i.
“Dorian,” Fearne said, her voice soft and melodic as ever as it broke through the tired silence in their shared room. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”
Dorian stopped, glancing at Fearne from where he sat on a wooden stool, removing his boots. Peripherally, he noticed Orym had stilled too, having taken off his leather armor and set it on the small table in the room.
“What do you mean?” he asked, genuinely confused by the question. He couldn’t stop the small, anxious laugh that escaped his lips, a sign of the ever-present nervous energy bubbling beneath his skin. “When are we talking about, exactly?”
Fearne didn’t answer immediately, perched on the bed, disentangling some of her long hair from where it had gotten caught up in her horns, as it often did. “With the Corsairs,” she said airily after a moment, as though the answer was obvious. “That everyone you cared about was already with you.”
Out of habit, Dorian’s gaze shifted from Fearne to Orym – he found he always looked to Orym when he didn’t quite know what to say, or what to do. Of course, it had evolved into something different with time, and now he found that he didn’t look to Orym merely as a tactician, as a reluctant born-leader, as some sort of moral guidance; instead, he looked to him as a friend and partner, someone he relied on to have his back in the same way that he had Orym’s. And, well, if some of those glances lingered longer than they should, perhaps at times that didn’t even call for it, he wasn’t about to pretend that he didn’t know why.
To his surprise, the halfling was already looking at him, too, with a vague sense of curiosity.
“I was wondering that too, actually,” Orym said.
“Of course I meant it,” Dorian responded immediately, looking from Orym to Fearne, as though surprised they would doubt it. Another breath of a nervous laugh. “I’d have thought you two would be a bit more pleased, like Fresh Cut Grass.”
“I think it’s a bit different with Letters,” Orym said slowly – there was always that careful, methodical quality to his words, like he hand-picked each one with precision. “And I’m not quite convinced Ashton was being wholly honest, either. You heard what Milo said to them about keeping trouble away.”
“Well,” Dorian said, unfastening his cloak and lying it beside his boots, trying to focus his eyes on something – anything else, “I meant it – do mean it. You two mean the world to me.”
Fearne tilted her head as she watched him. “But – just us? What about your family?” she asked. “Orym?” She looked to the halfling as though she wanted to hear his thoughts on the matter.
Orym cleared his throat, shifting a little uncomfortably under the gaze, something so strange to see of him. “I don’t have much of a family left,” he admitted. “You two came with me to Zephrah, you met the other Ashari.” He hesitated. “Maybe at one time, but… well, they’re what’s left, now.”
Fearne hummed thoughtfully at this. “I think they’re still family,” she said. “I know I worry about my nana. I wouldn’t have liked to offer her up, even if I imagine they’d have a hard time getting to her in the Feywild. Don’t you have family like that, Dorian?”
The laugh that forced its way out of Dorian’s mouth was much more of a scoff, bitter rather than nervous this time. “No,” he said. “No, my family is… let’s say they’re much happier with me gone.”
The answering silence was stifling for Dorian. At this point, he was fairly certain that his companions had more or less fathomed it out that cloistered as he was growing up, it was less of in the small-town sense like Opal, or the distant lands of Fearne and Orym, and instead something that he was running away from. There was a reason, after all, that he refused to give more than his given name Bronte, a reason he tried not to flinch when Paska or Milo had commented that he “came from money”.
He busied himself, continuing his preparations for bed. He didn’t like the sort of attention, the kind given when he made himself a little too vulnerable versus the kind he drew out with his charming acts. He snuck another glance at Orym, and was a little surprised to see him with arms folded over his chest, the expression on his face not quite of the pitying worry that Dorian feared, but rather something thoughtful, something analytical, as though he was looking through Dorian, past the surface, into something much deeper.
Dorian wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
“What is it, Orym?” he asked. He still tried to keep his tone light, tried not to let his own worries show through.
“Nothing,” Orym said quickly, shaking his head and frowning, as though he himself hadn’t quite been conscious of his starting. He opened his mouth – then paused, closing it again – then opened his mouth once more to take a breath, again carefully picking out each word he said. “I guess I was just wondering about Dariax and Opal.”
Dorian swallowed, smiling wryly. “Did you want me to give them up?” he asked. “I would have thought you’d be quite glad I didn’t give the Corsairs potential access to a Vestige.”
“No, I didn’t want you to give them up,” Orym said with a sigh. “To be fair, we can’t even be sure that they are still in Byroden, I guess.” One side of his mouth quirked up into a small, half-smile. “And yes, I’m very glad you didn’t lead them to a Vestige. Especially one so… morally ambiguous.”
They knew how Orym felt about it all – how glad he was that Opal had managed to fight off any darker pulls, her intentions nothing but pure as she only wanted so desperately to save her sister. Dorian knew better than anyone, he was fairly sure – had argued about it, had felt the sharp stab of guilt and betrayal that Orym perhaps didn’t trust him quite as well. He knew now that wasn’t the bottom line of it, that it was less to do with trust and more to do with worry – and Dorian tried to hold onto that thought while he simultaneously pieced back together everything he thought he knew about himself, less sure about right and wrong and good and evil. He wondered what Orym might say, to know that Dorian did lose a piece of himself to the Spider Queen in that way, when he made her a promise to keep his friends safe.
Dorian thought it was honestly the same as it was then. He believed in his friends more than anything, more than any other person or deity or power. He was prepared to do anything to keep them safe.
The irony didn’t escape him, of Fearne’s questions about family and his denial of really having one – he’d found his family here, and felt certain that staying at their sides was where he could do the most good.
“I thought of them,” Dorian said after a moment. “I did. But, well… like you said. We came to Zephrah with you.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, offering a small but genuine smile at Orym, then at Fearne. “It’s been us, since then.” He quickly waved his hand, backtracking. “Yes, yes, I know we have our… our new... friends, these last few days, and I’m glad to have them, but…”
“But it’s different,” Fearne filled in. She reached across the cramped space, holding her hand out for Dorian. She smiled warmly as he slid his hand in hers with comfortable ease.
“It is,” he agreed. “You two are truly those most important to me. Honestly...” He paused, an unbidden smile forming on his lips. “Honestly, I don’t know what I did to deserve you. Either of you.”
She took her other hand, patting Dorian’s cheek, causing his smile to widen. Then, she turned, holding that hand out instead to Orym, beckoning him closer.
With a sigh that faded into a smile and a shake of the head, Orym joined them, slipping his hand into hers as well. She gave both hands a gentle squeeze.
Yes, Dorian thought, placing his other hand on Orym’s shoulder; the halfling looked up at him, giving him an affectionate rap on the hip with his fist. Yes, this is definitely what I care most about.
ii.
Darkness. The hushed skittering of spiders.
The sound multiplied as it got closer, echoing ominously in the all-consuming blackness. They were closing in – both the sound and the suffocating dark itself.
Closer.
Closer still.
Orym was hyper-aware, unsure if he was actually feeling the spider legs flitting across his skin, or if he was just expecting for them to reach him any second, his tense muscles feeling nothing more than a phantom touch as he waited, heart pounding, barely breathing.
The sound stopped.
But then there was Fearne, crying out – Dorian, calling for him – the darkness pressed more heavily against him, and suddenly he wasn’t sure if he was holding his breath or if he was being suffocated, choking on the magical blackness that threatened to swallow him whole.
He pressed forward out of desperation, and slowly an alley began to take shape – only it wasn’t Jrusar, but Zephrah – no, somehow it was both. He knew the sight that awaited him, knew he was steps away from cool blood pooling beneath a lifeless body, even in the dim light of the alleyway or corridor or wherever he was. He couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity this time, not as he had when he’d first come across Sir Bertrand’s form, pushing down that terrible sense of déjà vu, of time repeating itself. And just as he knew that he was somehow both in Jrusar and Zephrah, he knew that what he was about to see wasn’t only Sir Bertrand Bell, but also Riegel, all those years ago – and as his heart hammered, he knew it would also be Fearne, also be Dorian –
And suddenly, he was awake. His heart still pounded, painful against his ribcage just like in his dream. His head spun, disoriented as he blinked away sleep in a desperate effort to retrieve his bearings, to regain his proverbial footing.
They were at the Spire by Fire, in the Core Spire of Jrusar. They were safe in bed; to his left slept Fearne, and to his right –
Orym was jarred almost painfully into a sudden alertness, throwing an arm out to the right side of the bed, only to confirm its emptiness.
“Dorian?” he hissed, narrowing his eyes as though it would help him see their shadowed room at the inn. “Dorian!”
But there was no response, and Orym sat up, frantically glancing about the room now. His eyes were slowly adjusting, but he didn’t see the genasi anywhere, nor any sign of him – no set aside instruments or weapons, no discarded cape and coat and boots –
He was half-out of bed himself when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, warm but firm, grounding him when it felt like everything was falling away beneath him. “Orym?” He turned to see Fearne, propped up on one elbow, blinking sleepily at him. “Is everything okay?”
“Dorian,” he said in a breath.
“He still hasn’t come to bed?” Fearne asked with a slight tilt of her head.
Orym blinked at her. “What?”
And it was as though Fearne suddenly understood, without even asking for Orym to explain his strange frenzied panic. Next thing he knew, she was pushing herself up to kneel beside him on their bed, her hands grasping his tightly.
“He stayed down for a bit while we went to bed,” she told him placatingly – it was gentle and patient, in no way patronizing but only understanding. “Not alone,” she assured him immediately, as though she could read his next line of thoughts regarding Bertrand’s demise. “He’s with Ashton and with Fresh Cut Grass.” She squeezed his hands. “Ashton was drinking, and they were teaching Dorian that card game…”
Orym slumped in relief, the memories of the evening returning to him quickly. “Right,” he muttered, embarrassment flooding his body as he deflated, a strange combination of overwhelming solace and slight humiliation at her reassurances. “I’m… I’m sorry, Fearne. For waking you. I think my head got a bit carried away for a minute, there.”
He flashed her a strained smile, but she didn’t return it.
“Did you have a nightmare?” she asked him.
“Something like that,” he said, feeling foolish immediately at the admission. “Then waking up and… and, well, you were here, but Dorian…”
Fearne hummed in understanding. “It’s okay to be worried, Orym,” she said gently. “I worry about the two of you all the time.”
He squeezed her hands fondly in return. “I know,” he said. “And I do, too. You know that. But this wasn’t worry so much as… as fear.”
“You were afraid,” she repeated slowly.
Orym nodded, still feeling a bit childish at admitting such a thing. He hated that word.
He heard how Imogen and Fresh Cut Grass marveled at his fighting prowess alongside Ashton and Laudna, astonished comments about his abilities that usually had Fearne beaming with pride. He knew that Dariax and Opal had always been impressed as well, considering him formidable in the face of any danger that crossed their path. He didn’t doubt that it was why Fearne and Dorian had followed him beyond Byroden to Zephrah and now Jrusar in the first place.
Orym, the brave warrior of the Air Ashari, courageous no matter what threats lay ahead. Orym didn’t have a place for fear.
Fear felt like hopelessness, like admitting he had no way to push forward. Fear made him feel small in a way that his stature never did.
“Well, that’s okay, too.” Fearne’s words cut through the quiet of the dark room, and Orym felt his heart stutter at their certainty. “It’s okay to be afraid. It’s good, even.”
Orym couldn’t stop the small breath of a laugh, nothing but utter disbelief at the words. “How is fear good, Fearne?”
“Well,” she said slowly, considering her words in that way so unique to her, as she always did just before she said something truly amazing and utterly her. “Sometimes… Sometimes it’s good to be scared, because it means you still have something to lose.”
And there it was. That beautiful knowledge and distinctive understanding, that strange wisdom that had been baffling upon their first meetings, but now felt so wonderfully welcoming. Orym took the words, thoughtfully turning them over in his mind, examining them from every angle as he soaked in the undeniable truth of them.
He smiled at her – soft and gentle and genuine, earnest and fond, but also with that undeniable sadness he tried to keep close to his chest rather than sharing it with his companions. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had so much to lose,” he confessed, voice a little rough, tone hushed as though he were sharing a closely-guarded secret.
She lifted her hands, cupping his cheeks in her palms, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling. She pressed her forehead to his. “We all do,” she assured him. “All three of us.”
The door to their room opened quietly, a small sliver of light spilling into the room from the inn’s corridor. Both Orym and Fearne turned to it, Fearne lifting her head while still holding the halfling’s face between her palms. Dorian paused for just a moment, catching sight of them, before pressing the door shut. There was no hesitancy after that, and suddenly he was crossing the room, dropping his lute on the table without even stopping, quickly seating himself on the bed, looking from Orym to Fearne and back with ill-concealed worry on his face.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, voice soft and concerned in the darkness.
Fearne glanced back at Orym, offering him the chance to explain. He flashed a small, tight smile that he knew was forced – knew that Fearne and Dorian both saw it for the flimsy assurance it was. “Yeah,” he said gruffly as Fearne slowly lowered her hands. “Yeah, just… nightmare.” He glanced away sheepishly, cheeks burning a little with shame. It still felt so childish to say aloud, but he knew he wasn’t going to be anything other than honest.
Dorian reached forward, clasping one of Orym’s hands in both of his. “That doesn’t sound like everything’s all right, then,” he murmured, not unkindly, eyes softening even further in concern.
Before he could say anything else, Fearne shifted, sliding off her side of the bed and smoothing out her night dress. “I think I’m going to go have a glass of milk,” she said slowly, deliberately, that wistful airiness always prevalent in her tone.
“With a shot of whiskey?” Dorian asked, his voice a little light and teasing as he turned to look at her.
“Yes,” she said, and Orym couldn’t fight his smile in the way she said it – as though shocked Dorian had to ask, as though questioning if there was any other way to have a glass of milk. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, more directed at Orym – a promise, gentle but firm and so very comforting. “I just figured… you two might like a moment to talk.”
“Thank you,” Orym muttered softly at the same time a slightly uncertain Dorian said, “All right, then.” The genasi stared after her, a little bit of confusion in his gaze, before turning back to Orym once more as the door clicked shut.
“Really, Orym,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”
Dorian brushed his thumb across the back of his hand, and Orym could feel his heart leap to his throat at the gentle contact. He swallowed, gaze shifting from their joined hands to Dorian’s face.
“Yes and no,” he admitted, and his voice sounded strained even to his ears. Dorian leaned forward just an inch, opening his mouth to say something more, but Orym quickly shook his head. “It’s okay, now,” he assured him, the words thickly sticking to his tight throat, dry in his mouth like cotton. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Dorian’s eyes widened for just a second, blinking at Orym – once, twice – before he swept forward, pulling Orym to him in a tight embrace. His arms wrapped securely around the smaller man’s shoulders, and Orym couldn’t help but relax into it, muscles no longer tense as he raised his own arms in response. And when one of Dorian’s hands shifted to grasp the back of Orym’s head, sliding through the short brown hair, he allowed himself to bury his face into the juncture where Dorian’s neck and shoulder met.
“Me too,” Dorian breathed out in reply, words such a soft whisper of a confession that Orym was sure he would have missed them if it weren’t for the fact that they were said so close to his ear. “I’m glad, too.”
And it was all Orym could do to tighten his grasp, to hold on just a little more tightly to the other man in front of him.
iii.
Claws, tearing through flesh with savage ease –
A bite of too many teeth, sinking through skin and clamping onto muscle –
Blood.
Dorian was already running when he saw it, shoving another one of the shade creepers off himself using his scimitar. He’d nearly dropped his weapon as he scrambled to his feet and tore across the room, shoving past friend and foe alike.
The shade creeper was throwing its entire weight against Orym’s shield, to the point that the already grievously injured halfling buckled at the knees. He forced the creature off him just before he fell backwards – but the monster recovered first, lunging. Orym’s reaction was immediate, too precise and calculated to be mere instinct, thrusting his shortsword upward through the shade creeper’s chest. He smirked weakly at the creature as it snarled and hissed, just before it combusted.
Orym didn’t have time to raise his shield again. He was showered in sparks and flame, gritting his teeth as his skin burned. Dorian could see how his chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but still he turned and pushed himself to his knees. He glanced up, and their eyes met for the briefest second – and there was that moment of shared worry and fear but relief –
And then so many things happened so quickly, and all-at-once shift of hope that it would be okay, that they would be okay, to a feeling like all of the air had been sucked from the room in the space of only a heartbeat, something that strangled even Dorian with his inherent connection to the air and ability to hold his breath indefinitely.
A dagger, slashing through Dorian’s side – immediately followed by the ripping of claws at the wound –
Faltering footsteps – clutching his side, hands warm and wet with blood –
A desperate shout of his name, voice familiar –
Orym shouting his name.
Orym in front of him, shield held aloft to block the next attack, only for the monster to turn its attention to him, claws and teeth all at once.
Orym falling limply back against Dorian, shield clattering to the floor.
Dorian didn’t think – couldn’t think as he snatched up the fallen shield, slamming it against the shade creeper before slashing through it with his scimitar, letting his sword fall as he pulled Orym to him, blocking the resulting flames with his cape and the halfling’s own shield. His body moved purely out of desperation, the only clear thoughts in his head Orym, Orym, Orym, a frantic mantra that matched the desperate pace of his pounding heart.
“Orym,” he breathed out, still clutching him. “Orym!” The shout tore itself from his chest, a distressed and ugly sound he barely recognized, even though he knew it came from his mouth. And then, panicked, even louder, even more anguished, “Fearne!”
He didn’t look up to check if she heard him. Instead, Dorian stared at the still figure in his arms, covered in blood – so much blood, so much from both of them – pressing a hand to his cheek, still reverent in its clumsy roughness, seeking out any sign of life.
He curled forward, over Orym, amidst the shouts of his comrades in the battle – Ashton forcing himself in between them and any more monsters while Imogen and Laudna fired off spells, taking out the creatures at a distance – Fresh Cut Grass too far off, fighting off his own shade creeper and unable to get free. Dorian’s grip on Orym tightened as he took a shaky breath, reaching for his magic within him.
Dorian knew that sometimes he talked too much – especially when casting. He found that words had a certain power to them, even beyond verbal components and incantations, and often he spoke beyond what was necessary, as though it might somehow amplify their effects. Now, as he reached for that place of magic within him, that nearly-drained well deep inside, he found himself rambling, a babbling brook of words that fell from his lips in an unbidden waterfall.
“I can’t lose you,” he murmured, voice raw as the faint coolness of his magic rose to his fingertips, shakily holding Orym’s jaw. “I won’t survive and that’s your fault. You made me love you. You let me in.”
Dorian tried to drain that source within him, channeling the flow of it straight into the halfling’s body, every last ounce of strength he had.
There was a shuddering, a tight gasp, a wet cough. Orym didn’t open his eyes, but Dorian could feel the way Orym’s chest expanded with his lungs, still struggling and pained, but no longer fading shallow breaths.
“He’s alive.”
Dorian glanced up, almost startled at Fearne’s sudden presence before them, the awe and relief ringing through her words. Dorian let out a wet, nervous laugh, looking back down at Orym.
“Yes, he is,” he said shakily.
She didn’t move to take him from Dorian’s arms, and for that he was grateful.
“You did good,” she told him quietly.
The praise made his breath catch, a slight hiccup as he tried to swallow back the tears he hadn’t even noticed were threatening to fall. Slowly, he looked up to her again. In that moment, realization had struck him that she’d been there, that she must have been nearer than he’d first thought – that she’d heard the things he said.
She just smiled, exhausted from battle but still serene.
“Fearne,” he began quietly, but he had no idea what he was going to say.
She reached forward, pulling Dorian to her, careful not to move Orym in any way that would hurt him more. She wrapped her arms around them both – a safe haven from the fight as their companions destroyed the last shade creeper attacking Fresh Cut Grass, a respite from the fear and desperation from just moments before.
“I’m so glad my lovely boys are alive,” she sighed. A quiet laugh of agreement left Dorian’s lips, and he nodded against her shoulder, not trusting himself to speak. After a moment, she pulled back, patting Dorian on the cheek. “I’ll get Fresh Cut Grass, all right?” she told him slowly. “He’ll get Orym back on his feet.”
Dorian nodded again, relaxing his grip on Orym just the slightest bit. Fearne was right – he was alive – they both were – they all were.
Right now, that was more than enough.
iv.
“Please, just do this for me.”
It had started as an argument – no, before that, it had started as a half-joke, Dorian nervously trying to make light of the far-too-serious situation. After the latest fight against the shade creepers, things had been strange – a combination of relief and joy and hope amidst the group, yet strained beneath the surface.
Especially, Orym noticed, with Dorian.
And so when he had asked, Dorian had given him a pained smile and made a comment about his self-sacrificing tendencies. It had devolved into an argument from there – no shouting or yelling typical of such a fight, but instead something reminiscent of what had happened with the Spider Queen’s circlet: tension and too-sharp words, the things that weren’t being said much louder, much more cutting than what was said.
But as quickly as the argument had begun, it had ended, Dorian slumping to sit on their bed at the Spire by Fire, eyes downcast rather than meeting Orym’s, making that request.
It wasn’t so much of a request. Instead, there was some sort of quiet desperation to it, as though he was begging.
And it all felt so wrong to be hearing it from Dorian – voice too small, tone too pleading. There was no airiness to it, no certainty, no confidence. Even the way he was sitting looked wrong, curling in on himself, making himself look so small and young and vulnerable.
For a fleeting moment, Orym considered agreeing to anything Dorian asked of him, if only so he would go back to his normal self.
But instead, Orym took a moment, carefully contemplating, looking Dorian over as he slowly approached. He stepped forward, placing a hand on each of Dorian’s knees. The movement gently prompted the genasi to lift his gaze without raising his head, until their eyes met.
“I can’t really promise you anything, Dorian,” he said softly.
Dorian sighed, a faintly fond smile. “I know,” he replied. “I don’t know that I’d really want you to, anyway. I don’t think you’d be you if you did.”
Orym gave him a soft smile in response. “I understand,” he assured him. “I know where you’re coming from.”
Another sigh. “And I get why you do it,” Dorian allowed. “I get that… that this is your way of… protecting others.”
“I don’t want to see you – any of you – hurt,” Orym said. “Not when I can stop it.”
“But what about us?” Dorian asked, that sudden fire sparking to life beneath the surface again, softer this time, gentler, but still intense. “We don’t like to see you hurt, either, Orym.”
“Dorian –”
“I hate it,” he pressed on, taking Orym’s hands in his as though it could somehow help convey the meaning. And just as suddenly, that flame was once again extinguished, just a tiny puff of air leaving curling smoke behind. Dorian closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Orym’s. “I hate seeing that happen to you, Orym. I know that – that you think it’s your job to take the hits because you can – and maybe you can, but – but that doesn’t make it easier for me – for any of us – to see it.”
“I know,” Orym whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Dorian laughed, shaking his head. “No,” he murmured. “No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not sorry for doing it. Not if it keeps you safe,” Orym said. “But I am sorry that it hurts you in that way.”
“I know.”
Quiet settled between them, not quite content, but definitely peaceful. Neither pulled away, keeping the proximity as though it was somehow keeping something fragile in balance.
Orym shifted forward the smallest amount, letting his hands rest on Dorian’s forearms. He rocked up onto the balls of his feet, the movement causing their noses to brush against each other. He could feel Dorian’s breath hitch slightly.
And for a moment, he considered that delicate something, how it sat so precariously and with just the smallest shift, how with a tentative brush of lips, everything could…
Instead, he drew back, then stretched a little taller to press his lips to Dorian’s forehead.
Not now, Orym told himself. Not yet.
He saw the smile spread across Dorian’s lips, a blush coloring his cheeks a delicate shade of purple. It made something swell inside his chest, something so warm and affectionate and familiar, something terrifying.
But as Fearne had said, he was certain this fear wasn’t such a bad thing.
v.
In some ways, Dorian thought it almost strange how tactile of a person he’d become – to be able to show casually show his affection through clapping a hand onto someone’s shoulder in battle or wrapping an arm around someone’s shoulder while walking, not to mention the brushing of fingers along someone’s cheekbone in quiet moments or the pressing of lips to someone’s forehead in gentle reassurance. It had become such a natural thing to hold Orym and Fearne at night in a too-small bed, huddled close out of choice and not mere necessity.
It wasn’t anything like growing up, the cool, fleeting touch of his mother or brother, never a sign of affection but usually just for show or out of some strange sense of duty or obligation. Instead, this was warm and welcome, caring and kind, and he reveled in it each time his friends came in contact with him.
The newness of it all didn’t mean that the slight shifts and changes were lost on him – especially when it came to Orym.
Dorian had noticed the first time when Orym had given him a reassuring pat on the arm and rather than the usual warmth from the halfling’s hand, he felt something practically electric beneath his skin – how suddenly even just these casual touches made Dorian’s pulse quicken, his chest tighten, his breath catch.
Dorian had registered, too, when each touch was suddenly preceded by a nearly imperceptible pause on Orym’s part. At first, he’d let himself worry what he might have done to offend Orym, until he realized that those touches would linger just a second too long, as though pressing against an invisible boundary to test the limits – it wasn’t reluctance, but instead something almost diffident, testing the waters, gauging for a reaction not only from Dorian, but from Orym himself, as well.
And that – that only seemed to be the beginning. To anyone else, the shift might have seemed trivial. But to Dorian, it was monumental, the sort of irrefutable force that would have left destruction in its wake if it hadn’t been such a beautiful thing.
What Dorian couldn’t understand was how each move could be so contradictory in nature, so deliberate yet tentative, so certain yet unsure. He wanted to ask – he knew that Orym had survived inconceivable loss, even if he still hesitated in opening up to him and Fearne about the details of it. He couldn’t imagine what Orym might have gone through, what fear had crawled its way into his heart and latched onto him there, more distant now but still persistently clinging on.
Dorian knew there were ghosts in Orym’s past, just as he had phantoms of his own.
But then, Orym took his hand.
It was the quiet, peaceful space of a sunrise, pleasant and companionable and Dorian savored every second of it, every breath and heartbeat. The breeze rippled along the grass and swept through his hair, and Dorian let himself close his eyes, chin tilted up to the hues of gold and violet and magenta that painted the pale blue sky.
As always, Orym’s hand was warm against his own cool skin. But instead of the simple clasping of hands together, he felt as Orym slid his fingers between his, interlacing them with the same sort of deliberation he took to battle.
And, oh, he thought pleasantly, that is definitely new.
Dorian swore that his heart skipped a beat, even if he knew it to realistically be impossible. Still, it hammered in his chest as he turned, looking down to Orym.
He held his breath. He knew that he could do so indefinitely, and if that was what it took to keep everything in that moment how it was, then he would.
“This terrifies me, you know,” Orym said. He turned his gaze to Dorian. “You terrify me.”
The comment startled a laugh out of Dorian. “Am I really that scary?” he asked.
Orym shook his head, smiling. “No, you’re not,” he conceded. “But just the idea that I could feel something like this for you, it’s…”
He didn’t have to finish the thought, didn’t have to explain any further. Dorian knew – he understood.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
Orym watched him for a moment, but Dorian didn’t falter under his unwavering gaze. He seemed to be thinking, considering his next move and every potential consequence – and then, he was reaching upward, hand on Dorian’s cheek, guiding him forward.
Orym’s eyes searched Dorian’s, a silent question, that strange uncertainty beneath his sure movements. Dorian couldn’t tell if Orym found whatever it was that he was looking for, so instead he closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Orym’s in affirmation.
It was a chaste brush of lips, the briefest ghost of a kiss, but a definite promise for more.
Dorian pulled back slightly, and he could feel the warm sigh that escaped Orym’s lips.
“I never expected this, you know,” Orym confessed, eyes still closed. His brow was slightly furrowed, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to smooth out that tiny crease with his thumb, to make every trace of worry disappear from his features. “I never thought, but…” He shortened that tiny gap, leaving only a hair’s breadth between them. “You took a piece of me, and I let you.”
Dorian couldn’t be certain which one of them closed that small distance, only conscious of that warm and gentle press of hesitant lips against his.
All of the fear didn’t magically vanish with the kiss – it still simmered below the surface, and Dorian knew that it wasn’t about to disappear, that it wasn’t that simple. But with every press of lips, every breath, every heartbeat, Dorian felt something so much stronger, something so much brighter, something so undeniably wonderful eclipsing the dread and uncertainty within him.
That fear was nothing compared to the love he felt stirring in his heart.