there will be scrapes and sutures; viciousness and victory
And yet, for Ronin at least, it isn't restlessness he feels at all. It's like the settling of sand on the seabed; it's like the long exhale after an eternity of holding one's breath. The Tramezzino has made hermits out of them, that much is true, and he can see the changes in their habits in the small jaunts they've begun to take outside, but for a large part the Huntsman is still happily wrapped in his completed puzzle, where every piece fits seamlessly against Remi no matter the shape.
Where a marching band outside might not have roused Ronin more than to give a cursory fuck off, the veil of sleep is gently parted by little more than the brush of his husband's lips across shoulders decorated with freckles and bronzed from the sun. He hums out his next breath, soft and slow, in acknowledgement of the affection but without fully deciding how to respond.
Eventually, just before he can fully doze off again, one scarred and calloused hand comes sneaking back, intending to snag hold of Remi's arm to draw it against his chest. Nothing says good morning like mandatory spooning, after all.
Where a marching band outside might not have roused Ronin more than to give a cursory fuck off, the veil of sleep is gently parted by little more than the brush of his husband's lips across shoulders decorated with freckles and bronzed from the sun. He hums out his next breath, soft and slow, in acknowledgement of the affection but without fully deciding how to respond.
Eventually, just before he can fully doze off again, one scarred and calloused hand comes sneaking back, intending to snag hold of Remi's arm to draw it against his chest. Nothing says good morning like mandatory spooning, after all.
RONIN
