Chapter Text
i: Orchid
For all the scum and ragged edges that were born of an adventurer’s lifestyle, Dorian could say he was still surprised at the beauty such filth often exposed him to. The years he spent staring out at the sunrise from the farthest edges of the Silken Squall never prepared him. The warm light filtered through the trees and made the fields glow. The incandescence that greeted him as the earliest riser made him feel special. Few received the sunsets like he did; they would rather sleep in.
On occasion Orym joined him in his own silent ritual. The lithe halfling would go through various meditative poses and Dorian would sit next to him. Sometimes he did so silently, others he plucked errantly at his lute. Today was spent this way, the two staring out over the woods at the flank of the dingy timber town they had nestled down in for a few days.
They rarely acknowledged their near intimate mornings verbally. Dorian assumed it meant little beyond them having similar sleep schedules and he was too embarrassed to ask if that was the case. Orym might even just appreciate the company. He certainly wasn’t about to go asking for clarification, should that make things awkward.
It significantly improved his mood on the days he got to witness such beauty next to someone just as appreciative as him. It also made some memories of following sunsets for days in the Squall seem false. The color and scenery felt plastic and out of touch. As if he hadn’t experienced the truth until just recently when the veil had been pulled back.
His mouth went dry at the thought of where many of those mornings had started and where they lead. Days of disappointment, shame, guilt, and strange flutters of rage. He spent an ungodly amount of his waking life looking for a way to release himself from the suffocating grasp of his name. He fought with his mother until he lost his voice, screaming and begging and needing to be heard. His father had no reservations about striking either of his sons if he felt it necessary. Most fights ended as quickly as they started and the cycle would go on.
Being himself- being Brontë, rather- at the ball had unsettled him deeply. It had been so easy to regress into the pompous princeling. So easy to strip away all the intricate subtleties that made up Dorian. Even a week later, with Eshteross having already found some new trail to follow, his mind kept wandering back. And for as much as he toiled and troubled over it, Dorian had a surprisingly small amount that he remembered clearly. The adrenaline of the fight and hasty exit played some role in this, of course, but he knew he hadn’t truly been with it for the whole event.
Brontë grimaced as he played over several moments in his head. He had been less than kind with Imogen. She had only been trying to help. Fearne had been so beautiful, and he had spent at least an hour being rather jealous of her. And Orym; half a strangled laugh escaped him at the thought. He had barely acknowledged the halfling the entire night. Orym had been so handsomely put together and Brontë was Brontë- no looking at the help. He would have to make it up to them all. He could’ve done significantly better. Next time. He’d be better.
Time really was a weird soup.
Brontë looked for the horizon through the trees, searching frantically for a way out of his spiral. His gaze flicked to Orym. The halfling radiated comforting energy, his expression free and serene as he eased into another pose. He breathed so peacefully. Dorian tried to mimic the rhythm.
Dorian worried his hands away at the hem of his thin sleepshirt. His mother probably missed him dearly. His father was most certainly angry. He could stay angry for quite a while. And Cyrus? He was hopefully safe by now, but Dorian wouldn’t be able to shake that anxiety for a long time.
Shards of old memories were kicked up in the back of his mind. The way his mother would brush his hair before bed. Fighting with his brother over things that he couldn’t even recall. And further than that, his father, holding him up to the sky as child and laughing with him. Brontë had good memories with his family too, and the flood of emotions that spurred hopelessly entangled with different versions of himself. They were good people, weren’t they? He was never hungry or wanting for basic needs- was this not the mark of a good guardian?
Certainly, if they could see him now it would feel like an immeasurable loss.
Another glance spared at the halfling allowed him to take a deep breath. If nothing else, he was in the presence of someone who had chosen to be there. He wasn’t alone. He slowly counted each of the tallest trees he could see.
“You seem to be thinking more than usual at this hour,” Orym said, voice low.
Dorian flinched violently, pulled from his thoughts as if by a thunderclap.
“Who, me?” He stuttered, attempting to retake a calm position on his rickety wooden chair. He folded his hands over his lap, picked them up again, refolded them, and twisted at his rings. “I do think sometimes, yes.”
The way that Orym looked at him was infuriatingly knowing.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine,” Orym said gently. He bumped a loose fist against Dorian’s knee. It made his chest feel tight. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Dorian had to work hard to make his eyes refocus where he wanted them too. It was impossible to stop the glass expression that took over his features. His back burned as he realized he was holding his spine rigidly straight. He forced himself into a relaxed pose.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice feeling as if it belonged to someone else. He beamed brightly at the halfling. “Merely reminiscing. Somehow this reminds me of our visit in Zephrah.”
It was a shallow jib to try and tempt the conversation away from his own issues.
It was impossible to tell if Orym let it slide by choice or if he didn’t notice the redirect, but Dorian lavished in the moment attention dropped from himself. He immediately felt guilty upon seeing the small grimace his friend was now wearing. It was thoughtless for him to have redirected things in such a way. He had known before the words left his mouth, but he had said them regardless. What a fool he could be.
“The cherry blossoms would be blooming soon,” Orym mused, bumping Dorian’s knee once more. In an instant the pained look was gone, replaced by something Dorian couldn’t identify. “Maybe next time we’re out that way we can stop by to visit.”
“I’m sure your mother misses you dearly,” Dorian said haltingly, the echo of his own thoughts bubbling to the surface. He fiddled mercilessly with his silver thumb ring. “And I most definitely miss her cooking.”
Orym laughed and it was like a whoosh of fresh air for the first time in months. He would do anything to hear that sound. When people laughed at him it meant they heard him. It meant they saw him. Brontë had a terrible sense of humor.
The head rush gave him the bravado to lean even further into his endless masking. He smiled dashingly at the halfling, eyelashes fluttering. Had he any experience in regulating his emotions, he might’ve given himself whiplash. Instead, the truth boiled under indigo skin and his grin stayed unbearably sweet.
Their eyes met for a moment and Dorian felt his heart soar. He allowed the warmth to overtake him before reining himself in. He was far from delusional about what he felt for his friend. It was one of many things among the list of that which he shant think about at all, ever.
“A home cooked meal would be unbelievable right now,” Orym sighed. Dorian watched as his friend finished the last of his stretches and sheathed his sword. “But I’m pretty sure whatever we need to find outside of town might take a few days.”
“Maybe afterwards,” Dorian suggested as the two moved to retreat back into the shared room. Several of the group were already stumbling around, preparing for the day. “We’re due for some downtime soon, yes?”
***
The lead Eshteross had found for them was legitimate, but the beating they had taken left little energy for celebration when they returned to sleep for the night. They had all curled up amongst each other, seemingly everyone craving a physical connection after such a hard day. The troll that had been terrorizing the town had been defeated, and yet the victory felt hollow.
Fighting again had been an enjoyable reprieve. It helped to turn his mind off for a moment in favor of keeping himself alive. And if Orym had stayed a bit closer to him than he normally would have, he would politely pretend not to notice.
Sunrise the next morning was a bloody red and magenta whorl that Dorian couldn’t help but find mortifying, yet appropriately amusing.
He had wrestled himself away from Fearne’s grasp at the faintest sliver of light and slunk out to the balcony. It was cold with the crisp spring air, but he could convince himself it was easier to breathe.
If Orym were out here with him, he might have spoken up about how much Dorian was shaking. But Orym was asleep, so he could afford to let some of his anxious tension out. He had the wherewithal to grab his lute and bring it with him, but the idea of picking it up didn’t feel worth it. It was within reach, but he simply stared at it instead.
He wasn’t spiraling through more endless thoughts. He had hit the bottom of a bottomless cavern and the landing offered nothing but a horrifying wave of apathy.
For as long as Dorian sat, coiled and unresponsive, he had no recollection of when Oyrm came out to join him on the balcony. It might have been hours later. Maybe minutes or seconds. He didn’t realize how bitter the wind could be. His gaze traveled away from the patterns he had been tracing in the wood grain of his lute.
Leaf green eyes met his and it was as if his consciousness slammed back into his body from a great height. He heaved in a loud gasp, realizing suddenly that he hadn’t been breathing for an unknown amount of time. He could feel that Orym was trying to hold onto his hands, trying to steady them, and he tore away from the gentle grasp, reeling.
“Sorry!” He gasped, limbs feeling all wrong as he tried to retreat further within himself. “I’m sorry, sorry!”
“Dorian…,” Orym said. He sounded so alarmed and Dorian needed it to stop. He needed to be invisible for a moment so he could put his face back on. He was cheerful, dignified, a happy go lucky bard. The dissonance was too difficult to handle. He stumbled backwards, frantically trying to give himself space.
“Dorian,” Orym repeated calmly. “It’s okay.” The halfling reached out to him, but this time he didn’t touch, instead hovering worried hands over his trembling shoulders. He didn’t remember how he ended up on the ground. “Breathe with me,” the halfling said, tone never faltering.
Three deep breaths later made existence feel more tangible, though he felt rather faint.
“Sorry,” he said once more. He couldn’t figure out how to say anything else. He had been caught in the act of falling apart. Disappearing from existence was the only cure for this wretched hollowness clawing at his chest.
Orym stood in front of him, so impossibly vibrant and green and filled with life. Dorian tried to focus on the lines of his tattoo. The swirls were mesmerizing. He could never claim Orym to be small; he had an unbelievable aura about him. Even now, the halfling stood about eye level with the genasi huddled pathetically on the ground. Orym towered over him in this instance, though it didn’t feel intimidating.
“You don’t need to apologize. Can I touch you?” He asked softly, eyes averted. How could he tell what Dorian needed when he didn’t even know?
Orym was so perceptive it made him want to throw up.
The genasi nodded his head robotically, and the halfling pulled him into an awkward embrace.
They stayed like that for several long, tense minutes.
Oyrm ran his fingers through the tangled mess of Dorian’s hair. He wondered if the halfling had seen Fearne doing something similar for him last week. It was soothing, a menial sensation to hold onto. “Do you want to talk about it?” The halfling tried again, voice still low.
From where he had nestled his head in the crook of Orym’s shoulder, the genasi curled in on himself. A shudder ran through the man.
“Keep breathing,” his friend reminded him gently.
Orym was so lovely. He deserved so many wonderful things.
Another shaky breath allowed him to wrestle the words out of his mind and into the air. “I- I’m not…” He wheezed, “I’m not really… myself? At the moment?” He focused on the woodgrain of his lute, needing something visual to entertain his restless brain. Black to grey to white hair was falling into his vision. He didn’t have the energy to fix it.
“Okay,” Orym replied solemnly. There was no ‘I know,’ or ‘what does that mean,’ or ‘get over it.’ He could cry. He already was, probably. “Is there anything I can do? To help you get back to you?” His hair was fixed for him. The amount of love the gesture showed made him uncomfortable, but not because he didn’t like it.
Hysterical laughter bubbled in the back of his throat and the halfling started at the sound, gaze turning to see Dorian’s expression. He didn’t want to look him in the eyes right now. He didn’t want to be perceived. But he couldn’t very well ask for that.
Dorian hiccupped, using his sleeve to self-consciously dab away at the tears tracing down soft blue skin. “I just need… time. I think.”
The halfling bit his lip, brow furrowed as he considered what to do.“Do you want me to stay? Or do you want to be alone?”
“Don’t go,” Dorian said meekly, voice hardly more than a whisper. “I don’t…” The inability to speak was frustrating him more than expected. He tugged at his hair, angry, but not wanting to display it.
Orym glanced out over the sunset. The red was beginning to fade, the sun cresting higher over the horizon. The others would be up soon. “Can I grab some stuff quick? I promise to come right back,” the halfling asked, left hand tracing an invisible X over his heart.
Dorian squeezed his eyes shut, but nodded the tiniest affirmation.
The halfling was a man of his word. Within two minutes he had returned. His arms were full of blankets, a few books, and a set of clay cups nearly spilling their contents.
The blanket thrown over his shoulders finally made him recognize the bitter wind, and he trembled. He gave Orym a faint smile, hoping that might soften the concern lining his perfect features.
After about twenty minutes the two had settled somewhat comfortably on the balcony and the adrenaline crash was turning Dorian into a heap of genasi slumped against his friend.
“When I was a kid,” Orym started carefully, hands working delicately around a flower he created from nothing. “I was terrified of spiders.”
A weak chuckle slipped out and it made Orym smile for half a second. The irony was too much.
“I know, I know. The spider queen brought that one back a bit. But as a kid, my mother always said facing your fears was the best way to handle things.”Orym stood to grab himself the other blanket and he curled into Dorian’s side like it was where he was meant to be. His small practiced hands kept on weaving flowers. “So whenever a spider was trapped in our home, she sent me to release it out into the wild. I hated it every single time.”
Dorian waited for the hammer to drop, but it didn’t. The birds were chirping loudly but that was all he could hear. No yelling, or arguing.
“But not all fears work like that,” Orym continued, setting down the blue orchid he finished and starting another.
“Dorian,” the halfling said, tone somber. Green eyes sought blue. He met his gaze with hesitation, but there was no disappointment or disgust or shame reflecting in the viridian hues.
“I can’t change the way you got here. I can’t make Brontë go away and I can’t make your family understand how horribly they treated you. But I can be by your side, and so can Fearne, because we love you.”
Dorian sniffled, emotions still boiling in his stomach. “I just… I don’t,” he hiccuped and hated how pathetic he felt, “I don’t want to be ignored. But I don’t want to be seen either.”
Orym immediately released all the tension his body had been holding. Seeing Dorian go mute for so long was unnerving. Hearing him say a full sentence was like a drink of water in the desert. Another flower joined the one on the stone.
“Why?”
The question was unerringly simple and it sent Dorian’s head spinning in circles.
“My parents weren’t- my mother loved me very much, but…”
Orym waited so patiently. Too kind.
“I was a means to an end,” Dorian spit out in one long word, sitting up suddenly. “I was never- I was never heard. A wind up doll should only speak when the key is turned and I-,”
“Like to talk?” Orym completed for him jokingly, no heat in his words.He was wearing a smirk, but there was no malice written in his body language.
Dorian stared, dumbfounded. “Even now,” he responded, the floodgates getting dangerously close to opening. “You joke with me. You hear me. We have conversations. When my parents listened… it was only so they could use my words against me.”
“That’s manipulation, and that’s not your fault.”
Dorian put his head between his knees. He struggled to keep counting his breaths, but Orym put a hand on his shoulder. Ever so perceptive. Nothing escaped the man. This was becoming too much again and Orym always knew what he needed. So sweet and nurturing.
Orym stood slowly and reached up to stretch. Cold stone never did much to help his poor back. “The others will be waking up soon.” He offered a hand to help his friend stand. “We can talk about this again tomorrow morning, if you feel up to it.”
Dorian considered the calloused hand, and let himself accept it. The genasi was exhausted, but felt better than he had in weeks. Nothing had technically changed. But it seemed as if the entire world was less intent on swallowing him whole and he was no longer watching his body work without him.
The two shook off the frosty feeling of the early morning together and made for the door.
Dorian breathed deeply. “Tomorrow morning, of course.”