we can't make any promises now

The alchemist merely offered the librarian a flat stare in the face of such abject self-pity. It simply couldn't be true that Loren had failed at everything, not that Remi thought it would do much good to point out that failing did entail being a failure. So instead he simply exhaled through slightly flared nostrils, one brow skeptically raised. The duke's next question had him quizzically tilting his head. So altruistically inclined was the alchemist, that for a few seconds he truly didn't understand what it was Loren meant. "You asked for my help." He said simply after a few seconds. "And... well. We were friends before." Whether 'before' was meant to indicate before their relationship became physical, or 'before' Remi lost his memories, was unclear. As Loren jerked away so suddenly, the alchemist immediately relinquished his grip, holding up the offending hand in a placating gesture. The position the librarian took instantly reminded Remi of Sam; both now having the same far too thin build, the diminishing self confidence and worth, the drawn up knees and wild-eyed look. Guilt blossomed darkly in his chest, rising up into his lungs and making his muscles grow cold. "Loren." The alchemist whispered softly, his accent carrying the man's name not so much as a word, but merely a sound. Letting himself sink down as well, balancing easily on his heels, the alchemist interlaced his fingers together—the peppermint bark forgotten now—to indicate that he'd keep them that way. "Is this how you want to be?" Remi prompted gently, shattered-stare questioning but not overbearing. If it was true that the Launceleyn might reinvent himself in the wake of apparent catastrophic failure, this seemed a likely enough place to start. Not wanting to be touched was one thing, Remi understood that. Leaping out of one's skin was another. REMI Loving you was sunshine, but then it poured & I lost so much more than my senses 'Cause loving you had consequences