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By the time his friends finish drinking with Chetney and Cyrus, Orym is dead on his feet. He’s still littered with cuts, bruises, and burns from fighting yet another inanimate object come to life, hurting far too much to remove his weathered armor. Sinking into the bed he shares with Dorian and Fearne, Orym feels some relief. However, despite his exhaustion, the halfling still grips their sending stone like his life depends on it, knowing Dorian’s just might.
When the air genasi returns, Orym’s hand finally relaxes. Relieved, he tries to pretend he’s asleep. He faces away from the door, not wanting his ever-caring best friend to fret over his injuries.
“Orym,” the bard whispers, “I know you’re awake.” The halfling sighs and flips over accepting defeat.
“You know me too well,” he replies, chuckling lightly, attempting to dispel some of the tension in the room.
“Here, let me help you with you armor. You shouldn’t sleep with it on,” Dorian says as he reaches for the leather straps.
“Alright,” Orym gives in. He tries to sit up slightly to make it easier for the air genasi, but fails to hide the wince that accompanies his movement. Dorian lays him back down.
“Orym, I’m so sorry,” he tells the halfling, “I had no idea you were this hurt! I’m almost done.”
After some silence, Dorian adds, “You shouldn’t keep injuries like this from me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he sighs. “I’m just glad you’re okay.
Finally undoing the last strap, Dorian carefully pulls Orym into his lap.
“Is this alright?” he asks, beginning to stroke the halfling’s hair.
“More than alright,” Orym smiles, too dazed and hurt to hide his true emotions. Dorian lightly grins back, reaching for Orym’s hand. He is about to cast a healing spell when he sees an odd bruise on the fighter’s hand. The center of his palm is now dark purple with four bloody nail marks in a line below.
“This doesn’t look like an injury from battle” he comments. “Orym, where did you get this?” The halfling looks over at his own hand still in Dorian’s.
“Oh, that’s nothing!” he tries to laugh it off. “I’m not sure how I got it-“
“Orym,” Dorian cuts him off, “I may not be the most socially adept, but I know when you’re lying.”
The halfling chuckles, “Again, you know me too well.” Dorian returns to stroking Orym’s hair with one hand while still holding his hand with the other. He finally casts a healing spell.
“No, Dorian! Please don’t waste a spell on me. I know you’re exhausted.”
“As if I would let you go to sleep injured when I still have spell slots left,” he retorts. “Plus, don’t change the subject. What’s that peculiar bruise from?” Orym squeezes his eyes closed and takes a deep breath in.
“Honestly?” he asks, Dorian nods. “It’s from holding the sending stone a little too tightly. I was worried that someone would recognize Cyrus and you wouldn’t come back.”
“Oh, Orym-“
“Don’t, I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid and paranoid of me. I just can’t lose you, Dorian.” He slips away from Dorian’s grasp to cover his face with his hands. The genasi thinks he might be crying.
“No, don’t apologize. I understand. I feel the same way when you throw yourself in front of me and our friends in battle. My breath catches every time,” he admits. “I guess I just wish you weren’t so eager to throw yourself to the wolves. Or to a monstrous wall in our case.” Orym finally removes his hands from his face and opens his eyes, snorting in response to Dorian’s attempt at humor.
“You know I can’t apologize for that. For protecting people, I mean. For protecting you. It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“I know,” Dorian sighs, grinning. “Again, I know you too well, remember?”
Suddenly, his smile drops. He stares into the halfling’s eyes intently.
“But what will my life be worth if you’re gone, Orym?”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do, Orym… I love you.”
“Dorian… I-, I love you too.” The halfling slowly sits up, bringing his mouth to the bard’s. They kiss. It’s a simple kiss, but Orym thinks it feels like home.
“Dorian…” he breaks the kiss, “it’s childish but… will you hold me while I fall asleep?”
“Why of course,” he smiles. “I wouldn’t want it another way.”
So, Dorian finally lays down, placing Orym on top of his chest, fingers still carding through the halfling’s hair.
“I’m glad you made it back,” Orym smiles.
“Me too.”