Work Text:
The beautiful, ornate wooden rooms of the Wild Mother's apartments were a lush perk of being Exandria's ace in the hole. They were also treated to a bounty of a dinner. A real hero's feast. Supple meats, soft yet pleasing to chew. Fresh breads of all kinds, perfect crust with pillowy insides. Rices fluffy and filled with vegetables. Noodles piled high and lathered in sauces. Potatoes prepared in every way they could imagine, dripping in oil and cheese. A whole table stuffed full of sticky sweet cakes and spun sugar confections. The Bell's Hells not used to banquets were enamored, happy to take their fill.
Dorian thought of it more as a last meal. Whether they truly thought Bell's Hells wouldn't come back was irrelevant. They were treated as sacrifices. He didn't appreciate being fattened for slaughter.
The bedrooms reminded Dorian of Eshteross’ manor. It was obvious the original commissioner took great care and thought went into each room’s design. Pleasant for guests, but still true to the style of the owner. The Wild Mother’s stewards devoted each room to a different element of their goddess's domain. Flowers and beasts, oceans and mountains, Wild's Grandeur and the Hunt.
Dorian was shown to a room with a large carved rose on it. Each pedal was slightly different, one was dripping, another looked as if it was on fire. He was told it was the chromatic rose room. He didn't really understand the difference between those and regular roses until he opened the door.
Large clusters of the flowers were gathered in the corners, along the molding, falling from the canopy bed. They were gorgeous. Red, black, blue, green, and white all meticulously arranged in neat patterns around the room. Bushels of black would speckle into a blanket of white, the acid dripping from it mingling with the permafrost. Red scattered into the white until it's taken over completely, fire melting away any ice remaining. Blue mixed and muddled with the red, almost making a mess of purple as they transitioned, lightning and flame, competing lights. Blue nearly lost in the nebulous black bleeding into it, acid catching on the small strikes of lightning. And all of it was accented by the vibrant, noxious green that dotted the edges in small groups of three, just to remind you that they were in fact flowers. The pattern lined the entire room and repeated itself on the canopy. Each side dedicated to a different color and the top overflowing with blue.
Dorian tried his hardest to enjoy it. He wanted to will away any misgivings. He smelled the flowers, admired their innate magic. How beautiful and powerful they were. Perhaps that's why they assigned him this room. A perfect balance of beauty and fierce elemental energy.
He shrugged off his mithril shirt, letting it fall to the ground. A wonderful thing about having a magically metal shirt is that it doesn't crease. His golden adornments hit the ground with a soft ringing. Without it, he could relax. He didn't have that responsibility hanging off his shoulders.
The bath water might as well have been boiling. As he sunk in, he could feel the layer of dirt and grime begin to peel off. He didn't even begin to wash himself at first. He just wanted to lay there and heat up.
Dorian rested his chin above the water. He never used to fear the water, being submerged. Despite his never ending breath, a panic set in once the liquid touched his lips. It was too fresh, the feeling of blood filling his lungs. He still had the taste of iron in his mouth. His faithless communion still bitter on his tongue.
The trial replayed in his mind. Opal beside Exandria's greatest villains. Villain. The jury was still out on Lilliana. Her many eyes, then many legs. The distant, unseeing gaze. How awful it was to see her like that again.
Dorian shook his head to chase the image away. She was preparing for the same war. There was a great possibility he would see her again very soon.
He tried to think of something else, anything else. But he couldn't think of a single thing that didn't make his heart sink like a stone in the ocean. He cried in his father's arms just as he was named Exandria's greatest hope. Embarrassing. He left Dariax alone in Zephrah. Cruel. He couldn't save Opal. He couldn't save Cyrus. Failure. He held Orym in his arms and told him he wanted to go back to Zephrah with him. Inopportune. Inappropriate. Inauspicious.
Dorian groaned in frustration. His mind buzzed with everything that made him recoil into himself. He leaned his head back into the water to wet his hair and stared up at the ceiling. No thoughts were allowed to cross his mind.
And when that made him anxious, he went on to actually bathe. He washed his hair for the first time in at least a week, messaging in the shampoo to really cleanse his scalp. Once rinsed, he carefully applied his conditioner to the bulk of the length and wrapped it neatly at the top of his head. Dorian took his net sponge and lathered it up with the soaps and oils laid out for him in the room. It was appropriately rose shaped and the scent it left on his skin also fit into the theme. Buttermilk and rose pedals. So he smelled sweet for the end of the world.
After his bath, he immediately went to the sink to brush his teeth. He needed to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. Spearmint burned away the rancid flavor of his own death.
Dorian pulled on a clean pair of underwear and started the arduous process of getting his hair to dry. He dug around in his pack for his modified wind fan so he could gust it dry. Best magical item he could ever ask for. And he was including Relics bestowed by goddesses in that.
As if thinking about him, or the mere approximation of him, brought him to Dorian; there was a knock on his door.
“Dorian?”
The polite thing to do was wait for the person on the other side of the door to answer before opening. But Dorian waltzed in without announcing himself first so he had no room to criticize. At least he waited until the lights were out.
Orym stood in the doorway looking up at Dorian. Dorian blinked back, in nothing but his underwear.
Dorian flushed indigo, instinctively freezing in place. He wasn't sure what the hell Orym was doing just standing there staring with the door open but it made his heart beat quicker.
“In or out, Orym,” He said.
Orym shuffled in and closed the door behind him. His face steadily got redder by the second. Dorian tried not to think about what he looked like in the center of a room full of flowers, hair soaking wet and wearing the bare minimum. This is why he waited for the cover of night. Having to look at each other plain like this was too much.
Dorian was tempted to move his pack over himself, try to salvage his dignity. But they've seen more of each other than this. The day at the spa was a wonderful exercise in team building in the way that Dorian knew what each of them looked like naked. And just last night, Dorian showed Orym one of the ugliest parts of himself. His unsure and decisive future. What was his bare legs and chest to his raw heart?
“Hey,” Orym said. His shoulders were slumped forward, his head bowed. He was trying to make himself smaller than he already was. Dorian hated when he did that.
“Hey,” Dorian said back. If he could, he’d extinguish all the light at once. Talking was easier when you couldn't see who was listening. “Was there something you needed? Is everyone okay?”
If something was wrong, Orym wouldn't silently stare. Or close the door behind him.
“Yeah, they're all… As well as can be expected,” Orym said. His gaze was intense, not for any pressure he put behind it. Orym just fixated on Dorian, refusing to look away. This was just like all his nightmares about going on stage in his underwear.
“Good,” Dorian wished he'd break. Say something of relevance. Gods it was so painful to just sit and stare at each other. In the light of day Dorian didn't have nearly as much confidence as he'd like, as he was supposed to have. If he was a normal bard, a good bard him and Orym would be long past this nonsense. They wouldn't be tiptoeing around each other. There wouldn't be this block of dissonance between them. “Well I-”
“How are you ?” Orym asked.
The question crushed him like an ancient fey temple. How was he? Did they have the time? Did Orym really want to know? Dorian thought of all the synonyms for bad he could. Terrible, exhausted, stressed, uncertain, weak, apprehensive-
“I'm fine,” Dorian said, the tone in his voice so normal. So just like everything else. There was no difference. No crack. No waver. Because he was fine, wasn't he? He was keeping it together rather well, despite everything. And he was a liar.
Orym took a step forward, that small wrinkle, the one that creased between his eyes when he was disappointed, made itself known. In that moment, Dorian leaned away, even though he was nowhere near him. Orym put his hands up, a show of good faith. How respectfully he was. How patient. It turned Dorian's stomach to think that he just barged into Orym's room the night before.
“Dorian,” His name in Orym's mouth normally filled him with butterflies. He normally felt as weightless as the air in his blood. But his voice was so stern. So dejected. It wrapped around his ankles and sank him deep in blood. “Don’t lie to me.”
Every lie felt like a notch on his tongue. Every time an untruth slipped past his lips, Dorian asked himself why . Why couldn't he be honest? Why couldn't he swallow his pride? Why couldn't he open up? Why couldn't he just choose to be who he wanted to be?
“I-I- w-well-” He could only stutter. It was probably for the best. Another lie would probably come out.
Orym took another step forward and Dorian took a whole step back. A deep sigh slipped past Orym's lips.
“Look… Last night, when you came in-”
“I-I’m sorry,” It bubbled out of Dorian before he could stop it. “I-I should have asked or told you or-”
“When you came in last night,” Orym repeated, cutting him off from cutting him off. “I didn't know what to expect. I wanted… You gave me something that I desperately needed.”
Dorian could fly away. Or pass out. His heart was beating so fast he really expected either. He wouldn't put it past his body to betray him like that.
“And I… I want to give you the same,” Orym took another step forward. Dorian did not move. “You deserve the same. Telling someone, crying like a baby in your-” He coughed. “It felt good, is what I mean. And I want to make you feel good too.”
Dorian was suddenly very aware of exactly how naked he was. How every part of him was radiating a heat that he couldn't blame entirely on his nerves.
Orym’s blush reapplied itself with a vengeance. “I didn't mean- not like-. Not that I don't-” Orym stopped, closing his eyes to collect himself.
Then he opened again, and he walked with a confident stride towards Dorian. When he got close enough to touch, Dorian moved backwards until his legs hit the bed. It threw him off balance and he ended up sitting on the edge of the footboard.
Orym seemed satisfied with Dorian's position. He would give anything to know what was going on in Orym's mind. Dorian expected, or wanted, Orym to settle himself between his legs. He wanted to be slotted together again like they were the night before. Maybe now he could enjoy it. If Orym was so hell bent on making him feel good .
Instead, Orym climbed onto the bed and situated himself behind Dorian. A shiver ran down his spine as Orym took his still wet hair and began using his air ashari nature to dry it off. A small warm breeze came from Orym's hands as he tangled his fingers in his tresses. Dorian sighed, letting Orym work. He was right. This did feel good.
“What happened with Opal?” Orym asked. “What happened to Cyrus?”
The question shattered the momentary peace. Dorian did not shake or sob like Orym had. He was less forthright with his emotions, which was a feat on its own. He didn't know where to start. Did he recount how he didn't even see his brother's body? Or how Fy’ra was left behind in the fray? Or how parts of Opal were destroyed? Or how he left Dariax after everything they've been through?
“Y-You don’t-”
“ Please ,” Orym begged. “It’s made you a stranger… It’s filled you with anger.”
Dorian resigned himself to start at the beginning. Or at least since he left Orym's side.
“We went to Kymal after Emon…” Dorian began. “It was where we thought we could make enough money to clear Cyrus's name.” The wind from Orym's hands tickled the base of his neck, all the way up to his hairline. Dorian tried not to tremble under his touch.
“It was Opal's idea to rob the casino,” He continued. “There was a gleam in her eye. I-I don't know I guess I was used to her wild ideas. A casino heist didn't seem any worse than breaking into a docked ship or, accidentally, demolishing a tower.”
“Not one of our best moments.” Orym said. Another instance of It was so ugly, the way we did it. Dorian was starting to realize tact wasn't one of their virtues.
“And when she woke up on the day of the heist she… she felt different,” Dorian should have seen it. He should have seen the darkness in her eyes. The slow, incremental decline in his friend. He was with her constantly. How could he have missed it? “But I didn't say anything. I didn't think it was a circlet thing. I just thought she was excited for the plan.”
Foolish . He thought of himself. Hindsight was really everything.
“Once the bounty was paid, we were coming to see you,” Dorian closed his eyes and let Orym bring him back into the moment. He hadn't noticed his hair was dry. But Orym's hands were still running through it. Did he have a comb? Were there braids? He wondered what the back of his head looked like. It didn't matter. So long as Orym kept touching him.
“While we were on our way… it didn't make sense at the time…” It was so sudden, Opal bending over in pain. Opal being taken over. “Why in that moment the spider queen, goddess of webs and conspiracy, forced her hand. Why would she do it at all? She was used to playing the long game.”
Imogen had described a mission on the moon where they blew up part of a city. A distraction from an assassination attempt on her mother. Something important was blown up. Something was accelerated because of the attack. A God Eater was roused. So the Gods quaked.
“Lolth was scared,” He said, spiteful. The venom dripped from his mouth as he felt little legs scurry across his shoulders. “She felt weak so she took power from someone else.”
Dorian felt a bite on his arm and he immediately clapped his hand over whatever it was, hoping to crush it in the process. When he lifted his hand, there was nothing there.
“The matron said she doesn't have any agency?” Orym posed it like a question. How did that happen? He asked.
Dorian’s chest started to heave, his breath quickening. He had to chase it down, he had to hold it so he wouldn't start to cry.
“Lolth splintered her,” Those tiny opals that burst from her chest, the memories she lost. They were shreds of her former self. “Her memories were all around us. We tried to gather them, we tried to help b-but-” His breath skipped as the pressure began to build. His eyes were getting heavy and not from sleep.
Orym climbed into Dorian's lap. He wrapped himself around Dorian's torso, his legs straddling his hips, his face pressed against his chest. Orym clutched Dorian as tight as he could. He was squeezing his ribcage. Dorian was sure Orym could hear his heart thundering in his chest. It was like the night before, Orym neatly tucked under his chin and the perfect size for Dorian to hold. Dorian could envelope all of him in his arms. It gave him the security of holding something so dear to you, knowing it couldn't get lost.
Dorian breathed out. “She summoned spiders to attack us, to stop us. And Opal… She tried to bargain with her. The goddess of spiders and deceit. Up until the very end. Or the end that I saw. It was all a deal she was making. Get us to leave, or she’d kill us.”
Orym nodded against him, waiting for him to go on.
“One of the spiders went for Cyrus,” Dorian recounted. He felt himself start to leave his body, to separate from the pain. To cope. To be able to continue on. Then Orym squeezed him again. And Dorian was in his body again. Air Ashari grounding an air genasi. In his body, Dorian had to feel what came next.
“She did it to make a point, you know,” Dorian said. The lights were still on. His eyes were still open. Everything was so much more painful in the light. “She killed Cyrus because she was making a point to Opal… That she still had so much to lose.”
Something was broiling in his chest. He didn't know if it was anger or sadness or a vile combination of both. All he knew was that it burned . The emotion that he normally clawed away from sat and festered and smoldered at his center.
“He wasn't hers to lose,” It came out of Dorian's mouth before he had time to process it. It was never words before. But that vitrial was familiar. It had settled at the bottom of his chest since the battle. “Sure they were friends. They had a fling. But Cyrus wasn't- It didn't-”
The Spider Queen’s voice scratched against his ears again, whispering into the deepest parts of his mind. I wanted you first. It tumbled through his head over and over again. How conceited did he have to be to believe that Lolth did all of it, possess Opal, strip her of her memories and autonomy, kill Cyrus, to spite Dorian?
“She killed my brother to make a point,” He repeated. Whatever the point may have been, she definitely proved it. It didn’t matter why , in the end. All that mattered was that Cyrus Wyvernwind was dead.
“I haven’t even seen his body,” Dorian said, remembering the tug he felt that compelled him to Orym, compelled him here. “Opal… She was sweet to us till the very end… She commanded us to… To go see you.”
Dorian couldn’t help himself. He curled around Orym, pulling his knees up to trap Orym against him. Although, Orym didn’t seem to mind. Dorian kissed the top of Orym’s head again. A compulsion he's had for a while. It was the kindest place to place a kiss. And Orym deserved kindness in every way Dorian could give it to him.
“She casted us away so we wouldn’t die trying to save her,” Black icor tears and a plea in her voice. It was true. Dorian would have done anything to save her. He still would. That urge will get him killed one day. “Her spell warped my mind and took hold of my feet. I couldn’t control myself. I started to walk away from her, from Fy’ra Rai, from Cyrus…”
He passed the spot, Cyrus was well hidden in the trees. He could hear Cyrus scream . He could hear Cyrus stop screaming.
“I was already past him. I couldn’t. There was nothing,” A sob stuck in his throat. He tried desperately to swallow it down. He couldn’t let the dam break.
“I don’t think I would have wanted to see it,” Dorian said, thinking about his brother’s death in detail always lit his spine on fire. He didn’t want to imagine spider fangs buried in his brother’s neck or his unseeing eyes peering back at him. “I don’t want that to be the way I remember him. I want…” He trailed off. How did he remember Cyrus?
Orym nuzzled into his neck. “I didn’t really get to know Cyrus. Ships passing,” He said. “What was he like?”
That was it. Four little words that sent Dorian tumbling off the edge. He still didn't shake or wheeze for air. Tears overflowed and stained his cheeks. They ran freely and uninhibited. He couldn't have stopped them if he tried. The dam broke. Dorian could feel the sharp edges piercing through the rest of his walls.
One long, agonizing wail erupted from deep in his stomach. It was laced with the anguish and anger that he felt that night, those couple of days. The rotting corrosion that ate away his heart and soul.
He gasped once, twice, trying to put air back in his lungs.
“I-I don't know,” Dorian confessed. It wasn't the first time he said it out loud. It still hurt like an exposed nerve against something sweet. “He has always been there. My whole life. Cyrus was a law of the universe. He just was. An unachievable, miles off triumph. Something that hung over my head. Not a goal. Not an aspiration. Just a reminder of what I wasn't. I-”
Before showing up in Jrusar, Dorian only had a hazy idea of what his brother looked like in their adult years. He knew the gold septum ring that adorned his face, the gold that dropped from his ears. He knew he looked like their mother. Her square jaw and green eyes. Her bountiful curls that cascaded over her shoulders. Dorian liked them all better on her.
“I-I don't know him.” Another cry came out, shaking his lungs. “My whole fucking life and I don't even- I didn't know my brother.”
There was a cavernous hole inside of him. A part of him had been carved out by the sharp knife of the world. One that will never be filled. Dorian felt the loss aching in his bones.
“He was taken away from me at every turn. Our parents,”
Dorian remembered the day they couldn't play anymore. Cyrus turned ten and they were playing in one of the tea rooms. They hopped on couches and chairs, side tables and coffee tables, the floor was lava after all. And Cyrus, ever the brilliant strategist, leaped for a bookcase. It was too far, he was too heavy. He barely caught the edges before he was falling back. With the momentum, the book case came with him. The noise thundered through the cold, echoing marble. Then there were so many people in the room. Guards, nannies, Father, Mother . They were so worried about the bumps on his head. Father took him by the elbow, furious. “You could have been hurt! You're too old for this, Cyrus!” Cyrus never wanted to play after that.
“M-My o-own…”
Dorian had to leave. He couldn't stay. He couldn't stand to be in the shadows anymore. He couldn't keep himself locked away forever. It was always one of the costs of his pilgrimage. He knew that when he left. That he would be leaving Cyrus behind. In this position, it does seem more costly.
“The gods themselves.”
To spite him. The Spider Queen stole away his chances of knowing his brother. Forever.
A laugh, sour and bitter, ripped through him. “It almost sounds clandestined like that doesn't it? I was never supposed to know my brother. He was never supposed to ascend to the role he was born into. He was never supposed to marry, have children, live his life -”
Dorian felt a gentle kiss on his collar bone. He came crashing down out of the spiraling headspace. He blinked, his chest was heaving, his heart was racing, and Orym was gripping him with a vice.
“I'm sorry, I didn't realize,” Orym said into his neck. His hot breath flared up the nerves there. His fingers were between Dorian's shoulder blades. Each touch felt like a claw sinking into him, pulling him back, anchoring him. He focused on Orym's movements. A triangle with a line across the top peak. The symbol for air. The symbol they both share. “I thought you must’ve… I'm… I'm just sorry.”
Dorian sat for a moment. Frozen in place, afraid to think, afraid to speak. Gods forbid he moved, gods forbid Orym stop touching him. He took in the sensation of Orym's burnishing tracings. He allowed himself to feel it. He allowed himself to feel all the places they touched. Orym’s face was pressed against his neck, his collar. Their chests both bare as Dorian cradled them together. His own arms were wrapped around Orym's torso, one hand clasped at his hip and the other buried in his hair. Orym was sitting in his lap while Dorian didn't have-
No, in these close quarters, this precarious position, he couldn't feel where Orym was situated. That might make it end.
Instead, Dorian dug his fingers to Orym's scalp, feeling his way through his hair. The fine strands tangled, so he detangled them. Something soothing. Something sensory. To keep him there.
“I think the worst part of it all,” Dorian said, rubbing a small piece of skin on Orym's hip bone. “Is that I left Jrusar, I left Bell’s Hells to chase this idea that we could have the sort of relationship I’ve always wanted from him. Of course I went with him to help with the bounty, but I think I had this notion that we were going to be as thick as thieves the moment we left.” He fisted Orym’s hair lightly. Grounding .
That earned Dorian another kiss on the neck.
“And we were better than we were when I left home… But we never really… He bonded quicker with Dariax than…” Dorian ran his hand on the small of Orym’s back, one end to another. “The more time I spent with him… I remembered why…”
Dorian squeezed Orym as close as possible. It was never close enough.
“I wanted to go by a different name when I went into the world not just for anonymity’s sake… Brontë… Brontë is not…” He listened for the quiet signs of Orym’s breathing. In. And out. In. And out. “My whole life I pretended to be someone I’m not. So, I chose who I wanted to be.” He leaned his head against Orym’s, just to have another contact point. Orym nuzzled into him.
“He never asked me why. He never asked why I wanted to shed our family name, the name our parents gave me,” Dorian wanted to touch Orym lower, slip his hands in crevices he dreamed about. While that would certainly connect Orym to his body, it would only serve as another distraction for Dorian. And he didn't want Orym to be a distraction.
“Maybe he didn't think about it,” Dorian said, the hand in Orym's hair sliding to his ear, tracing the pointed shell. “Incurious… indifferent… uninterested? He never…”
Orym shivered in his arms and shifted himself against Dorian. Whether on purpose or purely by accident he placed a new, dizzying pressure on Dorian which certainly woke his body up.
“Cyrus never changed,” Dorian announced the thesis of his heartache. Another confession that tasted like bile as it formed out of unnamed animosity. “The man who died in the woods was the same man who got a bounty put on his head. The man who earned such a spectacular bounty was the same man who I grew up with.”
Orym’s fingers must have gotten tired. He stopped tracing patterns into Dorian's skin and just simply rested on his back. He did readjust again, so he could grip Dorian tight again.
“The same man I hid from all my life,” Dorian nudged his face against the top of Orym’s head. He did not want to go free falling into the fathomless pit of loneliness that was his childhood. Not without his anchor. “I had hoped… He could be my brother out here. Just my brother. Not the heir apparent or…”
Dorian was trying to find the words for what he wanted from Cyrus. The things he would never obtain. “I don’t know… Storybooks always told me that my brother was supposed to be my best friend. He was my older brother, so he was supposed to…” Whenever he thought about Cyrus, thought about his family, Dorian felt like a child. These complaints that he had, these grievances with the dead, were oh so childish. “He was supposed to protect me . If stories are to be believed. Yet I have always taken care of him…”
He let out the sigh that was coiled in his lungs. “I know now that I will never have a brother that will protect me from danger. I will never be able to share with him the intricacies of my life. He never knew who I truly was. And I have to… I have to make peace with that. Somehow. It is forever in my story, my history. There is no rewriting it. There is no reversing it. I will be gone to this world, and if they are still singing our song, Cyrus will be the unnamed brother that launched me into a destiny.”
Dorian traced the valleys of muscles on Orym’s shoulders to wrench himself back. He knew he was floating away. “Is it selfish of me? To still want so much from him? Is it fair to hold a grudge against a deadman? Who am I really spiting? He's cold in the ground while I’m still here hurting myself-”
Orym detached himself from Dorian, leaning back. Dorian had a full view of the worry on Orym’s face. He wasn’t sure how he could make every emotion look so beautiful. Was it the softness in his green eyes? Or the way his mouth hung slightly open whenever there was something on the tip of his tongue. Maybe it was just the pure earnestness that ran through his blood. Such a beautiful soul. It only makes sense that everything about him would be exceptional.
“Dorian,” The butterflies were back. Orym said his name so sweetly. He wondered if he could make him scream it. “You are allowed to be hurt. You don’t have to be okay with the lot you were given.” Orym reached up to hold his cheeks. Dorian immediately leaned into it without a thought.
Orym’s thumb stroked along his cheekbones, reminding Dorian to stay with him. Dorian breathed slowly. Carefully knowing the sensation of the air passing through him. The way his lungs, his diaphragm, expanded. The coolness that filled him. The heat that left him. Dorian was in Orym’s arms. He was alive. His body was firmly planted on Exandria.
“How am I supposed to…” Orym’s hands on his face, his thighs squeezing his waist. “How do I move on? How do I reconcile with all the lives that died with him?” The life where Dorian goes back to the squall to live and watch his brother lead with his own family. The life where Dorian doesn’t go back to the squall, blissfully unaware of politics and family, walking his own path undisturbed. All the lives where Dorian was free to do as he pleased. All the lives where he was forever the Secondsun.
“I… Don’t think you can,” Orym said softly. Dorian melted under the compassion in Orym’s gaze. “It’s been almost seven years since…” Will . Dorian filled in the blanks himself. Brothers and lovers. People in your life you never imagine living without. “And I can’t lie to you. I think about the life I lost with Will everyday.”
No wonder Orym gave away his future. The only life he ever imagined for himself died years ago. How long had he felt this hopeless? Were all two thousand days just as miserable as the first?
“But,” Orym brushed Dorian’s hair behind his ears. He paused for a moment, just looking at Dorian. His face heated up. He didn’t want to look away from Orym. He never had. And now, Orym was looking back. “As I’ve recently come to terms with, our lives go on without them. Whether we move on or not. Will doesn’t want me to live my life in the shadow of his. Cyrus-”
Reflexively, Dorian’s hand flew up to Orym’s. He held on with a vice. Someone else saying his name sent a jolt down his spine. It was real. He was real. He wasn’t just a figment of Dorian’s imagination. He wasn’t just a tragic device in his backstory. Cyrus was alive at one point. Cyrus was the first born. Cyrus was his older brother. Cyrus was .
“Sure we don’t know exactly what he would have wanted. Because that kind of certainty doesn’t exist. But he was your brother. He loved you,” Orym leaned forwards and kissed Dorian’s forehead. “He wouldn’t want to haunt you. So don’t make him.”
Dorian watched carefully as Orym pressed their foreheads together. Dangerously close, dangerously intimate. Dorian’s heart raced. Everything about him was racing. His heart, his mind, his breath. He was lightheaded. Between pouring out every negative emotion and thought he kept locked away over the past few months and the proximity to Orym, he was exhausted. The tension and guilt that had wadded itself up in his chest was gone. He felt so much lighter. And so so empty.
“Not spending the rest of my life with you will haunt me,” Dorian said. That one felt like picking at a scab, scraping at the bottom of his fears and making him bleed. “If… If we can’t have our brewery, if we can’t have our house by the cherry blossoms, if I have to be Brontë again, it’ll haunt me. And it’ll be his fault.”
There. That was it. That was the last terrible, nasty thought he held about his brother. The last grudge he still held. How pathetic he must sound. Whining and sniffling about being given a throne and a title. How many people would happily pretend to be someone they’re not if it comes with a life of glitter and jewels? But a gilded cage is still a prison.
“Hey,” Orym whispered. Dorian hadn’t realized he started to tear up again until Orym pushed them away. “You will always be Dorian Storm, okay? On the world stage you are Dorian Storm, Master Muse and Son of the Wind. Legendary heroes and leaders only know you as Bell’s Hells’ Dorian Storm.”
Orym paused for a moment, pulling away slightly. Dorian could tell that he was taking him all in. He let himself be looked at.
“You’re… You’re Dorian to me,” He said. “You’re Dorian Storm, humble bard. You’re the man who saves me in the middle of a battle. You’re the man who will do anything for his friends, even take on the gods themselves. You’re the man who likes to see me happy… You’re the man who makes me happy.”
Dorian’s heart swelled and a wave of something washes over him. If Orym wasn’t on top of him, if he wasn’t anchoring him, Dorian would float away.
“Can I kiss you?” Dorian asked. It was the only thing he wanted to do. Perhaps it wasn’t the time. Perhaps Dorian shouldn't try to fill the yawning hole in his heart with physical affection. He didn't want to associate kissing Orym with the feeling of emptiness. But God's wouldn't it feel so good to do something so bad? Wouldn't it be nice to indulge the worst parts of himself at the end of the world?
“You know,” Orym started. A smile cracked his serious exterior. “If you had asked me at any other point in the past few months, I would have been all over you “
Every part of Dorian woke up at the thought of Orym all over him. His hands, his mouth, all over him. That is exactly what Dorian wanted. The only thing that was holding him back was the looming but in the statement.
“But I think right now you're overwhelmed and drained and I want to kiss you when you don't have tears staining your face,” Orym said, brushing his hand over his cheek again, trying to clean him up.
It's not a rejection , Dorian thought. It's not a rejection. It's not a rejection.
He had to cling to that thought so he wouldn't sink into his cavernous heart.
“Will you stay with me tonight, then?” Dorian asked. “I haven't slept as well as… I haven't really slept since Cyrus and… With you in my arms last night… I really slept for the first time.”
When he woke up, he felt refreshed and warm. Even if he still has his own feelings bound tight and stashed away, waking up next to someone alleviated a fair amount of anxiety about the day.
Orym gave him another affectionate glance, his soft, adoring smile never fading. “If it were up to me, we’d never sleep apart.”
If anyone could pry a smile out of Dorian, it was Orym and his palpable adoration. “How am I not supposed to kiss you after that?”
Orym shrugged and embraced Dorian again, taking his spot tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped completely around his torso. “One more night won't hurt.”
One at a time, the candles keeping the room alight started to go out. Orym was capable of little miracles like that. Dorian held him tight and moved them so they were laying on their sides in the bed. He did his best to kick down the blanket so he could cocoon them in their last shred of luxury.
Dorian listened to the sound of Orym's breathing and counted his heart beats. It was to be the lullaby he got to fall asleep to for the rest of his days. No matter how many there were.
“Tell me about our future again.” Orym mumbled. It was clear he was already drifting. Dorian didn't want to excite him too much. They had a big day ahead of them. They should both get some rest.
“We own a brewery in Zephrah. We have a house by your mother and the cherry blossom tree,” Dorian exhaled. “We are happy.”