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Ashton lets themself flop onto the bed with Orym, exhausted. It’s been a long day. The whole group had been too tired—once they made it back onto the airship, drenched and sore after their encounter with the Gorgynei—to do much more than shovel food into their mouths and stumble off to bed. Even FCG, who didn’t have the excuse of a mouth full of food, was nearly silent.
Ashton aches worse than he has in a while. They’ve been tensely on guard all evening, still untrusting of their new potential allies, and the jaunt through the cold, wet jungle had been the last thing he needed. The pain makes him too nauseous to really have much of an appetite. They probably would have skipped dinner altogether—it isn’t as if it would have been the first time Ashton went to bed on an empty stomach, after all—if it weren’t for Orym taking them by the hand and dragging them to sit beside him at the table. There’s a look in his eyes like he knows exactly what they’d been considering. If Ashton didn’t know better, they’d think Imogen wasn’t the only mind reader in their little group.
Finally, though, they’d eaten enough to satisfy Orym, and the group had started to stagger off. Imogen, Laudna, and Fearne found their way to a room with a spacious bed. FCG had taken a brief glance at Ashton and Orym’s still-intertwined hands and rolled off after Chetney. It still feels strange, not always sharing a room with them, although they still do, some nights. They don’t want him to feel replaced, and anyway new as all this is between himself and Orym, sometimes Ashton just needs a bed to himself. Orym never complains; he still crawls into the witch pile every now and then, too. Ashton is glad they don’t have to do much in the way of explaining all of this to Grass. Much as he loves them, there are certain soul-touched…activities he’d rather they didn’t learn about by observing him. Not that he feels anywhere close to okay enough to even consider that type of sleeping together tonight.
Tonight, though, they seem to be on the same page about wanting this closeness.
Ashton shifts on the mattress, trying to find a position that eases the pain burning through them, even a little bit. Of course there isn’t one. Their best shot is to pass the fuck out and hope they don’t feel quite so shitty tomorrow.
“I was worried we overdid it today.” Ashton peeks their good eye open at the sound of Orym’s voice. The halfling is, as ever, too observant.
“S’fine. Everybody else doesn’t have to stop just cause I’m having a bad day.” They hate the thought of holding the others back, of everyone making shit choices cause they’re trying to keep Ashton from overdoing it. Or, worse, becoming such a burden to the group that they leave him behind. He shakes that last thought away, unwilling to entertain exactly how much it upsets him to imagine that. “I kept up, didn’t I?” They sound too defensive.
Orym sighs. “You did. But I actually mean we all overdid it. I don’t think any of us feel good after today.” Ashton has to admit Orym has a point there. He thinks the witches might have had about two spells left between them. FCG had been too drained to do much to ease any of their aches. “I just wish your particular flavor of not feeling well was something a good night’s sleep would take care of.”
They huff. They know what Orym means, though. He’s been paying attention to their bad pain days long enough to know that a day like today usually echoes painfully into the next few, if not a full week. “M’used to it.” They shrug, and immediately regret it, because the movement sends a new surge of pain up their neck. They wince. “Fuck. Sorry, I don’t feel like talking about this shit tonight. M’not gonna be good company, if you want you can go cuddle with the witches.”
Orym raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to go sleep with the witches? Because if having me here is too much, I will. But I’d like to be here tonight, if you’ll have me.”
Ashton sighs. Orym knows him too fucking well. “No, I want you here.” It’s barely a whisper. This shit is so hard to say, even still. Their throat tightens.
“Okay. Then I’m here.” Orym shifts a little closer on the bed. “Can I try something?”
Ashton studies him. “Depends on what you want to try.” They say, tone hesitant.
Orym nods. “Fair enough. I…picked up something the last time we went shopping. I’ve been meaning to try it, but there hasn’t been a chance. It’s meant to help with pain.” Orym reaches under the bed and produces a small jar of ointment. Ashton accepts it, turning the glass over in their hands. “Zhudanna recommended it, and I know the Tempest has made something similar to this for Lord de Rolo, but there wasn’t time to ask her to show me how, so I bought some. I don’t know if it will work for you or not, but I thought it would be worth a shot.” He pauses. “I don’t even have to put it on for you, if that’s too much touch.”
“You asked Zhudanna about this?” And he’d meant to ask The Voice of the Tempest. He pauses only briefly to add this new knowledge to his disdainful picture of the white-haired asshole that had tried to stop them from saving Laudna. He’d suspected that his cane had been more than a dignified prop. They know from experience that pain can make you an asshole, but they don’t much care to make excuses for the lord of a castle. Ashton can’t tell if they feel touched that Orym thought of them, or embarrassed that Orym felt the need to ask for help for them.
“I didn’t tell her it was for you.” Orym adds, once again reading right through Ashton’s thoughts. “I told her I wanted to try something for muscle pain. And I did try it. It felt nice, after a long workout.”
Something in Ashton’s chest eases. It’s not that he’s ashamed of his pain, but he also doesn’t love the thought of other people knowing. They usually look at him differently, like they expect him to fall apart. Like he’s vulnerable.
Orym’s never acted that way, though. None of the Hells have, really.
“Yeah, okay. We can try it.” Ashton hands the jar back to Orym. “I trust you.” Another hard one for Ashton to say. They force it out anyway. If Orym is going to be here through all of the shit, they need to make the shit worth it.
Orym smiles, accepting the jar. “Okay. Let’s get this off, then, yeah?” He tugs gently at Ashton’s vest.
Ashton nods, closing their eyes against the wave of nausea that surges over them. Gods, they feel like shit. They’d like to get as drunk as possible and pass out for a week, but they know they have shit to do. And there’s probably not enough to drink on this stupid airship to accomplish that goal. Just their fucking luck. He fumbles with the buckle across his chest, but his hands are shaky and uncoordinated. “Fuck. I can’t get it.” They hate admitting that. But it’s Orym. There’s no way Ashton could hide this from him.
“May I?” Orym asks, covering Ashton’s hand with his own.
“Mmm.” Ashton nods.
Orym works the buckles with gentle efficiency. “Got it. Can you roll a little?” Ashton does, wincing at the movement. “Good. Now lie on your right side?” Ashton follows his instructions, giving themself over to Orym’s gentle leadership. It’s easier not to think when they get like this. And it’s Orym. They hadn’t been lying when they said they trusted him.
Lying on their right shoulder isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s better than the left side. Besides, turned like this, the worst of their broken parts are on display for Orym.
“Alright, this works best if I massage it in a little bit, but tell me if I need to back off. I’ll be gentle.”
Ashton nods again, the small movement easier than trying to find words.
Orym’s touch is slow and light. He starts between their shoulder blades, in a spot Ashton can feel is scarce on the golden scars spider webbing across their skin. Ashton appreciates him not jumping straight into the deep end. Even with Orym, sometimes Ashton still can’t stand to be touched, especially when they’re hurting like this.
Orym’s hands are warm most of the time anyway, but Ashton can feel the ointment spreading over his skin. It tingles at first, a sharp cold that borders on being painful. But then the cold melts into a muscle-deep warmth.
Ashton lets out an involuntary sound of pleasure as they feel themself relax under Orym’s touch.
“Good?” Orym asks, pausing his massage to check in with them.
“Good.” Ashton agrees, sighing happily. “Fucking great.”
Ashton can hear a smile in Orym’s voice. His hands move slowly across their back; fingers brushing gently at first, a warning before he applies pressure. Every now and then he has to pause to scoop more of the ointment out of the jar, then massages its cold-warm relief into their skin.
The minty smell of it fills Ashton’s nose. It’s a little abrasive, he thinks, but it could smell like literal shit for all he cared if it felt as good as this.
Orym’s gentle fingers find the swell of Ashton’s shoulder where the worst of the golden cracks splinter in circles around the point of impact. Ashton winces, flinching away from even the lightest touch.
“Sorry.” Orym apologizes, backing off immediately.
“S’okay. Just. Hurts a lot there.” They take a deep breath, trying to steady themself against the surge of pain. They’d let go of the white-knuckle grip they usually have on themself, just a little, in the face of the relief Orym is giving them. They don’t usually flinch away from this shit; they can handle it. They’re fucking fine. “You can keep going.” They say, when they feel in control of themself again.
“So you want me to skip that spot?” Orym asks, hands still hovering hesitantly a few inches above their skin.
Ashton shakes their head. “M’ready. Just. Go easy.”
Orym hesitates a moment longer, but then he must decide to trust Ashton about how much they can handle, because he continues, hands brushing feather-light across the broken skin of their shoulder. Ashton appreciates it, even as he grits his teeth against the pain of being touched there. Finally, the burning cold gives way to warmth, and some relief.
It doesn’t erase the worst of the pain, but it dulls it enough that Ashton decides they made the right choice having Orym continue. They relax, letting him move on, massaging up their neck and then down their arm, to the tips of their fingers.
They’re still in pain when Orym’s done. They hadn’t expected any different. Maybe on a good day, when the ache started as just a buzz they could shove to the back of their mind, Orym would be able to massage all of the pain out of their body, if only for an hour or two. But this has at least lowered the intensity, and given Ashton some space to breathe. They think they’ll even be able to sleep like this, which is fucking awesome.
“Do you want to sleep on your back?” Orym asks, once he’s replaced the jar of ointment in his pack.
Ashton considers it. Part of him wants to tell Orym he never wants to move again. But he’d probably be more comfortable on his back; he could let his bad shoulder rest against the mattress. “Yeah. I can do it.” They twist their core and let themself fall gently onto the mattress, tensing for the impact and then melting against the bed.
They can feel Orym watching them. “I take it this worked, then?” He asks. If it were anyone but Orym, Ashton would think he sounded smug. But no, he’s just…pleased, to have done something good for Ashton. They doubt they’ll ever get used to this.
Ashton peels their eyes open and rolls them at the downright fond expression on Orym’s face. “Yeah, it fucking worked.”
Orym laughs as their words fade into a yawn. “Is it still okay if I sleep here?” he asks.
Ashton nods, letting their eyes fall shut again. Now that they’re not in so much pain anymore they want to go to sleep before it comes back. They don’t much care if they’re alone or not. Either way is tolerable.
Orym hums quietly as he gets ready for bed. Ashton has no idea how someone who wakes up so early every morning isn’t reduced to a zombie at this late hour. But even as worn out as they all are, Orym is still just as pleasant and kind and good as he always is.
Ashton stops that train of thought in its tracks. It’s not fair to Orym to think of him that way. Too much pressure. Ashton can see now, past the rosy glasses they thought they’d broken forever ago, that Orym’s as fucked up as the rest of them. He’s just a hell of a lot better at hiding it, which really just makes Ashton worry about him more.
I was by myself. It’s not great.
Ashton knows what Orym means. But their way of dealing with that shit is to become a professional at being alone. Orym, on the other hand, clings to people like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.
“Can I get close or are you all touched out for tonight?” Orym asks, hesitating with half a foot between them on the bed. Ashton has seen the way he sleeps with the girls, the way he used to wedge himself between Fearne and Dorian. They remember how Orym said he misses Will the most at night. How he’d been staring up at Ruidus, nestled in Catha’s embrace, when they found him at the mast of the airship the night before.
“M’not touched out for you.” They say, extending their right arm to make room for Orym to curl against their side. As the halfling finally settles in bed beside him, he feels stupidly honored that he’s one of the people Orym chooses to cling to.
Despite the chill of the night air, and the rain that seems to have buried its damp coldness into Ashton’s bones, Orym’s small body is a comforting warmth beside them.
“Your lights are slower tonight.” Orym comments.
Ashton peels their eyes open to find Orym studying their face with an expression they can’t name. His small hand is hovering over the glass in their head; Ashton can see the slow flickers of light reflected on his palm, in his eyes. “You can touch, if you want.” They turn their head to give Orym easier access.
Orym hesitates, then gently lets his fingers ghost over the glass. It’s a strange sensation; Ashton can’t feel the touch itself, but he can feel the press of the glass into his skin, the ghost of the pressure of Orym’s touch. “I think Fearne’s been staring in here when you sleep.” Orym tells him.
Ashton smiles a little. “Then she better pay up.”
Orym smiles, too. “What about me? How much do I owe you?”
Ashton pretends to consider it. “I think I’ll let you pay in massages. Fuck, that felt good.”
Orym hums, nodding against the pillow. “You’ve got a deal.” His fingers travel over the glass again, and then find their way into Ashton’s hair. He strokes his gentle touch across the shards of crystal. Ashton’s eyes fall closed again, and he lets out a soft, involuntary sound. Orym’s touch can’t really reach their scalp because of the closeness of the crystals, but his slender fingers find their way into the narrow spaces between shards of rock, and fuck does it feel good.
“Is this okay?” Orym asks, pausing his movements.
“Fuck, Orym, if you don’t keep doing that right fucking now I’m never letting you look into my weird brain again.”
Orym chuckles, but he starts up his touch again. Ashton melts even more, which they hadn’t thought was possible. “I wasn’t sure if it would still feel nice for you or not, with your hair the way it is.”
Ashton hums noncommittal, feeling themself drift toward sleep.
“Does it feel the same as it does with…I don’t know what to call it. Hair like mine, I guess?”
Ashton shrugs, half asleep. “I dunno. I’ve never felt that.”
Orym is silent for a moment, hand pausing only briefly before starting up again. When he speaks, his voice is different than before; tight, guarded. “I thought you said you didn’t change until you were around ten?”
“Mm-hmm.” Ashton agrees, trying to cling to the calm of the moment. “Nobody was stroking our hair and tucking us in at the Greymoore Home. And before that…I dunno. Maybe. But I don’t remember it.”
Orym’s hand stills in their hair, and Ashton can tell the moment is lost. He doesn’t know quite how, but he can sense the frown creasing itself into Orym’s mouth. Should have just said yes and let Orym keep doing that. “Fuck. I can feel you giving me the pity look. Cut that shit out.” He drags his eyes open, and sure enough, Orym’s looking at him with a stomach-turning amount of gentle sadness in his eyes.
“It’s not pity.” Orym argues, although it definitely fucking is. On the rare occasion someone pays attention to Ashton long enough to bother, they always see that same look in their eyes. It fucking sucks to see it in Orym’s.
They pull away, and Orym drops his hand immediately, backing off at the first sign of their discomfort. A treacherous voice in their mind wants to tell Orym not to let them ruin this moment, even as they feel the urge to yell rise up within them.
“Whatever. I’m not some charity case. I don’t need you seeing me as the sad fucking orphan that nobody fucking wants.”
“I’ve never seen you that way.” Orym’s rebuttal is immediate and firm. It throws Ashton enough that they pause, anger scattered by uncertainty. “I just…I like to think of the world as a good place. Or, I try to. Because I have to. And because that’s how Will saw it.” He takes a shaky breath. “But then I hear things like the fact that no one ever…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It makes me angry.”
Ashton sighs, too exhausted to bring themself to do anything but accept Orym’s explanation. Besides, a part of them knows Will is all but sacred to Orym. He wouldn’t bring him into this if he didn’t mean what he said. Still, they can’t decide if righteous anger is much better than pity. “Well, sorry for fucking up your rosy world view.” Maybe another night the words would have been bitter. But right now they’re just…resigned.
“That’s not really…it sort of just makes me want to make the world good. For you.” Orym sighs. “It’s been a long time since I think I believed it actually could be.” He drags a hand down his face, suddenly seeming even more exhausted than Ashton feels. “Mostly I’ve just been going through the motions.” His voice comes out rough, like he’s suddenly on the verge of tears. Fuck. How does this always happen?
Pain, Ashton thinks. Orym had said he understood what Ashton meant, about the aching background noise. Orym’s pain is emotional, rather than physical, but he’s been carrying it around for what? Six years now? Ashton’s certainly not going to discount it. They know, on their clearer days, that they’ve got a shit load of that kind of pain, too, but they’d rather hide behind the pain they can feel in their body than face what’s hiding in their head. They sigh.
“Yeah. Me fucking too.”
They lapse into silence for a while. Ashton lies there wondering if Orym is asleep, kicking themself for pulling away from the comfort of his hand, trying to decide if they have the guts to ask Orym to touch them again.
Double edged sword. Isn’t that just their whole fucking life?
“I don’t pity you, Ash.” Orym’s voice comes out of the darkness. “I admire you. I care about you. I…worry.”
Ashton closes their eyes. “Yeah. Well…that shit’s new for me.”
“Yeah. I guess I’m getting used to it again, too.” Orym murmurs. “It’s good, though. Isn’t it?”
Ashton thinks about that for a long moment. And then, terrified, he reaches out and finds Orym’s hand. “Yeah. Fuck. I think it might be.”