Even as he tried to doze, Orym listened for the knock.
His exhaustion had joined forces with the two pints he’d downed outside, but as soon as he was alone in his darkened room, his nerves found their second wind. There wasn’t enough space to do sword flows and loosen himself up, so he attempted to will away the tension he still carried in his arms and his hips. It couldn’t be set aside like his boots and breastplate.
Back home, the night brought new sounds and new solitude. Of course the wilderness around Zephrah was dangerous, but it was also home, and he knew well the dangers that waited there.
In this strange city, he was utterly unprepared for what awaited him--all of them--in the dark.
Wind whistled outside his room’s tiny window. It sounded almost like whispers.
By his reckoning, it was a couple hours shy of dawn when the knock came. He snapped fully awake and fully tense, flung back the cover, and opened the door. “I’m all right,” he said before Dorian could greet him.
“I’m not,” Dorian replied with that firmness that showed itself at the most surprising times. His eyes were tired and a little unfocused.
“Well, you sure put on a good show down there,” Orym said, mustering a smile.
“Yes, that’s what I do.” And Dorian leaned to the side, lifting one arm out of Orym’s view, and rapped smartly on the next door.
The swiftness with which Fearne answered made it clear that she hadn’t gotten any sleep either. She peered around the doorframe at Orym, as guileless as ever.
“Come on in,” Orym told them.
When he shut the door behind them, Mister climbed down from Fearne’s shoulder. He stole the lumpy pillow Orym had used, and flung it to the floor at the foot of the bed. There he spread out, asleep at once with his mouth lolling open. With the orange glow and the radiating warmth, it was almost like having a hearth in the room.
Orym said, “At least someone will get some sleep.”
Fearne and Dorian both smiled, instantly at ease. It was a strange power to wield, as small in its way as druidcraft, and he still wasn’t sure he liked having influence over their peace of mind.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Fearne said, perching on the edge of the bed. “We really should share a room, even if Sir Bertrand keeps paying.”
Dorian’s nod was quick and eager. “Depending on how long this contract lasts, we could go in on a townhouse.”
Orym didn’t have much use for gold. He recognized, when he took Lord Eshteross’s payment that night, that it should have felt dear to him, but it didn’t.
The most useful thing gold had ever gotten him was Gilmore’s enchantments on his shield. The worthier metals were the kind that could tarnish, could be tempered in fire, and could withstand the effort of polishing them up again.
He had discovered, these last few months, that people were much the same.
He wouldn’t mind if they used his share of their pay to cover the rent on someplace with rooms for each of them--but somehow he didn’t think that was what they wanted in this moment. “Can’t be worse than sharing the Glitter Shitter,” he offered.
“Thank you, Orym,” Dorian said primly.
It was only the lingering nerves that made him contrary. Orym kept his tone gentle. “You know what I meant.”
“I do.” Dorian’s eyes went wistful. He missed them too.
As a rule, Orym was as aware of himself as he was of his surroundings. He had to take stock of body and mind, of feelings or distractions that might hinder him in a fight.
So he knew what had been happening all this time. He had watched it unfold slowly, like walking the same path just below the treeline and finding a new green shoot every morning. A hand on a shoulder here, a quiet word there, a glance exchanged above his head. A spreading warmth in his chest every time, deeper than fondness.
He recognized it because he’d lived it before; he had resolved that he would never live it again. On some level he thought reaching for this new thing would require him to let go of what he had before. That such a thing could be lost.
Now here he was, and he felt… comfortable. Like putting on a new pair of boots and finding them worn in and ready for him.
He climbed back into bed. Fearne made room at first, then crowded him into the middle and lay down facing him. Those big, trusting eyes filled his view. “We were very worried about you today,” she said.
Orym loosed a sigh. The warehouse debacle was unsettling enough; as for the business at the Weary Way, he would need at least one night of quality sleep before he was ready to reflect on that. Bruises would fade, wounds would heal, but the guilt of not being there in time to save that poor woman would stay with him forever.
Slowly he reached out his hand, and Fearne turned her face to meet it. His palm nestled against the short, sleek fur on her cheek. It was so soft--was this what velvet felt like?--and it reminded him of his own adolescent peach fuzz, before he gave up trying for a beard and started shaving regularly.
“I don’t think it’s going to be the last time,” he said. Not with this new crew of theirs, or the sort of work they were lining up. “Thanks for coming in after me.”
The straw mattress dipped behind him. Only a little, given how light Dorian was. He pulled the single thin blanket over all three of them. “Is this all right?” Dorian said, so quiet that Orym felt as much as heard it in the place where Dorian’s chest came to rest against his back.
It was better than he could put into words. The opposite of being alone in the dark. “Yes,” Orym said. “I can’t see the door, though.”
“Ah.” Dorian shifted, and now--better still--his hips nested against Orym’s. He’d shuffled himself up enough to get line of sight over Orym’s head, and hopefully Fearne’s as well. “I can.”
Orym craned his neck to regard him. Once, before they were sure of each other, trust was like coin passed between them. Now it was the rope that tethered them, or an open hand, always waiting.
He nodded once, and Dorian bent to kiss the top of Orym’s head.
And then, because even Orym was occasionally seized by the fatal urge to do things just to see what would happen, he rolled his hips back.
Dorian’s huff of laughter stirred Orym’s hair. “I’m a little tired,” he said, and he skimmed one hand around to rest over Orym’s heart. Fearne set her arm across Dorian’s, comfortably heavy.
“Me too,” Orym admitted through his smile, “but I think we can afford to get a late start tomorrow.”
The endearing eagerness leaked into Dorian’s voice now, under his exhaustion. “Sir Bertrand can sign the contract without us there. I don’t much care what name he uses.”
Fearne said, “Will we have time for you to go under my skirts?”
“Sure,” said Orym, not sure at all. Delight in her eyes, Fearne kissed the tip of his nose. Her lips were dry and warm. What was faun anatomy like? How much time would he have to spend figuring out--
No. No overthinking, not here while they held him.
There was no watch to keep tonight. No road, for the moment, stretching endlessly before him. No knives in the dark. Only a promise for tomorrow.
His muscles eased, and he let himself sink down between them.
“We’ll have to be careful,” he murmured. He felt their attention, though his eyes were closed. Listening for his direction. “Dorian might get noise complaints.”
The last thing he felt, before warm sleep, was their silent laughter.