwalking, Too close to the fire
But it's the only place that I can hold you tight

It takes longer for Remi to return than normal, though what counts as normal when one is sent off to mercy kill is a touch ambiguous. What will set this particular situation apart from the others, tear tracks aside, is the healthy coating of blood that stains Remi's shirt, his forearms, and his face. The cottage had been quiet and cozy when the lock had been picked and the door swung silently open. The would-be assassins hadn't even time to scream before their throats were cut, staining Vai's floors a deep maroon which Remi would later regret.

Numb, but not from the cold, Remi had made his way home in the dark. If he had meandered he hadn't noticed, and by the time the houseboat came into view, the alchemist had lost all track of how long he'd been gone. On the windowsill, Oria trills a low and ominous sound as she taps one of her fingers against the glass, before chittering something in worried tones to Sugar.

Remi's steps are heavy on the stairs, and the hand that reaches for the doorknob is at first too slick with blood to turn it. Silence follows, as if the alchemist is deciding whether or not—or perhaps how—to try again.

the lullaby

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)