Work Text:
Zephrah is beautiful in pretty much every aspect of the word. Each time that Dorian comes to visit, even if it’s just to pick Orym up for their next adventure, he understands anew why Orym is so attached to this place and its people. The powder pink cherry tree in full bloom, the gentle melody of the breeze blowing through the tree tops and along the cliffsides, everyone greeting each other like one big family. Everything just screams community in a way that is so different from what he is used to in the Squall.
Of course, Dorian loves his family and his people; the Silken Squall – albeit it boring after a while – is a stunning sight and in many ways dear to his heart, yet equal parts so silent and empty. Gold and silver gleaming coolly and composed marble smiles, kind but distant. Back home he’s never really known anyone outside his family, the faces always seemed so foreign to him. Not a name ever stuck. And even though he was raised as the people’s beloved second heir, he never felt like anyone truly knew who they were even cheering at; who they were entrusting their leadership to.
It’s different here. Dorian has only stayed a few times and it already seems like all of Zephrah knows who he is. People greet him by name, even point out new pieces of clothing he is wearing that day or praise his latest performance. People ask for his opinion, give him discounts down at the market and inquire about his relationship with Orym, not in an obtrusive way, but simply because they care. Because Orym quickly made sure that Dorian is well loved and accepted as everyone’s darling dashing prince as much as he is at home.
It’s equal parts flattering, embarrassing and – as Dorian slowly starts to realize one morning; sometimes it hurts. Sometimes his chest aches.
It’s not the bad kind of pain. Not the pain he feels every time he pictures his brother’s face staring back at him whenever he can’t fall asleep. It’s not as sharp, not as vicious.
It’s soft, almost gentle.
The kind of hurt that comes with loving. A shallow, constant throb of worry. A hot ball behind his ribs that flares with every heartbeat. It’s a good kind of pain. But pain nonetheless.
In Zephrah, he is known as Dorian Storm, bard and entertainer, a little awkward and a little out of place at times. Dorian Storm, Orym’s new partner.
He knows that many people talk about him in that way. With happy faces, elated and glad to hear Orym is out there finding love once more after so many years of grief and hardship. It’s never meanspirited, it’s objective gossip at worst. People are happy for Orym and of course in turn, that makes Dorian happy.
Yet still, somehow it has his stomach in knots.
Dorian, being who he is, cannot help but worry. He cannot stop himself from spiralling into unwanted moments of guilt. The very same feeling he had forced himself to swallow the night he held Orym for the very first time. It is uncalled for, the little voice in his mind that keeps telling him no; the voice that says you aren’t allowed to force him to do this again.
And the worst of it all; sometimes he imagines that voice to be Will. Or Derrig. He’s never even met them, doesn’t know what they sound like at all but he just – knows. It’s them. Despite it all. Despite the fact that Orym is his own person and hell, he is the one who proposed they spend their lives together.
Orym wants this. Dorian wants this. More than anything else.
So why does he keep aching?
Trying to focus on Imogen’s facial features only gets harder the more he tries. It’s like he’s had one or two ales too many, with all the washed-out details and blurry lines. Her colours are vibrant and sharp, but he can’t bring himself to name a single one. Every tone is a little too unreal, a little too alien to determine properly. Simple proof that he’s not in the real world, the shapes and hues around him merely imaginary and unnameable. Nothing makes sense at all and for some reason, that’s just the safety blanket he needs right now.
“Any particular reason for why your mind is so – loud and desperate tonight?” Imogen asks as she rubs her temple to showcase the growing headache blooming in her skull.
Dorian makes a face. “What?”
“I could feel your anxiety from all the way over here, Dorian,” Imogen declares, her eyes softening a little. “I check on y’all every night and you – well, it was like someone bangin’ at my front door beggin’ for me to let them in.”
Dorian cringes a little, shuffling his feet on the ground. “That’s what it feels like?” he sighs and shoots his friend an apologetic look. “Sorry for the me-sized headache then. Seems like quite the big one.”
“I’m used to it,” Imogen chuckles with a shrug. “And while your mind is – quite messy, it’s also oddly rhythmic. It’s like you try to make a song out of every thought you ever have.”
“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” Imogen retorts, a hint of pity in her otherwise amused smirk.
“Well, I’ll take it as one anyways,” Dorian mutters sheepishly.
Imogen merely huff, rolling her eyes at him with a small smirk. “So, what’s the matter?”
Dorian stares at the way-too-green grass under his bare feet, marvelling at the contrast of the colours for a moment as he tries to find the right words. He’s not sure where to even start with all of this.
“It’s stupid, really,” is not the best preamble, but it’s the first thing that slips out.
Imogen furrows her brow. “I doubt that.”
“Well,” Dorian continues, his face muscles so tense that it’s starting to give him a headache too. “It’s kind of about – gah!”
Dorian recoils, his shoulders tensing to protect his vulnerable nape from the sudden prodding of cold spindly fingers. A delicate hand closes tightly around his shoulder and a familiar eerie giggle emerges next to his ear.
“Am I interrupting something super important?” Laudna sings in her usual rickety cadence. “Are secrets being shared?”
Dorian releases some of the air in his lungs as Imogen smiles fondly at her beloved dead-then-un-dead-now-even-more-un-dead girlfriend, whose entrance itself has his skin prickling for a second or two.
The sensation is quick to melt away into a familiar calm, as Laudna’s black, beady eyes stare at the two of them in near morbid yet charming curiosity from where she is still gripping Dorian’s shoulders.
Imogen and Dorian exchange a quick but telling look that has the warlock’s smile widen even further.
“Oh, I want in, I want in!” she chants eagerly and circles around her friend to face him directly.
The genasi rubs the back of his neck where her fingers tickled him mere seconds ago and smiles awkwardly. “Hello to you too, Laudna.”
“You look horrible,” she smiles brightly and clasps her hand together.
Dorian pouts. “Thank you?”
“Laudna, honey,” Imogen chastises softly and shakes her head. “I think Dorian was about to say something.”
“Oh yes please,” Laudna presses. “I’m all ears.”
Feeling oddly grounded by Laudna’s enthusiasm, Dorian takes a deep breath and gathers his thoughts as best he can, before he immediately gives in and cracks, spiralling down, down, down under the expectant stares of two of his best friends, the words just spilling out of him.
He tells them about the guilt that keeps flaring up in his chest in moments of calm, how the sensation backstabs him when he least expects or needs it. He tells them about his time in Zephrah and how it’s equal parts exciting and stressful; how much he despises feeling like this. He tells them about Will and Derrig and about how much he wishes he could find a reason for why the voices in his head are starting to sound like them.
He tells them about how much he loves Orym and how this uncertainty is slowly tearing at his body, threating to pull him apart entirely.
Imogen and Laudna listen to his every word, nodding and humming sympathetically, but never interrupting.
After a while, Dorian shakes his head, rubbing his own arm in a repetitive motion until his skin runs hot. “And – Orym told me about the Wildmother’s vision,” he finishes with a long, drawn out sigh. “And Will’s words about him moving on, but I just still can’t shake this feeling that I am – I am stealing him away. And I hate that, it’s so unfair. It’s disregarding everything that Orym told me. Every time I think about it I just feel like – like I am ruining everything he built for us. It was so hard for him and here I am – unable to get over myself.”
There’s a beat of silent processing. A thick, suffocating silence that stretches on and on and on. The colours around him shift and pulse with every beat in his chest, his ribcage tight and pressing down on his lungs. Harder and harder, like the pressure of an entire ocean.
For a second Dorian is reminded of that pool of blood in the Matron’s temple, of that feeling of utter panic and the torture that came along with being unable to breathe.
Sensing his rising anxiety, Imogen takes a step forward, approaching him carefully. Her eyes are soft in the soupy haze of the dream surrounding them. “Dorian,” she starts carefully. “Have you ever talked to Orym about this?”
“Yeah,” Laudna hums in agreement. “That seems like a good first step to me.”
Dorian, trying to focus on the remaining swirl of air in his lungs, shrinks into himself. “Not really,” he mutters. “The thing is – I got all I could ever need from Orym. His love, his devotion and care. I have his word, the promise he made to me, of this being what he wants. And I trust him. I trust him when he says he is happy with this, that he is excited to heal with me by his side and that he is moving on with Will’s blessing. It really is just…”
Dorian bites his lip, hoping his two friends somehow get the point he is trying to make. Even though he doesn’t even grasp it himself.
“You want Will and Derrig to tell you it’s okay too?”
It sounds so obvious, voiced like that.
“Stupid, I know,” Dorian sighs under his breath, regret already pooling in his belly.
Laudna shakes her head so furiously that Dorian fears she might break a bone or two. “That’s not stupid at all.”
Dorian shakes his head. “Well, I can’t talk to either of them,” he laments. “They’re dead.” His own words sting on his tongue and for a moment he is shocked at his own lack of discreetness. “And I can’t and won’t be praying to any god now,” he adds bitterly.
Imogen and Laudna exchange another glance, as Dorian stands still in front of them like easy prey ripe for the catch. He’s never felt quite so small.
“Listen,” Imogen offers and places a supportive hand on his shoulder. “You might not be able to talk to them directly but I know something that might help…”
The sun is warm on his skin as it peaks through the trees, painting leaf-shaped shadows on his nose and forehead. It’s so warm in fact that Dorian immediately decides to lose his navy cloak and drape it carefully over the little bench in front of the window. He takes in the morning atmosphere for a second or two, before he makes his way over to the small flower patch next to the garden shack. He plucks a few forget-me-nots, marigolds and a nice mix of red and yellow tulips and tries his very best to arrange a somewhat decent looking bouquet.
Admittedly, he’s not the most talented person in the world when it comes to arts and crafts. When he was a young boy, his tutors gave up rather quickly on trying to force him to work with a canvas and came to the realization that their time and effort was better spent on his musical talents instead. Honestly, he is still surprised that he didn’t totally butcher the paintjob on his trusted mandolin.
Tongue between his teeth, Dorian ties the flowers together with the little green ribbon he received from Leeta the other day, before setting out to the northern side of the village, doing his very best to recall the detailed direction she gave him alongside it.
He walks along the cliffs with the wind, letting it carry him down the winding paths. He takes in the scent of dew and earth as he tries his best to stay composed. He passes some familiar faces, whose names he can’t quite seem to recall. They greet him and he smiles and greets back, feeling that familiar cocktail of fear and warmth stir in his belly. Eyes travel past his own to the bouquet of flowers in his hand and he cannot help but think that – paired with the direction he is headed in – his intent is laid bare for everyone to see.
They probably all know, he thinks and swallows a fresh wave of uncertainty, before pulling himself together and following a small rocky path down to the nearest hillside.
To where the graveyard of Zephrah lies, overlooking the valley below.
With every step he takes, the colours of the many flowers around him grow in intensity. They seem to bloom and grow and open further, beckoning him forward, opening a path to a platform on one of the many mountain top valleys. A gorgeous, lush field dotted with hundreds and hundreds of stacked stones, marking the graves of fallen warriors, beloved family members; names and identities that Dorian has never known and will never know.
Around him, the other hills are connected by stone bridges; an unfathomable number of memorials adorning the mountain tops, flowers growing up and between them.
The morning breeze is a little stronger here, blowing through Dorian’s open hair, warm and inviting. As paradoxical as it may sound, it’s quite grounding for an air genasi such as himself. It feels like home; like he belongs, with the wind and whatever direction it blows him in.
Right now, that direction is toward two carefully arranged stacks of stones standing strong side by side, framed by the golden hues of the morning sun. Leaning on one of the two graves is a sword, timeworn by now, strings of small vines and flowers hugging its dulled blade. Melted into the side of the other is a chest plate, the stone holding it tightly in place.
Dorian breathes in the sweet air and holds it in his lungs, lets it swirl there as he walks toward the two graves and bends down to lay the flowers down between them. A gentle wave of nausea hits him as he does, but he tries his best to let the wind carry it away as quickly as it arose.
Then, fingers twitching with the urge to move, reach, touch or do something, he sits down. He flows into the fresh grass, hair falling over his shoulders as he does. With the sun on his cheeks, he sits in silence, as if waiting for an invitation to speak.
He feels watched then. As if an entire audience is standing there right behind him, peaking over his shoulder, waiting for something to happen. Nel and Alma and the triplets and Orym. It has his throat closing up.
Feeling the burning urge to finally, finally speak, Dorian releases his breath and clears his throat.
“Uhm,” he says, voice already breaking on the first syllable of the non-word. “Hi.”
His hair tickles his ear as the breeze dances through it.
“I’m not quite sure you know how I am,” he continues with the utmost care, weighing every word on his tongue. “You might have heard about me.” He shakes his head. “Or – or not, I’m really not that – I mean, I’m not that important.”
He cringes a little. Suddenly, all of his bardic flair seems to have gone out the window.
“But you – you might have,” he stammers on. “From Orym. You know Orym.”
Of course, they do, idiot.
“Yeah, Orym – he’s,” Dorian hums nervously between every word. “He’s pretty great – he’s really great.”
“He taught me a lot – out there. He taught me how the world works – or maybe, how it should work. Through his eyes, it’s always – beautiful and good.”
“When I first set foot on the earth down here, far away from the – the Silken Squall where I come from, it was so much, so overwhelming and huge and wide and intimidating. Thrilling, of course – but scary too. When I met Orym, somehow, a lot of the – a lot of the bad stuff kind of vanished. I just followed him and then – things were okay. I was okay. I am – I am okay. More than okay, I’m – so happy. He makes me happy. All the time.”
He can’t stop his tears now. They choke him for a second or two, hold him by the throat, but he pushes through. He grabs his arm and squeezes in a small yet desperate attempt to soothe himself.
“Honestly, I wish I could have met you,” he sniffs softly. “Whenever Orym talks about you, he just – he’s glowing. I can see it in his eyes, how much he adored – adores you.”
“I am –,” Dorian mutters and wipes a lonely tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry. Honestly sometimes I feel – I feel like I took him away from you. And I know that’s – maybe that’s stupid and uncalled for and Orym really wouldn’t like me saying this. But I cannot help it sometimes. I cannot help how I feel, you know? It just happens and it doesn’t make sense.”
“All I want is to make him happy for as long as I can,” he sighs, heart heavy in a way that isn’t quite sadness. “And well, I guess you understand that, don’t you?”
As he sits there, shoulders slumped unceremoniously, looking nothing like a prince and crying and trying his hardest to pick words that make sense, the breeze around him picks up once more. It rustles through the leaves above and brushes through his hair, grazes his clothes and skin.
For a second, it feels like a hug. The kind of hug that’s both awkward, yet undoubtedly genuine. It’s a promise of warmth in this peaceful place.
Heart racing in his chest, Dorian swallows his uncertainty and with a small flick of his wrist, casts gust back into the grass around him. There’s a gentle whistle as his magic manifests, like a song from the air itself that causes the tenseness to bleed out of his muscles, his ribcage feeling less tight with every new breath he takes.
Dorian smiles.
“I promise you, that I will always keep him safe and cared for,” he whispers, before he turns directly to the stack that has the name Will engraved in the centre stone. “I think we’re very different, in a way. I think your life with him was very different too. Wonderful and fulfilling and – gods, you – you made him very happy. So, thank you, Will.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“I can only promise to do the same, even though the life we live now is very – it’s not the same. But it’s good. It’s still good. I hope it is.”
“That is all I can do. Love and cherish him the best I can. Even when it’s hard. Which it never is, just to be clear.”
“I might be – I might be a mess sometimes and I still have a lot to learn and a lot to work on myself. But I will do my best…”
Dorian summons another gentle gust of wind. “I just hope it’s enough,” he breathes alongside it. “Forever. To last forever…”
“I love him. And – thank you for loving him too. I know you still do and I know he can feel it every day. He definitely deserves as much of it as he can get.”
The last of his words sink into the earth and stone in front of him as the breeze gently dies down.
He doesn’t have much more left in him, he notices then. What’s left now is – relief. So, he wipes his eyes again until the skin is purple, hoping that his words found purchase somewhere. Oddly, he has a good feeling about it. A lightness, like the wind has carried his mountain of worries and fears right up to the clear blue sky above him.
With a smile, he reaches to his side and pulls out his flute, brings it to his lips and starts to play a melody from home. Music from far above the clouds. A tune he once performed with his older brother, years ago when they were nothing but sheltered boys at the edge of the world; a duet they used to play side by side as their parents watched their progress over tea.
Now, it’s one sided. Unfinished, but still beautiful. Simpler, but still good.
It’s enough.
He doesn’t know that the gentle melody reaches one more pair of perceptive ears.
Orym watches Dorian play his heart away on the stage next to his performance partner for the night, sweat on his forehead, his hair a little messy as it sticks to his cheeks, his face flushed and his pretty smile as bright as the sun was this morning.
It’s one of Orym’s favourite sights; the most memorable moments with the bard. The nights when he lets go, when he’s completely lost in his music, doing the things he loves and dreamt of his entire life. The nights when Orym feels the heat pool in his belly, part from the ale in his system and part because Dorian winks at him from across the room and there is nothing else but the two of them for a few seconds.
In moment like this, Orym is overwhelmed again and again by his unyielding affection, his pure love and utter adoration for the man in front of him.
Moments like now. And moments like yesterday morning.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He didn’t mean to intrude or follow Dorian. It was merely honest excitement and a spark of curiosity that enticed him to follow. Orym meant to surprise him, leap onto his back the moment he got close enough, but when he saw where Dorian was headed, he held back. He listened instead; listened to the last few seconds of the genasi pouring his heart and soul out to his late father and husband and the music that followed.
Orym didn’t even try to hold back the tears that day.
He also immediately decided then and there that he’d tell Dorian about it; that he overheard, even though he didn’t mean to. He knows the guilt would eat him up alive otherwise.
He also decided to suggest something different. Something that’s been on his mind for weeks now.
But for now, he simply waits and enjoys the image of Dorian’s lithe fingers dancing over the strings of his lute until late into the night.
When Dorian finally joins him at their table again, Orym already has a tankard of the finest ale ready to slide over to him. Dorian accepts it contently with a kiss on the cheek for thanks and takes a few sips, melting into the chair.
“Amazing as always,” Orym beams and leans over to grab Dorian’s hand on the table. In the low light of the tavern, his boyfriend’s makeup glitters like a million stars on his eyelids. “You looked stunning up there. You always do, of course but – you look extra stunning today.”
Dorian shoots him a teasing look. “Oh really?” he purrs. “Did you enjoy the music too or was I just that distracting?”
“Music was nice too,” Orym hums with a roguish smirk. “I guess.”
Dorian answers his sly remark with another kiss, this time chasing the halfling’s lips with his own.
It’s so good like this. Every night is so fucking good.
So good in fact that Orym almost forgets the plans he thought of bringing up tonight. But the little sliver of sober sanity in the back of his mind is somehow enough to eventually tear him away from the soft lips of his pretty boyfriend.
“Hey uhm,” he starts slowly, once Dorian has released him for a few seconds to let him breathe. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”
The genasi’s eyes widen for a moment and a small shadow of concern flashes over his cheerful face. It’s just a short change in expression, but it chips away at Orym’s heart regardless.
“It’s just – I saw you the other day,” he blurts out and lowers his eyes to the table between them where their hands still rest, gently clasped together. “Yesterday.”
Dorian’s eyes gleam icy blue as he stares back at Orym like a hunted deer. Wordlessly, he opens his mouth and closes it again, flushing a gentle purple from ear to ear. “Oh.”
Orym grimaces. “I didn’t mean to, I actually wanted to join you, but –” he continues and chews his lip for a moment. “When I realized what it was that you wanted to do, I thought it was best to leave you alone.”
Dorian visibly deflates in his seat with a sigh. “So,” he mutters sheepishly. “You heard it all?”
“No, only some of it, mostly the music,” Orym admits. “I’m sorry, I thought it was best to tell you now.”
“It’s –,” Dorian starts and his lip twitches up into a defeated smile. “It’s alright, I know how perceptive you are and that it can be difficult to just – turn it off, so to speak.”
Orym immediately shakes his head in disagreement. “That doesn’t give me the right to do it, Dor.”
“I guess not,” Dorian acknowledged with a shrug. “But, it’s alright. I forgive you.” He grins on the last words and leans forward to give Orym another chaste kiss on the lips. “There, all good.”
Orym rolls his eyes, heart skipping a beat like it’s the very first time they’ve done this. “I’m sorry,” he repeats softly. “Really. I love you. I love you so much. And I honestly didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
Dorian cocks his head with a comforting smile. “It’s okay, really,” he assures gently, his warm gaze falling onto their intertwined fingers between them. “And I love you too. I just – I was feeling so strange the last couple of weeks. Not bad or unhappy or anything, not that at all, just a little confused maybe? I had this urge to – well, – to talk. To them.” Dorian wiggles a little in his seat, like a worm on a fishing hook.
“I understand that, Dorian,” Orym affirms. “You don’t have to explain yourself at all if you don’t want to. It was just –,” he takes a shaky breath as he recalls the scene of his boyfriend playing that gentle melody for his dead husband and father, the breeze in his hair and the sun shining down on all three of them and smiles. “You’re amazing, is what I am trying to say.”
Dorian huffs, curling a strand of shiny hair around his finger. “I try.”
“And honestly, it made me think,” Orym says, cheeks running hot, which he assumes is from a multitude of factors at the moment. “Would it be alright if we go again? Together this time? I was – honestly kind of planning to anyways,” he confesses and he swears he can hear his blood rushing in his ears. “Only if you want to of course,” he adds quickly.
Dorian blinks a few times as he processes the suggestion. “Oh well,” he breathes and clears his throat, sitting up straight in his chair. “I would – I would love to. If you want to, yes.”
Orym chuckles shyly, “We could – we could have a little picnic or something. Nothing big, just – you know…”
Dorian squeezes his hand again. “That sounds lovely,” he hums. “Let’s do just that.”
Orym’s next answer consists of nothing less than his lips chasing Dorian’s once more with renewed enthusiasm and just the faintest rush of hunger.
The graveyard is just as serene the second time, with the sun behind the branches and the flowers bowing to them as the breeze runs through the grass. Orym holds Dorian’s hand tightly in his own, guiding the two of them forward to the familiar stacks of stone at the end of the trail of footworn grass, a small dirt path left behind by countless other visitors.
They settle there on a blanket, side by side. Orym can sense Dorian’s faint anxiety, the shift of tense muscle under his skin. So, he turns to the two graves and begins to speak first.
“Hi dad,” he says and traces the familiar weathered chest plate with his finger, before turning to the dull blade of the sword. “Hi Will.”
Dorian doesn’t interrupt, he merely bows his head as silent greeting.
“You’ve met Dorian,” Orym continues and leans into the genasi’s side. “You’ve heard me talk about him before and – well, now you finally have the whole picture. You can finally see just how wonderful he is.”
Dorian shifts a little where he sits, blushing silently.
“He’s taken such good care of me,” Orym continues softly, ravelling in the feeling of Dorian’s warm leg against his own. “All this time, he’s protected me and made sure to bring me back home at the end of the road. And I couldn’t be more grateful – more loved.” Dorian doesn’t meet his eyes when he turns his head to look at him, face a vibrant indigo, his fingers picking at his trousers. “And I love him,” Orym smiles. “I love him so much. I don’t think I could express just how much. And I love you too, the two of you. And I miss you, of course.”
Orym turns his head to the sun. “With Dorian – when he’s here, it’s always warm and bright. He has this optimism about him that just makes it impossible to despair, and his light has always guided me, even in the darkest hours, even when we were apart.” Orym gently brushes his finger over the sending stone on his belt, right next to the familiar sash. “He’s – well he’s perfect and I know you would have loved him, the both of you. I wish you could have met.”
Dorian, clearly at a loss for words, carefully flicks his fingers and casts gust again, closing his eyes wordlessly as he lets the breeze dance through their hair and the flowers around them.
Orym regards him with a smile, his chest warm and light. He grabs the genasi’s hand once more, gives it an encouraging squeeze and hums, “Maybe we should ask him to play for us again?”
Dorian, still hiding his face a little, pulls out his flute immediately and without question, a small flicker of relief in his eyes as his posture melts into something slightly more relaxed. Orym, happy with the comfort he can provide, lets him act and prepare at his own pace.
When the bard starts playing that familiar melody he has overheard the first time, Orym lets himself melt against his arm, closing his eyes, smelling him, the oil in his hair and the breeze on his skin. The scent of home. He lets the music carry him away with the wind, somewhere far above, guided by the faint heartbeat he can pick up next to him. Loved and safe.
Surrounded by his family.
Like this, forever.
It’s late in the evening when Orym and Dorian are tangled in each other under the sheets, breathing in each other’s air, lulled into a soft, comfortable languor. When Orym traces the outline of Dorian’s heart on his chest and wonders once more – just for second – how he even got here, how he even remotely deserves this second chance.
Dorian shifts next to him when his finger halts in its steady motion.
“Orym,” he mutters, slightly sleep-drunk. “Are you – are you crying?”
Oh, he is.
“Oh gods, Orym are you okay?” Dorian shoots up in alarm, hands on Orym’s face immediately as if to search for an open wound or any sort of indication of pain. “I didn’t notice. I wasn’t even – I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to –”
Orym can only laugh, tears slipping over his cheeks. “I’m alright,” he sniffs lightly. “Dorian?”
“Mhm?”
“Do you even understand how much I love you?”
Dorian, a cocktail of worry and confusion swirling in the depths of his eyes, cocks his head. When Orym only reaches out to run a hand through his hair and down his cheek, his gaze softens.
“You know, I just might,” he answers and leans into the open palm of Orym’s hand. “Because I think I might just feel the same about you.”
Orym reaches up to cup the back of Dorian’s head and pulls him down for a kiss, heart swelling at the feeling of the genasi letting himself be guided so willingly.
“Good.”