There hadn’t been a window in Laudna and Imogen’s room, so Orym had steadied himself by looking to Dorian and Fearne. Dorian still had the flower in his hair, then. And even now, as he emerged from meeting a stranger alone in the theatre, the sight of the petals and the sapphire of his eyes loosened Orym’s grip on the sending stone.
Orym was beginning to learn he disliked enclosed spaces almost as much as he loathed letting the people he cared for out of his sight. Maybe they were interlinked. And an enclosed space was rarely truly enclosed. It just hid its dangers better.
This was going to be a problem.
He listened quietly to Dorian’s smile-ridden lies. He was learning his tells. A little too casual, a little too much of a stutter. A few too many shrugs. He let him have the lie for now, just as Dorian had let him keep that one last detail of his past folded to his chest earlier, even as Laudna had drifted uncomfortably close to it. Sometimes letting a lie be a lie, or an omission remain omitted, was an act of kindness, however curious one might be for the truth.
Orym could’ve killed for a cool breeze right now, as he put the sending stone away, resisting the urge to massage the ache in his palm from gripping it so tightly. Dorian sat beside him. Orym tried to school his face and body to provide a steadying presence for him. Whatever had gone down out there, Dorian was shaken. And lying about it, but that wasn’t so unusual for him.
Dorian was fine enough for now. So why did Orym’s heart still pound like he had finished a climbing course back home?
The night before, after Orym had gotten himself drunk while protecting Dorian from himself in the alcohol department, he staggered up to the room he shared with Dorian and Fearne. Dorian had set the chicken bone Bertrand on the nightstand and gazed at it with a somewhat unreadable expression.
Orym climbed onto the bed with him, sitting back on his heels and bumping Dorian’s elbow with his shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah, I think so. Laudna’s very… nice.”
Orym was too intoxicated to smother his chuckle. “Yeah. I get a good feeling when she’s not scaring the shit out of me. Looks like she’s adopted you.” Orym had some thoughts on that, and how Laudna had possibly been robbed of the choice to start a family, but even now it felt a bit intrusive. Not to mention the can of worms it was for him as well.
Dorian smiled, mostly fondly, at her somewhat disturbing but thoughtful creation. “I guess she has. I think I like that. It feels nice to maybe one day have a family who isn’t…” He sighed. “I’m too drunk for this conversation.”
“You don’t like talking about it sober, either.”
“I’ll get there eventually. Probably.”
Orym didn’t press. He slid off the bed and went to the window, pushing it open to let in a breeze that cleared his head a little bit.
“Careful,” said Dorian. “Night gets cold here. You’ll catch your death.”
Orym didn’t remind Dorian he had been to Orym’s home, where there were cliffs . He leaned out the window a bit, hands braced on the frame to compensate for his altered balance, and breathed in the fresh air.
“Are you good?” Dorian asked him.
“Yeah. Glad Imogen made me take that healing potion.”
Dorian’s eyeroll was so powerful Orym could almost feel it, even though he was looking away. “Yeeeeeah, one day we’re gonna have to talk about some stuff. Maybe not while we’re drunk, though.”
Orym could have easily understood what Dorian was getting at, but made the executive decision to ignore it.
Dorian made a weird, soft laugh. “You and Laudna probably shouldn’t have been drinking after getting hit with that poison, actually.”
“Well, she’s dead and I’m–was–a guard, so we’re both pretty good with liver shit, I guess.” He had puked a bit earlier, but it had helped. Come to think of it, maybe the poison was why he had gotten drunk almost as quickly as Dorian. He normally had a pretty good alcohol tolerance, given he was half the size of everyone else who was capable of metabolising alcohol in this group.
He leaned back from the window and sluggishly tried to take account of how his body was feeling. Slightly nauseous, a little woozy. The alcohol was a huge part of that, and it was definitely more pleasant than the poison had been. But maybe the fresh air was a good idea. He leaned against the window frame and took a deep breath. The temperature had dropped quite a bit since they had walked into the Spire by Fire earlier that evening.
A rustle of sheets. “Orym?” Dorian’s voice had sharpened. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just taking inventory. I… think it’s okay. The poison kinda felt a bit like being drunk, but I think… yeah, I’m just drunk. I think.”
A chuckle. “Maybe we should call it a night. And I should look into what spells can take care of poison. Letters might know.”
Orym took the suggestion and climbed into bed. There was only one, but that was okay. The three of them were used to cuddling up on the side of the road anyway. They hadn’t spoken of it directly, but Orym suspected all three of them preferred this.
Dorian rested a cool hand against Orym’s forehead. “You’re a bit warm, but it could be the drink.” He chuckled. “Let’s sleep this off.”
Orym had to resist the temptation to follow Dorian’s hand as it went away. An inconvenient feeling he was too drunk to examine.
At least the bed was small enough that cuddling was justified, especially once Fearne joined them and helped Dorian make an Orym sandwich. It was nice to be held.
Orym had missed it.
Orym had done his best to hold it together as the group left Zhudanna’s the following day. But he was more out of sorts than he had expected. Fearne and Dorian walked with him as they headed to the theatre. The fresh air helped a bit. It always did.
It had been over five years. Why did talking about it still make him feel like he had fallen off a cliff?
A cool hand found his shoulder. Dorian’s hand squeezed the muscle and shifted to the back of his neck for a second. Squeezed there, right at the base of the skull, and returned to his shoulder. Dorian still wore the flower, having seemingly forgotten about it to the point where it had become a part of him.
Orym gazed at him and breathed. For just a second, he let his brain slow down. Let that protective instinct slip for as long as he could stand.
Until he steadied, just a little bit. Just enough.
It really was inconvenient that Orym’s mind, not inclined towards magic aside from a few party tricks every Ashari could do, held sentiment far more steadily than it held anything of practical use.
What good was it for him to reminisce about quiet moments with Dorian while they sat together in a darkened theatre where people had gone missing? When mere minutes ago, Orym had silently feared for his life.
He could not go through this again.
There were no windows that he could see. Nowhere distant and open to set his eyes and calm himself. He made do with the silent ripple of the stage curtains. It was nowhere as calming as the open air, or closest friends. But if he stared at either of them now, especially Dorian, they would know. They would know he was spiralling.
Now was not the time. They had a job to do, and Dorian was already rattled. Orym had to be calm. For him.
Dorian’s hands gripped the armrests. With a breath, Orym steadied his own. And gently touched fingers to Dorian’s knuckles.
Dorian looked down at him, a question in his eyes.
“You okay?” Orym mouthed.
Dorian smiled tightly, and nodded. But he also flipped his hand over and wrapped it around Orym’s much smaller one. Orym squeezed, hoping it made him feel better. Dorian squeezed back.
Maybe they would both be okay.