The whirlwind of activity that had followed Dugger’s defeat had kept Orym’s attention on the happenings around him, leaving physical needs on the backburner. But, late that night, as he dragged himself to bed after Ashton’s drinking game, Orym realised he was not well.
He could have dismissed the nausea and general wooziness as symptoms of his drunkenness (because he was very drunk), but something just felt off. His alcohol tolerance was better than some people twice his size (Dorian, for example), and he had reached this point of tripping up the stairs quicker than he probably should have.
Maybe getting drunk so soon after being poisoned had been a bad idea. He’d felt fine, and Laudna had also seemed fine, but maybe his liver was working overtime and the alcohol had been one step too far.
Mercifully, he was slightly ahead of Dorian and Fearne, so he was alone in the room when he vomited into the chamberpot. Less mercifully, his hands were clumsy on the straps of his armour, so any plans to lie down and pretend he was asleep before they arrived flew out the window.
He staggered into the wall, strangely off-balance, and leaned there as he tried to loosen the straps. It was at that point Fearn and Dorian joined him. Fearne looked reasonably fine, but she’d had a rough day, too. Dorian just seemed happily drunk.
“Hey, Orym,” said Fearne in her sweet tone, “what are you doing over there?”
Orym had been poisoned before; he knew this would pass, so he laughed it off. “Oh, this? The wall?” He petted it like a dog. “An accident. Didn’t realise I’d drunk that much.”
Dorian and Fearne glanced at each other, a silent communication Orym was concerned meant they were not nearly as fooled as he had hoped. Then, they approached. Fearne, being slightly less drunk, scooped Orym from the floor. His stomach churned, rendering him incapable of protesting without puking again.
“Let’s get you out of this armour,” Dorian said. He was always soft in private (and usually in public as well), but the drink seemed to blur out his gentle edges even further. He slowly started on the straps that Orym couldn’t manage as Fearne carried him to bed.
She laid him on the mattress and he breathed through the nausea. The pair sat on either side of him and made quick work of the armour, trying not to jostle him too much as they slid it off and set it aside. He slept shirtless anyway. One less thing to worry about.
“You look kinda messed up,” said Fearne. “Are you sure it’s just the drink? You and Laudna were poisoned earlier, weren’t you?”
Orym didn’t have it in him to contest her assessment of events.
“The poison.” Dorian cursed quietly. “Orym, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have let you drink.”
A fury he suspected was irrational brewed in his belly. He was small, but he was an adult. No one ‘let’ him do anything. Not since… no. He couldn’t think about that, especially not while drunk. Or… whatever was happening to him.
He must have done a poor job hiding the rage, because Dorian chuckled softly, which made him even angrier. “Friends don’t let friends get fucked up, Orym. That’s all I meant. You keep us in check. We should be doing the same for you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Orym muttered, in a petty, peevish tone under his breath he rarely used. He wasn’t a petty person. Or typically given to taking offense.
“I think we should all sleep this off,” said Fearne, curling up at his side. “Don’t feel bad climbing over us if you need to vomit again.”
Dorian sighed. “I wasn’t gonna mention it.”
Great. So much for handling this on his own. He’d managed far worse without falling apart in front of people. He hadn’t fallen apart in front of anyone in a long time.
“Hey.” Dorian placed a cool hand on his forehead. “It’s fine. I think we’re way past the ‘embarrassed about vomiting’ phase of our friendship. Because, you know, Spider Queen bullshit.”
Right. Not that the visual of Dorian vomiting black ichor was helpful in keeping the remnants of his dinner where it belonged. He grimaced against the feeling.
“Sorry. Shouldn’t have reminded you of that.” Dorian’s hand slid upwards, pushing through Orym’s hairline and smoothing the hair away from his face. Not that it was long enough to get in the way. Maybe in a few months if he didn’t cut it.
Fearne was snoring. Good for her. Orym’s body felt heavy enough to sleep, aside from the fact the room was swimming a bit and he was trying not to be sick. Ugh.
“I don’t have a spell to help you,” said Dorian. “I’m sorry. I’ll learn one, though, in case this happens again. You’re always throwing yourself into the thick of it, so it probably will. I’ll get you some water.”
Whoever had attended to their rooms earlier had left a water jug and three cups, so Dorian didn’t have to go far. It took longer for Orym to work himself into a sitting position, even when Dorian returned to help him. His hands didn’t quite grip as tightly as they usually did when Dorian handed him the cup, but he managed to get the water into his mouth with limited spillage.
And then the water came back up and he had to shove past Dorian. He didn’t quite make it to the chamber pot before he fell to his hands and knees and lost it onto the floorboards. At least it was just water; maybe he had actually emptied his stomach earlier without realising.
He felt dizzy. It was hard to see. Or think .
Where was he, again? Home? There was a light breeze; it didn’t feel like Zephrah normally did, but maybe he was just confused.
Cool hands pressed his torso, moving him to a seated position. “You’re okay.” The voice was a little distant. Familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
What had he been doing again? He tended to push himself too hard in training, and in recreation. Work hard, play hard.
The hands lifted him from the floor, gently cradling him, carrying him somewhere. His lips formed a name, and it was only after he had spoken it did he realise he hadn’t spoken it in years.
He was in the Spire by Fire with Dorian and Fearne. And Dorian was gently carrying him back to bed.
And he had just said that name. To Dorian. Fuck.
Dorian, for his part, made no comment. He settled Orym back in bed and helped him drink a fresh cup of water. It settled in his stomach better, but also sank like a stone with his heart.
Orym had to blink and fight down the urge to cry. Dorian put a hand on his shoulder, but Orym couldn’t handle that. Not now. He shrugged him off.
“I think Fearne has the right idea,” Dorian said quietly. “We should sleep this off. Still feeling queasy?”
“Better, I think.” Orym’s voice came out a little strangled, but Dorian didn’t comment on that, either. A kindness that maybe Orym didn’t deserve, as prickly as he had been in the last few minutes.
“Good. If you still feel like shit tomorrow, and not like a hangover, I’ll talk to Letters and see if they can help.”
“I can talk to them myself, but thank you.”
“I know you can, but letting your friends help isn’t so bad, you know.”
A swoop of guilt in his guts. “Sorry.”
“Hey, no harm, no foul. And if it makes you feel better, we can pretend none of this happened.” Dorian’s voice was conspicuously light, but Orym could hear the double meaning. Yes, pretend Orym hadn’t been sick and vulnerable tonight, but also that he hadn’t, while disoriented, said the name of someone long dead.
Orym wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. But, gods, he was sad. He usually was, but it hit him harder than usual tonight.
“Hey.” Dorian nudged him. “Sleep?”
Orym sighed. “Yeah.”
They lay down, Orym in the middle like usual. The nausea had mostly subsided by now, leaving him with that heavy weight in his guts instead. The window was open, and there was a breeze. He shivered.
“Hang on,” said Dorian. “I’ll close it.”
Orym snagged his wrist before he could get too far. “It’s fine. It’s not… I like the fresh air.”
“I know. Are you cold?”
“A bit.”
Dorian slid back into bed. “All right. Let me warm you up.”
Cuddling wasn’t so unusual for them. They had slept by enough roadsides to know the value of huddling together for body heat. Orym felt a little more fragile than usual, though, and quickly hid his face in Dorian’s shirt. Fearne, half-asleep, snuggled closer to them both. That made it easier to bear. Enough that he could make a joke at Dorian’s expense.
“Goodnight, Prince Dorian.”
“Shut up,” Dorian said sweetly, rubbing his back.
Come morning, barring a minor headache and mild queasiness, Orym felt good as new. The poison had finally left his body, and the blurry edges of last night’s memories made it easy to put them mostly out of mind. This was just a mild hangover, perfectly reasonable for how much he drank last night.
He felt a little bad for how terse he had been with Dorian, though.
Speaking of, Dorian leaned by the open window, quietly tuning his lute. He was fully dressed for the day.
Orym reached for the nightstand, finding his cup from last night and draining the last drops of water. Then, he cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Dorian paused, looking up at him. “Hey yourself. Feeling better?”
“Much.”
“Hungover?”
“Nothing breakfast won’t fix.” Orym poured himself the last of the water from the jug and pounded it back. Then he slipped out of bed and started on his morning stretches. Nothing too strenuous.
There was worry in Dorian’s smile, but he didn’t speak of it. Orym shut the lid on the feelings that rose in him. If last night had taught him nothing else, it had confirmed that he still wasn’t ready.
Stay friends. Admire from a distance. Cuddle at night, with Fearne as an emotional buffer. He could do those things. It felt good to have that much, even if it ached sometimes.
Dorian was still watching him, the smile growing more strained by the second. Frequently content to let silences lie, Orym sensed this was not the time for that.
“You did good, Dorian. Thank you.”
His smile relaxed into something far more genuine. “You’re welcome. Glad I could help.” He shouldered his lute. “Breakfast?”
Orym found his shirt. Strapped on his armour with hands as steady as they normally were. Sword in place on his back. He faltered on the shield, staring down at the design for a moment before he let out a soft breath and strapped it to his back. Dorian made no comment. He never had.
These were the kindnesses Orym thought about in quiet moments. The blue flower he bloomed for Dorian’s hair later was not a repayment, because Dorian did not operate in debts, but it felt good.
And if his heart stuttered at the sight of Dorian with a little blue flower tucked into his hair, well… no one else needed to know.