Archive of Our Own ^beta

FOREWORD: 

“and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying hold me tight, it's getting cold. we have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.” - Richard Siken

I. Laughter

Dylas is laughing and Doug is breathless. He’s not sure what’s come over Dylas— hell, he’s not sure what’s come over himself either. It’s gotta be something in the air. Maybe it’s something in his lungs. 

All Doug knows is that he’s sitting in an empty grass patch of Yokmir Forest. Dylas sits next to him, and both of them lean back on their hands. The man is tall enough that his figure blocks the sunlight from bothering Doug’s eyes, which is great, though Doug will never willingly admit that there’s a benefit in being tall (especially when it comes to Dylas’ freakish height, like come on , that’s so not fair, the Native Dragons or whatever could have at least shared some of that instead of stacking it all on one person).

Between the two of them the monsters had been cleared out easily. The grass is damp against his hands, the air feels crisp around him, and Dylas is beside him, still laughing. 

He’s been laughing all day, or at least in the time they’ve spent together, even if the difficult bastard had acted like this trip that Blossom and Porcoline had sent them on to get supplies and ingredients was something he barely cared about. 

Doug had acted the same way, of course.

Err. Doug had felt the same way, of course. Obviously this trip was nothing. Just another day he had to put up with Dylas, another day he had to spend in the guy’s damn company. 

Today, Dylas was acting… weird, though. Different. Doug would almost say softer, but that doesn’t feel like a word he’d use; it’s the kind of word that would be in the books that Forte pretends not to read, and that’s not the kind of life Doug lives at all. 

Obviously.

So what? Dylas is being weirdly friendly today (even by normal people’s standards), doing weird shit like smiling when Doug makes a joke, sometimes, or grinning when Doug brings up a challenge, or how something about him seems so much more… relaxed? Can Dylas feel relaxed? 

Maybe it’s the fact that for once in his goddamn life Dylas had actually walked at a normal pace, to the point that Doug didn’t have to even try to keep up when they made their way out of town earlier. It was almost like Dylas had been matching Doug’s stride except of course he hadn’t done that because why would he? That would be weird. 

Dylas is acting weird, and Dylas is laughing.

“You’re kidding,” He says, slightly breathy because he’s still chuckling, and Doug feels oddly light-headed. 

Doug… doesn’t actually remember what story he had been telling, so he opts for a Totally-Casual-And-Not-At-All-Awkward grin and a, “Haha, nope… it’s true.”

Dylas laughs again, though he tries and fails to stifle the noise into his fist. Doug stares just a moment too long at the squarish lines of Dylas’ stupidly big hand, at the slight scars and veins and calluses he can see from here. Then his eyes trail up and he stares at Dylas’ face, his dumb, friendly, laughing face, at the crease in his eyes and the slight pink in his cheeks, and there must be something wrong with Doug because his heart lets out an aggressive, nervous thump, and he’s dizzy again.

Dylas’ eyes slide over to meet Doug’s. 

In that split second Doug realizes two things: 1. if he's caught being watched Dylas is going to get upset, no matter how weirdly good of a mood he was in before that and 2. every part of Doug right now is screaming at him not to let this moment break, and instead of trying to figure out whatever that means Doug interrupts Dylas and says, again Very-Smoothly-and-Super-Cool:

“Oh— uh— you’ll never be able to guess what a tourist ordered right before closing yesterday.”

“What?” Dylas asks, looking slightly skeptical but with a smile just barely on his lips. 

At least Doug knows how to do this: dramatize a story. He just puts away everything for a minute, the dizzy air, the weirdly soft Dylas, the indigestion problems Doug’s stomach apparently has right now, and instead focuses on the story. After looking over his shoulder like someone might overhear them, he leans in close and stares intensely at Dylas until he (while slightly blushing? Nah, Doug probably sees that wrong) leans in too. 

Then, in a very serious voice, Doug says:

“A single pickle.”

“What?”

“A. Single. Pickle. I had to take it out of the jar and figure out how much just one would cost. And it was all drippy and gross with juice! This lady was the only customer around for the last hour of the shop and in the last two minutes she orders a single pickle.”

Dylas laughs, again, loud and boisterous with his chest-puffing. He can barely cover his mouth with the back of his hand ‘cause of how hard his shoulders are shaking. The sound echoes throughout the grass clearing and Doug grins, feeling something like adrenaline is coursing through his veins. 

“I just wanted to go take a bath and nap but I had to do math, man!”

Dylas bursts out laughing a second time (third? Fourth? Doug’s lost count today, something he never even considered would happen with Dylas) and Doug’s stomach does a flip.

“God you’re such an idiot,” Dylas says, but for once the words don’t grate on Doug’s nerves.

They actually just make him laugh as he shoves at Dylas’ shoulders. “Hey!”

They’re both chuckling now, or at least grinning.  

Have Dylas’ shoulders always looked this relaxed? Has his posture always been this slack, the amusement in his eyes this easy? And why does his laughter sound so familiar, if Doug can’t think of any other time he’s heard it? Maybe Doug’s hallucinating. Maybe he hasn’t noticed the laugh before. 

He wishes he could not notice it now, but he has to. Doug is staring, and Dylas is laughing, and as a breeze ruffles their clothing things feel… good and nerve-wracking all at once. 

Doug doesn’t know why and he doesn’t even want to, anyway, thank you very much. 

Later when he’s lying awake in bed for days to come and thinking about this moment— this whole damn trip— he’ll chalk it up to digestive issues, or a sugar high from Granny’s pastries, or the summer heat (even though it’s spring), but for now he’ll just keep on staring, definitely not relishing in the moment. 

II. Battle

Doug maybe sometimes bites off more than he can chew. This is probably one of those times. 

The fact that he’s even admitting this to himself is probably telling of how the battle’s going so far, or at least how it has been for the last few minutes (because Doug did have the upper hand at first, but then when he had them in a corner the Sechs had to get creative and summon a damn dragon because fuck-all if Doug is ever allowed to have things Go His Way for longer than two seconds, but anyway)— yeah. Things aren’t going great.

Not like that’ll stop Doug, of course. 

He keeps on swinging his short-sword like a man on fire, letting the metal sing in the air as he swings it down in a practiced strike; his movements are sloppy, though, and one of his hands is occupied trying to staunch the bleeding at his side from where the Green Dragon had gotten in a slice at Doug’s torso. 

At least the cold weather’s doing something to keep his blood thicker, even if it’s still splattering red against the rocky ground whenever Doug moves to do a particularly long swing. Still, there’s a moment where Doug’s limbs are too stiff from the cold and his foot catches, sent stumbling over a rock. 

He hears thumping and then the dragon’s looming over him. Doug instinctually rams his eyes shut and throws his sword up, a last-ditch attempt at a block, and all he can think is shit, shit shit this is bad this is—

Before he opens his eyes he hears a loud grunt and a clash of metal, and suddenly Doug realizes that maybe that thumping had been the sound of footsteps.

He looks up and sees an all too familiar figure looming over him, but like actually looming, like more than he regularly does. 

Doug only realizes that he’s been staring instead of moving when Dylas throws one heavy swing of his fist at the Green Dragon, sending it flying back and disappearing to the forest of beginnings. The soldiers have summoned another dragon in the meantime but even as it turns to face them Dylas still takes the time to shoot a look over his shoulder. Doug can’t tell if he looks pissed or worried.

“You alright!?” 

It takes Doug a second to remember himself. “Tch. Yeah, of course.”

“Idiot.” Dylas lets out on a breath. 

They both look back over, and the soldier’s summoned four more monsters. Slightly weaker than before, since the soldier’s probably getting tired, but damn can’t the guy let them catch a break? Doug digs the blade of his sword into the ground and uses it to prop himself up. Dylas’ ears twitch back in Doug’s direction a second before he looks over again.

“Can you fight?”

“Yeah, of course I can fi—” Doug cuts himself off with an involuntary groan as he puts too much weight on his right leg. The sudden shock of pain makes him fall back over. Shit, yeah. One glance at his leg shows what a bloody mess it currently is. “Damn, I didn’t realize they got me there, too.”

“Idiot!” Dylas repeats, and Doug still can’t tell if he’s pissed or worried. It sounds like both. 

“I can still—”

“Just stay put!” The monsters round on them, so Dylas settles into a fighting stance. “You think I can’t handle this?”

Before Doug can say anything back the small monster herd is lunging. Dylas uses his long legs to meet them halfway, immediately throwing himself at them with his kote. Doug tries to stand up one more time before the striking pain reminds him that that’s not gonna work. 

Damn. He hates being useless like this. 

Dylas is undeterred though, throwing a heavy punch at one of the monsters before sweeping his leg out to kick it on the opposite side, into one of the others. Actually, Dylas looks more than undeterred. He looks in his element. 

He’s not a graceful fighter at all— sure his tail whips around in long, blue strands that mirror his movements, when he squares himself back his shoulder blades look sharp as they jut out against his coat, and his limbs sail through the air as he sends kick after kick after punch, his movements seemingly fluid, but in reality he’s all relentless aggression and speed, punctuated by the shouts he lets out. He still looks in control, though, like he’s channeling that rage.

Doug just watches, slightly impressed. 

(Not that he would ever admit that out loud).

Doug finds himself holding his breath when the monsters crowd Dylas, all launching themselves at him at once. Dylas just pulls his arms tight to his body. A second later he throws them out and a burst of lightning magic follows, loud and angry and radiating purple. The monsters scatter.

This shouldn’t shock Doug; he knows Dylas is an angry guy. Hell, he probably knows that better than anyone , considering how many times he’s been the target of that anger.

Doug just hasn’t… seen it quite like this. 

Not in action, not against an enemy Doug hates so much, not in a way that, honestly, feels like it mirrors Doug’s own anger— loud, raw around the edges, and directed at the world. Doug’s always been told he has to work on that, that it’ll get him into trouble (and it has, plenty), and he’s tried but it’s hard when it’s been this palpable stone in his throat, burning. 

Watching Dylas echo that feeling makes Doug feel validated, almost. Like maybe they’re not as different as they always insist on.

This… is maybe not the line of thought Doug wants to go down, right now. Or ever. Yep. Never sounds good.

So Doug just watches as Dylas continues to beat the absolute shit out of the last of the monsters. He thinks Dylas is done when the last one’s sent to the Forest, but instead of turning back around or anything, Dylas just makes a beeline to the Sechs soldier. 

The soldier (who for his part looks like he’s about to shit his pants, or armored suit, whatever) frantically looks around him only to see that the buddies he had called for as back-up earlier to gang up on Doug had all left. 

“C-com’ere. I’m not scared of you!” the lone Sechs soldier yells, sounding very much scared of Dylas.

Dylas on his part just grins, looking almost wicked. His voice goes deep as he says, “Oh yeah? Show me.”

Dylas lunges again, fist-cocked, and Doug swears he can hear the Sechs soldier yelp as his sword catches against Dylas’ metal-gloved fist, before getting his legs swept out from under him.

Again, Doug can only watch as Dylas pummels the soldier, the recently-sworn mortal enemy from the Sechs Empire Doug had been fighting with such desperate force earlier. Seeing Dylas show the same amount of rage, the same amount of vigor that Doug had felt, makes it impossible to look away even if he wanted to. Doug’s jaw is tense and his breath is quick and he doesn’t know why, he just knows that there’s something so satisfying when the soldier goes down, and Dylas stands, wiping the sweat from his forehead roughly against his arm. 

It makes him feel… something. Something he can’t recognize, something awkward, and slightly broken, and way too nervous. Doug just wants to brush that weird feeling off like he always does, except it just keeps on getting harder to ignore. 

He thankfully can’t waste too much time on that, though, because a second later Dylas is turning harshly on his heel and hurrying back over to Doug, and for one terrifying moment (again, not that Doug would ever admit to feeling intimidated by this asshole) Doug worries he’s next in line to get his ass kicked too. 

Instead, Dylas just drops down to one knee. Doug almost falls back on his hands as Dylas sticks his face way closer to Doug’s than he expects.

“You alright?” Dylas asks, gruff.

“Uh.”

“Where did you— oh, shit. Let me—” Dylas spots the gash on Doug’s torso and clearly doesn’t care about the freezing weather of Maya road as he starts taking off his coat, and then pulling out a cloth from one of the inner pockets. “Actually— shit, I’ve never been good at these…” he’s more mumbling to himself now as he sets the stuff on the ground to free his hands, and casts a weak heal spell. He casts another on Doug’s leg, and then gets to work pressing the cloth into the worst one (the scratch marks along Doug’s chest), keeping it in place with his coat.

Doug, for his part, just stares.

Being on the receiving end of Dylas’ open concern and care is, honestly? Weird as all hell. 

Doug doesn’t know how to handle it. He’s not sure if he’s physically capable to handle it, like maybe he was just born without the part of him that’s supposed to help him deal with this moment.

Obviously he’s been silent for too long and not paying attention because the next thing he knows Dylas is standing, holding his hand out, and shooting him an impatient glare.

“I said come on already.” Dylas avoids eye-contact as he taps his foot, and Doug swears for a moment he sees the man blushing. Probably just the cold, right?

“Yeah, whatever,” Doug grumbles in response, taking Dylas’ firm, surprisingly warm grip to stand. He obviously hasn’t learned from last time, though, because even with that healing spell Doug’s leg crumples the second he puts too much weight on it. 

“Woah—” 

Dylas hasn’t let go of his hand, though, so Doug accidentally brings them both stumbling down on each other. 

He hits the rocky ground of Maya Road with an oomph. 

“God, Dylas, you’re so heavy.”

Dylas is practically suffocating Doug, all long limbs and broad torso as he’s completely on top of him. 

Dylas braces himself on his arms just enough to pull back and glare at Doug, but whatever annoyed response he’s about to shoot back seemingly dies in his throat as his eyes suddenly go wide.

That’s when Doug feels the long, bluish-lavender strands of hair that are tickling his jaw, which is coincidentally also when Doug realizes that they’re close. Like. Really, really close. Like, fuck, he didn’t know Dylas had freckles close, like Gods it’s probably from all the time he spends in the sun while doing his damn fishing close, like Doug can actually feel the breath leave his lips when Dylas breathes close.

Oh.

Oh.

“Shit—” Dylas lets out a choked noise as he basically launches himself backwards, awkwardness giving him unparalleled speed. He stumbles a few steps back for extra measure, and Doug is just left laying on the ground glaring up at Dylas because he’s not going to try and fail to stand on his stupid, injured leg for the third time in one afternoon.

Dylas turns away from him, raising his arms to cover his face with his hands and vaguely looking upwards, like he’s questioning existence. Doug can’t really see what he’s doing as Dylas just. Stands there, for a minute.

When Dylas turns around and walks back to squat on his heels next to Doug he seems mostly calm again, even if his voice is a bit too serious when he says, “Can you walk?”

Doug lets out an annoyed sigh.

“What do you think, genius?”

Dylas rolls his eyes and turns around so his back is facing Doug, holding out his hands again.

“What?”

He can hear Dylas let out an impatient breath, and from behind Doug can just barely see a blush on his face, again. Must still be the cold. Yeah, that’s it. He’s not wearing his coat.

“Just—” Dylas says, like that’ll explain anything. “Just get on already before I leave you here.”

Deciding that more than anything he just wants to get home and out of this cold, the two of them spend the next few minutes trying to maneuver Doug onto Dylas’ back without putting weight on his leg. 

Dylas’ grip is firm and a bit too tight on Doug’s thighs as he hoists them both up and finds his balance. 

He’s not sure what to do with his arms, so Doug opts to wrap them in a loose, awkward circle around Dylas’ neck. Then they’re walking, all the way back towards Selphia.

In a few minutes, a thought hits Doug and he’s chuckling. Hard. Shit, laughing hurts his side, honestly, but it’s too hilarious for him to care.

“What?” Dylas asks flatly.

“Heh… is this… hah— is this what riding a horse feels like?”

“What?” Dylas stumbles and nearly drops Doug.

“I mean— hah!— like, should I have a saddle right now?”

When Dylas lets out a frustrated groan Doug can feel the noise grumble in his chest, from where Doug is pressed to his back. 

A few minutes pass in silence, and then another thought hits Doug, not as funny but still something pressing.

“Hey—”

“I swear to the native dragons, if this is another horse joke—”

“Woah, woah! It isn’t.”

Silence.

“What! I promise!” He takes Dylas’ silence as an okay to continue. “I was just gonna ask, how did you find me, anyway? The only person that knows is Arthur ‘cause I had to ask for a good route.”

“Wh— I— Why does it matter? I was just in the area.”

“ ‘In the area?’ On the way to the Empire?”

“Y-yeah. What, I can’t go places?” 

Even though Doug knows Dylas can’t see his suspicious stare, Dylas fidgets a bit with his grip on Doug like he knows it’s there, anyway. This time Doug is close enough to actually feel the blush climb high onto Dylas’ cheeks, undeniably there when it wasn’t a second before.

“Fine— whatever— I just heard Arthur fret and shit about if he should’ve given you that information, and I knew you’d be an idiot getting yourself into a tight spot by going alone, so I came to check. And I was right, you were an idiot, and you did get into a tight spot.”

“What, so you were worried about me?” Doug asks with a teasing, sarcastic grin, like that obviously can’t be true.

Dylas takes a second too long to answer, making the dwarf suddenly regret those words. Oh.
“N-no, obviously not, you dumbass. It was— for Blossom, she’s a good person. I don’t want to see her get all upset over you.”

In the silence that passes they cross back into forest territory. The temperature rises quickly as Dylas starts walking on orange leaves instead of hard, grey rock. 

“Uh.” Doug manages, awkwardly. “I mean— I was in kind of a tight spot. Not that I couldn’t’ve handled it on my own! But, uh, I don’t want Granny to worry either. So. Thanks.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, whatever,” Dylas grumbles. “Let’s just get you to the clinic so I can get back to my job.”

“You scheduled to work today?”

Dylas doesn’t answer. Doug learned his schedule ages ago— just to avoid Dylas whenever he could, obviously— so he knows that he’s lying, but he’s too busy trying to wrap his head around something to grill Dylas any further on it.

It’s a lot of thinking. Like, a lot. Like, more than Doug likes doing in one day at all. But he’s bombarded with random moments and memories, and long limbs, and clumsy touches, swiped away the moment they happen like cotton burning in a fire, but a lot more things make sense. Or, like, a lot more things make less sense, and that’s kind of the point.

III. Silhouette

The hand that Dylas has fisted into the fur collar of Doug’s jacket is a stark contrast to the one buried carefully in the hair at the nape of Doug’s neck. 

Their lips meet in the space between their snickering, tugging and urgent but not desperate, not like the world is ending but more like it doesn’t exist right now, like it’s all fun. Bickering follows them like a trail of smoke as they stumble up the steps of the now-closed restaurant, but laughter does, too, like it’s burning them; Doug’s pretty sure it’s starting from the warmth that’s radiating in his chest, a fire, and he takes a second to wonder if Dylas has that same spot of warmth right now, the one that Doug had always doubted could even be lit in himself.

They’re laughing. 

They’re laughing and they’re fumbling up the stairs (Doug going backwards for the sake of having the higher ground so that he can actually fucking reach Dylas’ lips), trying and failing to stay quiet even though they know no one else is there right now. Margaret’s gone home, Porcoline’s taking up an invitation to try a famous restaurant in a neighboring kingdom, and Arthur— well, Arthur could probably work through a damn typhoon by accident. 

Doug lifts his hands from where they were tugging off Dylas’ vest and puts one on Dylas’ chest, right above his heartbeat like he’s actually trying to feel if he’s got that warm spot too. 

“What—” Dylas says on a rough breath, between their lips dragging together, “are you doing?”

The grin that tugs at Doug’s lips is probably shit-eating . He snickers, a bit too loud, almost giddy, but his voice is surprisingly even as he says, “Just checking that I haven’t killed you yet with how good a kisser I am.”

Dylas’ responding grin is both a challenge and downright dastardly. He shoves his shoulder into Doug’s, a playful touch they’ve done about a thousand times at this point, but this time Doug is going up the stairs so he has to brace his legs against the steps or he’ll trip.

“Woah—”

He catches himself by the collar of Dylas’ now revealed shirt, pulling the waiter back down against his lips at the same time. 

Reaching the top step Doug has a glorious few moments where he pulls Dylas even closer to really relish being the same height as they kiss. That just leaves him stationary though, needing to crane his neck up and up and up like he’s looking to the sun as Dylas climbs the rest of the stairs, up to his full height. 

Doug lets out an involuntary, frustrated noise when standing tip-toe doesn’t get him tall enough; he’s about to complain about this man’s stupid height when Dylas cuts him off by cradling Doug’s jaw and hip with his hands and leaning quickly forward again to press their lips together, peeling that jacket off of Doug’s shoulders in the process. Doug’s not sure who takes it off but the moment they cross into Dylas’ room it drops to the floor.

 (Neither of them would ever, ever, ever live it down, even through the afterlife, if Doug’s clothing was found outside of Dylas’ room, discarded haphazardly like they’re a pair of horny teenagers, even if the whole town probably already knows about this thing they have, and honestly it’s enough to make Doug shudder in a cringe at the thought of Margaret finding that—)

Dylas slants his mouth against Doug’s, and the spitefulness burns, melts away under the pressure of that fire.

His stubbornness not to be reckoned with, though, Doug winds one hand in Dylas’ long hair and the other around his back, using the last ounce of that spite to turn them hastily around so that Dylas is the one walking backwards, now. He takes the opportunity to try and take off Dylas’ black jacket, too, while Dylas tries to unbutton Doug’s shirt with one hand.

If Dylas minds being backwards he doesn’t show it, instead apparently completely focused on moving his lips against the kiss and softly stroking Doug’s cheekbone with his long, calloused thumb. 

It’s a touch gentler than Doug would ever expect— both from Dylas and from anyone directed toward Doug at all. 

He can’t help but think back to war, and fire, and loss, and if he’s known something this gentle in a while. Maybe he has, but maybe this is something new entirely— in this relationship they’ve found, one that doesn’t quite have a name yet. 

It’s not hidden, exactly (Gods know Doug has only ever had the energy to hide one thing and nothing else) but it’s also not quite found, and for once he doesn’t actually want to rush into something. Not when it’s still so skittish, this feeling between them, not when Doug’s still not sure if he’ll be able to stay. He chooses instead not to think about it, to just live right here and now while he can.

He drags Dylas’ lips between his teeth, because maybe Doug is still a little bit petty, and Dylas’ response is a groan, one that leaves Doug breathless. Then next thing he knows they’re turning again, and Doug’s knees hit Dylas’ bed, sending him back with an oomph. 

“Shit, my bad are you—” Dylas starts, but is apparently cut off by the challenging grin that curls onto Doug’s face. 

Maybe… their constant competitiveness has gotten them into some (okay, many ) problems, but Doug doesn’t consider this one of them. Not when it motivates Dylas to start peeling off the last of his shirt, and definitely not when Dylas leans in, one knee against the bed and the long, surprisingly pale expanse of his chest getting caught in the sunlight as he pulls the undershirt up and off his head. 

Doug is left staring, again, at Dylas’ lanky limbs and the way their lean muscle stretches from the movement.

The setting sun glows yellowish through Dylas’ blinds, lighting up the silvery scars that are scattered across his skin. In this second, where Dylas has a shirt over his head and so can’t actually catch him staring, Doug takes the chance to study his torso, really study it: some scars are clearly deep, and some more shallow; there’s a whole bunch of freckles scattered in random patches over his pale skin, around his shoulders, wrists, and belly button; and this up close (and caught in the light) Doug can see thin trails of light-blue hair, up Dylas’ arms, across his chest, and down his naval continuing underneath the black fabric of his pants.

Time seems to slow down, just enough to let Doug enjoy this, as if rewarding him for actually letting himself enjoy this moment instead of doing anything stupid to ruin it. 

Then he hears a noise above him. Dylas clears his throat, his face a dark shade of pink. He fidgets until he seems to make up his mind, lowering himself just enough to bracket either arm around Doug on the bed, though there’s still a wide breadth between them. Dylas, of course, pointedly glares at the pillow directly next to Doug the entire time.

“Y-you gonna keep on staring or actually do something?”

Doug feels this weird mix of confidence and intense embarrassment, and he’s sure he must be blushing too even as he nervously grins.

“Pff, I won’t let you have all the work,” he says, raising himself up just enough to shrug off the last of his own shirt layers, dropping them unceremoniously next to Dylas’ bed. 

He can feel his face catch on fire (maybe that’s where that earlier heat came from, not from the chest or gut like cliches always say but their embarrassment, that prevalent blush that’s always hovered around them) as it’s his turn to get stared at. 

It goes on a bit long.

Normally he’d snap at Dylas, and honestly he’s about to until he looks up again and catches the look on Dylas’ face. Doug’s never been someone that’s good at labeling emotions so he can’t exactly name what’s passing through Dylas’ light yellow eyes but he’s shaking just a bit, and it looks a bit like surprise, or maybe want, and something else that Doug… doesn’t have a name for. Something that makes his throat catch and at this moment he’s very glad that Dylas is too distracted to notice, because he’s definitely not ready to find that name yet.

Doug’s thoughts are cut off as Dylas traces a hand on the jagged scar across Doug’s side and up some of his abdomen. Then in a sudden flash those eyes look up, asking Doug some subtle question. 

He gives the slightest nod (pretending to himself that it’s not that he’s too flustered to do anything else) and Dylas continues. He shifts so he leans onto one elbow and lets his free-hand— which looks so pale against Doug’s more tanned skin— move to trace another scar, this time across Doug’s ribs.

By the inner part of his bicep, over his clavicle, down his shoulder, Dylas seems to trace scars that Doug doesn’t even realize he still has.

The thing about it though is the touch, that feather-light softness of Dylas’ hand as he finds different marks, some silver and some brownish-pink. It’s such a gentle motion that it makes Doug shiver, even as he tries to put two and two together, these two parts of Dylas that he’s seen. There’s gruff, angry, stubborn Dylas and then there’s the way he’s touching Doug right now, not like Doug’s weak but like he’s cherished, and Divine Gods does it drive Doug crazy because he doesn’t fucking get it . He thinks of earlier, Dylas rubbing Doug’s cheek, climbing up the steps, eager Dylas, nervous Dylas, and Doug doesn’t really know how to piece it together the same way he doesn’t know how to name this thing they have yet. 

So, he can’t help it. 

Like a lot of things in Doug’s life he does it by impulse, shooting out his hand to trace the scar at Dylas’ jaw. He’s shaking with the effort to be as gentle as he can, because Doug’s not sure he’s built to be soft like this but for once he wants to try, and then Dylas’ eyes look up to meet his again. For a second he thinks that maybe people don’t entirely have to fit, and maybe they don’t always need a name, because maybe the two of them could just tremble like this in this rare, quiet space in Dylas’ room.

IV. Preparation

The wood floor creaks as Doug continues to tap his foot against it. He’s sitting at the small dining table, slumped over in his chair and resting his head on his folded arms as he watches what’s going on in the kitchen.

Dylas’ ear twitches irritatedly in Doug’s direction before he’s half-turning around.

“You gonna keep doing that?”

“Yeah, so what if I am?”

Dylas makes a point of not turning back around until Doug can see him rolling his eyes, the petty bastard. 

Doug does stop tapping his foot, but not for Dylas, obviously. He’s just worried that it’ll annoy Granny Blossom, since she’s working downstairs. After hearing they had plans tonight Granny had insisted on finishing the last hour of Doug’s closing shift herself. With nothing else to do, he had invited Dylas over early. 

That’s how they're here now, Doug just sitting here watching as Dylas cooks quietly in his kitchen. 

The man’s tail swishes peacefully, and Doug totally isn’t taking the opportunity to soak up the rare view of the back of Dylas’ neck and the full set of his shoulders with his hair up like this, because that would be lame and Doug is nothing if not the coolest. Right. 

It’s bizarre to him to see Dylas doing something so in-his-element like cooking somewhere that Doug isn’t used to, especially in Doug’s own kitchen. With it just being him and Granny for so long he guesses that he’s gotten used to just the two of them being the only ones up here for long periods of time; they usually take turns cooking on days they don’t eat at the restaurant or bring food back here.

Sure, ever since Doug and Dylas had started dating Dylas has been over for plenty of dinners at Granny’s insistence, and sure, each time he brought over his own dish as an offering, but still. It’s a whole other deal to see him actually making something in this kitchen.

(Divine Gods, Doug remembers how nervous he was those first couple dinners. He wasn’t even sure why, Granny already knew Dylas, and hell had probably even started liking him before Doug did. Actually, maybe that was why. This town is small , so if something bad happened it would affect everyone. But they had actually gone ridiculously well, to the point that by the third or fourth dinner Dylas and Granny Blossom started ganging up on nagging Doug into trying better habits).

It’s just, the weirdest part of all is how normal this all looks. It should feel weird, it should feel out of place, and in a way it does since Doug has been torturing himself thinking about this way too hard for the last however damn long, obviously, but for the most part? It feels fine. It feels good. 

Dylas looks peaceful, cooking away, and Doug feels calm.

Feeling calm. That’s something he still has to get used to.

15 minutes later when Dylas is done cooking and the two of them have set the table (with an extra place for Granny when she’s ready, no matter how much she had insisted earlier that they should ignore her for the night), Doug just blurts it out.

“Youfknow,” he says, and at Dylas’ mild glare takes the time to swallow his food so he doesn’t have to speak muffled. “It’s weird. Seeing you in our kitchen? I mean— Granny’s kitchen. I guess I’m just so used to you only cooking at Porco’s.”

“Bad weird?”

“No, not bad weird, just, like, weird weird.” 

Dylas fixes Doug with a look like the dwarf has just grown a second or third head. He’s used to this. Doug just throws his hand in the air. 

“Ugh, never mind. What I’m trying to say is— wait.” Doug does a recount of his plate, and all the dishes in front of him. 

“Wh-what?” Dylas demands when Doug’s been silent just a bit too long.

“Are these… all rice dishes?”

Dylas makes a choking sound, and Doug glances up to see him red-faced, coughing into his fist. Is he embarrassed, or did rice get lodged in his throat?

When Dylas has chugged an entire glass of water he finally answers. “Uh, yeah… Guess so. Didn’t think about it.”

“But you’re the one who cooked it all.”

“I dunno, we had too much rice in stock so Porco asked me to just take some, whatever.”

“But he just placed an order yesterday when I was on shift because he was about to run out—“

Doug’s cut off by a frustrated noise, followed by the sound of Dylas’ chair scraping against the wood floor. He’s half-out of his seat and leaned across the table to rub his thumb against the corner of Doug’s lips. 

All coherent thought leaves Doug until his mind is totally blank. He just stares at Dylas like this.

Dylas’ face burns brightly as he flops back into his seat. “Y-you had rice on your face!” 

Doug can feel his cheeks turn a matching red. “W-well don’t be weird about it! If you blush I’ll blush.”

“I’m not being weird about it, you are!”

The two of them stare at different walls to avoid any eye contact. Doug absently stuffs another bite in his mouth— honestly when it comes to rice his hands just move on their own— then has to blink back down at his plate.

These really are all his favorite dishes. He glances back up at Dylas, who’s still staring away and looking undeniably horse-like as he grouchily munches his food. 

There are plenty of things Doug’s never been good at, and saying thank you is one of them. He’s been trying, though. 

“Uh.” He starts, like he could physically force this thing out of him if he tries hard enough. “Th-thanks. These are, um, good. I mean, like— thanks for cooking them.”

“Oh.” Dylas looks surprised, but even as he quickly shoves his expression back into neutral, Doug can read him well enough to know Dylas is trying to pretend he isn’t extremely pleased. “Uh, no problem.”

Feeling just a little brave (or maybe a lot reckless, but those are usually one and the same for Doug), he adds, “If it’s easier to cook here instead of transporting it you can just cook here more often, y’know. If you want.” 

Dylas, the difficult, stoic bastard doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Doug can’t bear to make eye contact again but he also can’t bear this silence, so he blurts out, again, “I mean, I know Granny likes your company, or whatever, so she’ll be happy about it. And…” damn. He has to do this. They’ve been dating for months now. He has to be honest. In this safe, little space in the apartment above the General Store, Doug can be honest. At least when they’re alone.

 “And…” he mumbles, nervously, when Dylas still hasn’t fucking said anything, “I do too. So.” He shrugs, like that’ll convey whatever else he can’t manage to say.

When he looks up he sees that Dylas is staring at him. Doug’s still not great at naming emotions, but he looks… nervous, and happy, and shocked, and calm all at once, somehow, but also when has Dylas ever made sense? 

None of this has. And Doug… Doug likes that, maybe. 

“Um,” Dylas says at length, swallowing thickly. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll do this more often. I-I’d like that.” 

A minute passes in silence (calm, this time), so Doug doesn’t expect Dylas to say anything else about it.

“Maybe I’ll actually try to make something fun next time. Not just tons of damn rice.”

Doug balks. Betrayed by his own boyfriend. “ What? Rice is great!”

Apparently the face he makes is hilarious, or maybe just really fucking stupid, because Dylas bursts out laughing. Loudly. His shoulders shake as the sound fills the room.

“I’m serious! Like— risotto is fancy shit! That’s a rice dish.”

Dylas is still fighting off chuckles as he says, with a ridiculously warm, breath-taking smile, “Yeah, like risotto. I’ll make that next time.” 

V. Family

“Gah—! Don’t sneak up on me like that, man.”

Kiel shoots Doug an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t trying to be quiet, though. Were you lost in thought?”

Doug goes back to leaning against the castle wall, casually surveying the plaza. He shrugs out an eh, but Kiel clearly doesn’t believe that answer. He just moves over to lean on the wall next to Doug, so they’re both staring out at the town.

Doug likes the lazy, idyllic days of Selphia just as much as the next guy— actually, probably more than the next guy considering how often he gets scolded for napping— but things can still get so boring in this town, so he’s also usually a big fan of festivals. Today is one of those festival days— thankfully not a fishing or crafting one, though the first one’s become a lot more tolerable since he’s found someone to cheer for— and it had passed in its usual burst of energy.

Now random groups of tourists and regular Selphians are scattered about the plaza, all doing their own thing and enjoying the warm spring weather. Doug’s staring at one small group in particular. Frey and Arthur stand side by side as they chat happily with Meg, Clorica, Vishnal, and Nancy. Their daughter Luna is squealing and giggling a few feet away from them, being chased by… a grinning Dylas.

Sure, Dylas has changed a lot since they first met. Part of that is just them changing as they’ve been together for the last three or four years, but an even bigger part, probably, is just the effect that Selphia has on people; an effect that Doug has gone through too.

But like, this much?

As Dylas chases her around, Luna sprinting at what is probably her full, 3-year-old speed, his smile looks uncharacteristically… radiant. Gods, Doug cringes at the word but right now it’s the only thing that suits the scene. 

Luna weaves around her parents’ legs, who give her fond smiles and words of encouragement before she books it again to keep running across the square. 

With how much energy that kid has, Doug’s honestly surprised that Dylas hasn’t tired out yet. But he’s all energy, loud laughter and warm grin as the greenish-blonde toddler laughs and laughs. Doug— and now Kiel, who’s still there— watches this all happen from a distance, feeling the strangest damn stutter in his chest. 

Dylas has made Doug feel some weird shit, emotions Doug didn’t even know he had, but this? 

“Up! Up!” Luna cries at one point, raising her arms as she continues to run.

“You wanna go up?” Dylas asks, picking up enough speed to catch up to her easily, and without breaking momentum he scoops her up so that she’s soaring through the air in his arms. He moves to set her on his shoulders in one quick, surprisingly fluid motion. She squeals the whole way up, and everyone in the square seems to take a second to appreciate the warm, fuzzy feeling radiating off of those two.

Dylas, warm and fuzzy. If someone had told Doug when Dylas first moved to Selphia that this could happen, he would have laughed in their face. Doug likes kids— he usually gets along great with kids. But Dylas? He hadn’t expected this.

Doug notices Frey and Arthur whisper something to each other with soft smiles, but even when he strains to hear he can’t make out whatever they say.

“There!” Luna yells, and she has what could only be described as pure, undiluted child-like happiness. 

She uses one small fist to grip onto Dylas’ forehead and the other to point in some random direction across the plaza, and Dylas holds onto her legs as he starts to walk wherever she leads. His face is glowing in a mix of pride, joy, and overwhelming softness— more softness than Doug has maybe ever seen on, like, anyone, period.

Everyone in the plaza’s gone back to doing whatever they were doing, including Luna’s parents, except for the occasional affectionate glance back over in her and Dylas’ direction.

Doug can feel Kiel’s stare like an actual, tangible, burning thing on him, so with a sigh he looks back over at Kiel.

“What.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Kiel answers, acting both way too cheeky and way too casual.

Doug sighs again, and motions his hand half-heartedly in the direction of Dylas and Luna. “Like— I mean, did you think Dylas would be this good with kids? I dunno, I never thought about it too much but I didn’t expect, like, this.”

Kiel shoots him a look as if to say He’s your husband, you should know this better than I do, but what he actually says is, “Dunno. Dylas acts gruff and all, but he’s actually really nice. I guess kids bring that out of him! I wouldn’t say it’s totally unexpected.”

“Yeah. Guess you’re right,” Doug half-mumbles, already lost in thought again as he looks back at the plaza, overwhelmed with all the random, confusing feelings he’s got going on at the moment. 

Then Dylas is walking right over, Luna pointing straight at Doug with a pointer-finger-of-Doom, and Doug does the perfectly normal thing of shoving any feeling and thought he doesn’t understand way deep down to deal with (and by deal with, he means ignore) later. 

“Douggie!” Luna cheers when the pair get close.

Doug grins, even as Kiel and Dylas shoot him a grinning, knowing look. Frey and Arthur’s kid is the only living soul in this world allowed to call him that. 

“Hey kid! How’s the weather up there?”

He has to admit, something about needing to look up to talk to a 3-year-old feels downright freaky, but it feels a bit more normal when Dylas is standing under her with that soft, glowing smile.

“Tall!”

“Yeah, I bet. Don’t get too cold okay? Next time you’re up on Dylas’ shoulders like that you should probably wear a jacket.” 

“Or an equestrian outfit!” Kiel chirps, and Doug has to desperately try and stifle a laugh at his own husband’s expense as Dylas shoots the blonde a bewildered glare.

“I’m hungry,” Luna says, blissfully unaware.

“Want me to take you over to the restaurant? Or back to your parents?”

“Kie!” She says.

Knowing the cue already, Dylas lifts her off his own shoulders and passes her over to Kiel’s arms. 

“Alright, I’ll take you to Arthur and Frey! But you’ve got this Luna. Kiel. Kiel. I know you can pronounce the ‘L.’”

“Kie!”

Kiel laughs warmly. “We’ll work on it. I’ll see you two. Bye!” 

Luna echoes a ‘bye bye’ as Kiel gives Doug one last, long look before walking across the plaza.

Dylas turns back to Doug and raises an eyebrow. Doug already knows the silent question he’s asking, so he panics and thinks of the most normal-sounding way to change the conversation before it’s even started.

“Uh— so, your place or mine tonight?” 

Even if they’ve been married for a few months now, and together much longer, neither of them have been in a rush to buy their own place. Doug still wants to stick around Granny, and Dylas loves living with the people at the restaurant more than he’d ever admit, even after Arthur moved into the castle. 

(Arthur kept his office next to the restaurant, anyway, since no one who has lived or worked at that place could stand to be away from Porco for too long).

Dylas scratches his chin in thought for a moment, and his ring catches in the sunlight.

“I promised Blossom I’d help inspect the quality of those new lures you guys just got, so yours, probably.”

“Sounds good.” 

The conversation goes just as casually as it always does, like this is the most normal thing in the world, and for that Doug’s always grateful. As Dylas (still awkwardly, even after all this time) takes his hand and the two of them drift back towards the crowd of their friends chatting, Doug decides to just focus on this feeling, for now.

+1. Conversations

It’s about 12 AM when Doug wakes up. This is more of a guess than an accurate reading of time, since at the moment there’s an entire, tall-ass man sleeping as deep as a log on top of him and effectively pinning him down, meaning Doug can’t really check the clock right now.

It’s about 1:30 AM (probably) when Doug finally gives up on pretending like he’s gonna fall back asleep tonight, with all these stupid thoughts running through his head. 

Dylas hasn’t moved much since Doug started the endless mental torture that’s been happening for almost every night for the past two weeks; his shoulder is still pressed against Doug’s chest, just under his chin, and his head is resting on top of Doug’s, nose burrowed into the tufts of his hair. Dylas’ chest lies on top of Doug’s as their limbs are tangled together, arms hooked around backs and waists and legs thrown about like rice at a wedding. 

The only things that have changed since Doug initially woke up are the fact that he’s repositioned his leg to be on top of one of Dylas’ (to try and get some feeling back into his foot) and that he’s no longer buried under a face-full of lavender-blue hair. What had initially just been Doug trying to wiggle his arm in a way that let him move said face-full turned into running his fingers through Dylas’ hair repeatedly, until he was just doing it absently while thinking. 

He only realizes that he’s still doing it now when Dylas shifts— the movement’s a small one but it’s his entire body, making Dylas’ mattress squeak as he moves slightly off of Doug. Slightly. 

(He’s still practically crushing him, but Doug is strong enough to support the weight, thank you very much, and he’s also a very big fan of being held like this, of holding someone else back, even if he’d rather deep dive into the Delirium Lava Ruins than admit that to anyone. Dylas knows, though. Of course Dylas knows).

Doug doesn’t go back to stroking Dylas’ hair until he’s sure the guy is fully asleep again. He’d stop doing it all together but… from here Doug can actually see his husband’s face, just a little bit, and he looks so damn happy, even in his sleep. He always loves it whenever Doug plays with his hair.

(That’s something that Dylas had only ever admitted aloud once, though he didn’t have to say anything for Doug to know).

Agh.

Doug bonks his head back against the pillow once in frustration, and when that isn’t enough to shake out all the damn thoughts running through his head he does it again.

That accidentally— but in retrospect inevitably— gets Dylas’ attention.

“Mhh?” The man mumbles incoherently.

“Sorry— er—” Doug accidentally whispers so loudly in the quiet atmosphere of Dylas’ bedroom that Dylas’s entire body cringes at the sudden volume. Doug has to clear his throat and start again, much softer. “ Sorry . I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“‘S fine,” he mumbles again in his deep, slightly rough voice. He sounds considerably more awake now as he rolls back and onto his side, now off of Doug enough to make proper eye contact, though he keeps one arm strung over Doug’s chest. Their legs are also an absolutely tangled mess, but neither of them seem to feel the need to change that. “Is it a fire?” 

Fire: the codeword they’ve developed over the years for when one of them has a nightmare.

“No,” Doug answers easily. “Er. I’m just thinking.”

Dylas shoots him a look before lifting up his head just enough to spot the clock on his wall. “You’re ‘just thinking’ at 4 o’clock in the morning?”

“Oh, crap, I was way off.”

“What?”

“Nothing— uh, yeah. You know, just thinking. About stuff.”

“‘About stuff,’” Dylas echoes with a flat look.

“Uh-huh. That’s right.” 

He sighs. “I’m not going back to bed until you tell me.”

“What? Why? It’s—”

“‘Nothing’ yeah, sure.” Dylas manages to lazily extract his hand enough to point a finger near Doug’s face. “Don’t bother trying to kid me, you’ve barely been sleeping these past few days. Don’t think I didn’t notice the bags under your eyes.” His voice is steady and even, but Doug knows him well enough to clearly hear the concern behind his tone. 

Ah, shit. Doug hadn’t even realized it had gotten that bad. Dylas is way too observant for someone that’s supposed to be dense.

After a bit of silence Dylas shifts again to pull Doug against him, so that they’re both on their side and Doug’s face is buried under Dylas’ collar bone. 

“You going to tell me?” Dylas asks, chin resting on the crown of Doug’s head. At this point it’s a way they’ve woken up a thousand times before, but for whatever reason tonight Doug finds himself blushing. Finally, though after Doug sighs not once, not twice, but three whole times he finally manages to just— push the words out. Mostly.

“Luna’s a good kid, right?”

“What?” Dylas asks, clearly not expecting this to be the conversation they’d have.

“Yeah, you know. Like, Frey, Arthur, and Luna all look really happy together, right?”

He doesn’t have to look up to feel Dylas’ soft, hint of a smile. “Yeah, she’s a really good kid.”

“Uh-huh,” Doug says, and for a moment he thanks any and every deity above that Dylas can’t see how aggressively he’s blushing right now. “So, like, would you ever want a kid? Uh, with me?”

He can feel Dylas go still. Entirely still. Like, Doug actually decides to lift his hand up and check the pulse at the side of Dylas’ neck still. 

“I- I mean,” Doug starts, suddenly rambling at the speed of light, “it doesn’t have to be any time soon, obviously, the whole adoption thing would probably take a while anyway but I’ve always been good with kids and a-fucking-pparently you’re great with them so I’ve just been thinking that I’ve always wanted to have one of my own, and, uh. You know. I’d want that to be with you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Obviously.” Doug adds, unhelpfully. “Because I’m married to you. Uh, but you know that. I mean, I’d hope you know that. You were there and everything.”

Doug takes the moment to feel every fibre of his body cringe. Great.

When another patch of silence stretches on Doug realizes that the pounding he’s hearing right now isn’t his own heartbeat, but Dylas’. From where Doug is still pressed into his chest he can hear it’s a heavy, thundering noise against his ears, as loud as a stampede, and it actually gets Doug's attention enough that he calms down. Sorta.

“You want,” Dylas starts, each word punctuated veeeery slowly like he woke up one day and was suddenly expected to speak an entirely new language, “to adopt a kid. With me.”

“Uh, that’s the gist of it yeah.”

The next thing Doug knows he’s being absolutely crushed, the arms that had been loosely on top of him snaking around him and pressing him to Dylas’ chest in a vice grip; he lets out a completely involuntary grunting noise. 

After the first few moments, though, he settles into the hug (even though it hasn’t slackened at all), and he can’t help it. He knows how to read Dylas; Doug finds himself laughing, the noise already slightly watery, as he awkwardly manages to jut his hand out from under Dylas’ armpit and pat his back.

“B-babe, you’re kind of crushing me—”

“Oh— fuck— sorry—” Dylas lets him go immediately, and Doug falls back against the mattress. They’re facing each other again. He watches Dylas clear his throat, a mirror of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

Doug can’t help but laugh again, this time somewhat giddy but mostly nervous. “So… is that a…?”

“Oh— yes. Yes. I—” Dylas clears his throat again. He wipes the slightly panicked look off of his face and makes a very visible attempt to slacken his posture. “Yeah, I’d want that too,” he says while shrugging his shoulders, speaking like he’s the absolute embodiment of calm-and-collected, which Doug knows is bullshit at the moment but doesn’t have the energy to call it. 

“Oh, awesome. Yeah. Cool cool cool cool.” 

Dylas lets out an unmistakably rude snort, which quickly turns into what could only be described as a fit of giggles that he tries to stifle against the top of Doug’s head.

Doug feels his cheeks burn. “What?!”

“Pff— heh — Nothing...” 

Pressed against him as he is, Doug can feel the laughs raking through Dylas’ body, and Doug is stuck somewhere between feeling offended and the usual rush of dizzy happiness that he gets whenever he makes Dylas laugh— Ugh. How dare he. Doug just wants to be annoyed, but instead he’s all fond and warm, so warm, from the heat radiating off of Dylas as they lie close to each other— not burning, not overwhelming, but like an ember, gentle and steady and here to stay.

“You’re great with words, you know that?” Dylas finally says, and Doug can feel the stupid, wonderful grin on Dylas’ face.

“That’s rich, coming from you.” 

Doug can’t manage to say this with a straight face, because damn he just feels too giddy right now, so he lightly shoves his shoulder into Dylas’ for extra emphasis. 

A beat of silence passes, and then both of them burst out into laughter.

“Shaddup,” Dylas snorts, voice sounding way too lovey-dovey to have any bite behind it.

After a few minutes (Doug assumes, because he’s got a bad track record with keeping track of time tonight, apparently) the room falls back into a peaceful quiet. Doug reaches his hand up to rest on Dylas’ shoulder. Is he shaking, or is that Dylas? It could be because of the conversation from earlier, or the remains of laughter, or the prospect of this future they’re walking towards— a future Doug was never sure he’d be able to have. Maybe it doesn’t matter, either way. Maybe it does.

Maybe Doug’ll figure this out in the morning, now that he has the time to.

Dylas unexpectedly speaks again, breaking Doug away from his thoughts.

“I’m, uh… really happy, you know?” His words are quiet and kind of shaky, but with an unmistakable confidence that leaves Doug slightly breathless.

Doug swallows the lump in his throat, the one that doesn’t feel like fire anymore; it’s like a rock half-way through a river, slowly being weathered down.

Doug very tentatively moves to rest his head against Dylas’ chest again. In this quiet spot between them Doug finally lets himself say the words, honestly. 

“Yeah. Me too.”

This time he can’t tell who’s heart is pounding louder, or faster, but he does know that he feels ridiculously, overwhelmingly, stupidly happy.