LOREN
Loren had known Remi would be upset. Rightfully so: the summoner had been deliberately trying to provoke just that response, in the hope that it would convince the alchemist once and for all to stay away from the Launceleyn. However at the ugly, almost cruel, laughter that came from Remi, Loren’s resolve and his hand faltered. That didn’t sound like the other man. Not at all, and a shiver crept up the summoner’s spine.
Then Remi stripped off his shirt and the Launceleyn couldn’t help the hiss of sympathy that escaped his lips. As the alchemist stalked closer—too close, a tiny but dwindling part of the summoner screamed—Loren held his ground. Even now, as the accusations came flying from the other man’s lips, the summoner stood unmoving, blue eyes meeting shattered green without looking away. The Launceleyn was far more concerned about the smell of rot and honey than he was about upsetting Remi further or about preventing further heartbreak. And even as the other man grew increasingly distressed, crazed even, all Loren saw was the man he loved in pain. Pain that the summoner had caused, and that was far worse than the physical wounds would suggest.
The Launceleyn wouldn’t defend himself, even as the alchemist seemed to loom over the summoner’s much smaller frame: whatever weight he’d put on had been lost even in the few days since he’d left the pit. Still, as Remi laughed again, the summoner felt his heart sink. It might be too late to save the other man, given everything the Launceleyn had put him through.
But Loren would never stop trying.
Emotion bled back into him, into his eyes and face and posture, as he finally released it from the cage he’d been keeping it in, as he finally emerged from the dark place he’d thought would help them both. Heartache, for the man the Launceleyn knew he couldn’t have; fear, for the way the alchemist was acting; depression for how fundamentally and completely the summoner had screwed everything up with the other man; and finally love. The love that Loren felt for Remi.
Loren didn’t know if it would save them or destroy them.
”Remi, please.” The Launceleyn was pleading, his voice heavy with emotion and worry and care; while his own health and well-being, both physical and mental, might be irrelevant, Remi’s very much weren’t. ”I promise to talk to you. To be whatever you need, or want me to be or not be. But please. Let me heal you.” The summoner knew his promises were worth little these days, but he sank as much genuine conviction and honesty as he could into his voice. And he meant it: he had never mattered in this.
The alchemist, on the other hand, was everything.
Then Remi stripped off his shirt and the Launceleyn couldn’t help the hiss of sympathy that escaped his lips. As the alchemist stalked closer—too close, a tiny but dwindling part of the summoner screamed—Loren held his ground. Even now, as the accusations came flying from the other man’s lips, the summoner stood unmoving, blue eyes meeting shattered green without looking away. The Launceleyn was far more concerned about the smell of rot and honey than he was about upsetting Remi further or about preventing further heartbreak. And even as the other man grew increasingly distressed, crazed even, all Loren saw was the man he loved in pain. Pain that the summoner had caused, and that was far worse than the physical wounds would suggest.
The Launceleyn wouldn’t defend himself, even as the alchemist seemed to loom over the summoner’s much smaller frame: whatever weight he’d put on had been lost even in the few days since he’d left the pit. Still, as Remi laughed again, the summoner felt his heart sink. It might be too late to save the other man, given everything the Launceleyn had put him through.
But Loren would never stop trying.
Emotion bled back into him, into his eyes and face and posture, as he finally released it from the cage he’d been keeping it in, as he finally emerged from the dark place he’d thought would help them both. Heartache, for the man the Launceleyn knew he couldn’t have; fear, for the way the alchemist was acting; depression for how fundamentally and completely the summoner had screwed everything up with the other man; and finally love. The love that Loren felt for Remi.
Loren didn’t know if it would save them or destroy them.
”Remi, please.” The Launceleyn was pleading, his voice heavy with emotion and worry and care; while his own health and well-being, both physical and mental, might be irrelevant, Remi’s very much weren’t. ”I promise to talk to you. To be whatever you need, or want me to be or not be. But please. Let me heal you.” The summoner knew his promises were worth little these days, but he sank as much genuine conviction and honesty as he could into his voice. And he meant it: he had never mattered in this.
The alchemist, on the other hand, was everything.
But don’t be weary if it’s broken
Families are like that—
they’re split up and always torn.
