fancy that

you trace my lines, stirring my soul

Giving her an imploring look, as if saying exactly the right thing was precisely the wrong thing to do, the alchemist does his best not to melt into some far-too malleable version of himself, even as he nods. "Well, it was probably difficult to be anything but shitty with your not-boyfriend, me, acting like a jealous teenager." Remi points out.

Maybe he shouldn't, though just now it doesn't seem like a doorway to anything else, Remi slips his hand from Isla's that he might wrap his arm around her shoulders. "I wish you had too." He agrees of Aoife, though his throat grows too tight to say anything else and for a moment it's all he can do to keep breathing.

"I don't..." About to say he doesn't know how they could possibly do any of the things she'd described, Remi flushes as he glances down at himself, suddenly thinking perhaps he shouldn't have put his arm around her. "Oh." No, he hadn't realized, and it's with a self-deprecating and boyish laugh that he shifts slightly. "Is...this better?" Letting his psychometry take hold, Remi blends the memories of himself he had with those in Isla's mind, of when he'd just been an alchemist in Northaven. Though he was never scrawny, certainly he'd been lean with far fewer scars.

"It wouldn't work with you, though. You've always been this beautiful."

THE ALCHEMIST