Archive of Our Own ^beta

• 1

He couldn’t have been older than fifteen the first time. And gods, he had no idea what he was doing. 

There had been a visit with a diplomat, and some important banquet with his parents that he and Cyrus were also made to attend. Truly, despite all of the schooling they were given, the full concept of the fine details of meetings like this were lost on the young genasi.

Still, the first night of their stay on the outskirts of this unfamiliar city, there was a gorgeous feast held at a rather stiff table. Brontë sat to the side of Cyrus, who sat to the side of their parents, and across from them was this intimidating fire genasi man, his three adult sons, and one daughter, who was the same age as the younger Wyvernwind son. And though the air was tense and professional throughout dinner, he remembers only how intrigued he was with the girl across from him, more so than he ever had been before.

But what was to come of it? This ambassador, who Brontë could not remember the name of to save himself, seemed very stern and very protective. When their meal was done, he dismissed his four children with a snap, and they all rose in near perfect unison, then filed out. It was practiced, and not necessarily unkind, just habitual. Still, he caught the girl’s eyes one more time as she glanced over her shoulder to look once more before disappearing down the hall.

So, that was it, he thought as he filed into the guest room they were provided. Usually when they travelled, it was for a day at most, and his parents would set up camp in some very nice tents and stay on the outskirts of the city. But, they were invited for a few days, and accepted the offer to stay in the very nice home. Brontë and Cyrus were given strict instructions to not go anywhere unless it was accompanied by their parents, and that meant it would only be for the handful of official meets they were supposed to go to. Brontë was prepared to spend the entire trip in the small room.

He was not expecting anyone other than his parents or maybe his brother to knock on the door. So seeing the ambassador’s daughter standing there with wide, hopeful, anxious eyes threw him for a loop.

“Ah– hello?”

She grinned wide upon the startled greeting, and Brontë was suddenly overwhelmingly aware that he was in his sleep clothes in comparison to her very nice dress. 

“I know we aren’t supposed to do this, but come watch the stars with me.”

It was sudden, it was bold, they hadn’t spoken a word before this. There was an excitement behind their unspoken interest in each other. Brontë could feel his heart pick up anxiously. He didn’t really have friends back at home, let alone anyone his age, let alone someone so pretty. And he wasn’t even supposed to be talking to her, and he wasn’t supposed to leave his room, and he didn’t know anything about where he was–

“Alright..!”

“Do you have a cloak?”

He nodded quickly, eyes still huge.

“Great! Grab it, we will need to hide!”

And the next thing he knew, the two of them were hidden under dark hoods, running through windy pathways to get through the massive home and out to the garden, where their speed picked up once she was confident they were out of sight. Her hood flew off and she let out an excited laugh. Brontë could only follow, a wonderstruck look practically glued to his face.

They spent hours, then, just talking, wandering the fields past the already expansive garden. They learned about each other, gossiped about their own families, bonded over sheltered, cloistered lives. They shared stories, they sang songs, they laughed, and once she cried. It was so nice.

It had to be well past midnight when they wound up on their backs, counting the constellations, and her pinky twitched as she extended it to the side just enough to interlock with Brontë’s. The touch made him jump at first, his heart racing.

She must’ve noticed because she turned her head to the side, cheek almost touching the grass now, giggling playfully as she said, “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“All I did was touch your hand and you’re bright purple.”

“Oh! I–”

“It’s cute.”

One thing Brontë had learned about this girl—aside from her stunning golden eyes, how her hair looked like it was embedded with embers that glowed faintly when it bent in the wind, the fact that she felt like a token in her family instead of a daughter, and that her favorite color was emerald green—was that she was surprisingly bold for such a sheltered teenager. Brontë was very much not that. Not at all. Not yet. Every compliment, every sweet smile, every daring comment, it made his heart rush.

And it kept rushing as she rolled onto her side fully now, getting even closer, and he forgot to keep breathing, not that he needed to. He watched every move she made, as her eyes traced his face, she swept her hair off her cheek, she lifted her hand to so delicately hold under the side of his jaw.

“Hey, is it okay if I kiss you?”

This seemed straight out of a fairytale, a fantasy novel in the library at home, something so whimsical and almost corny that it seemed like it was too good to be true. And gods, he had no idea what he was doing, but she was so beautiful that he couldn’t think about anything else.

Quickly, he nodded, and he tried to say ‘yeah’ , but his voice came out dry and inaudible.

Luckily, all she did was giggle, and not in a mean way, but in a way so endearing that Brontë felt his heart melt, and then he melted even further as she gave him a gentle, tender kiss.

To this day, he regrets that he can’t remember her name.

• 2

At around twenty years old, he fell victim to brotherly taunting and peer pressure.

He and Cyrus did what they definitely were not supposed to do on one of the visits to the outskirts of a city and wandered just a bit further than they were supposed to. The intent was just to get to the outside of the city so they could see the view, maybe see all the lights and bustling of people.

What they didn’t expect was to find, before the edge of the city, a party happening. A large group of young adults—not far out of their own ages if not the same as the brothers—were playing music, dancing, and drinking. Which was odd for Cyrus and Brontë, because there was no motivation for this party. It wasn’t a fancy banquet, there was no grand hall and expensive band, no chef on hand and certainly no fancy costumes.

It was just dozens of people with some cheap booze, a few instruments, and seemingly no motivation other than to have a good time.

The two brothers stood in awe for a moment on the edges of the party, just watching in wonder at all of the laughter and glee shared between the group, before a gnomish girl happened to spot them, and without hesitation or care, waved them over like they’d all been friends for years.

Brontë felt as though he and Cyrus were wildly out of place and clearly not dressed for such a party, but his brother was eager to join and explore, and gods, who was he kidding? Brontë was just as eager.

The two merged into the crowd and just mingled, drinking when offered. Luckily, their banquet experience gave them good conversational skills, but every conversation here felt less forced and a lot more laid back.

The conversation here also, with certain individuals, felt a little more motivated by intimacy and the potential for physical relationship. Cyrus was finding himself comfortable and social and loving the attention he was getting, and Brontë, though anxious, wanted to feel as doted on as his first kiss. 

This was so much better than stuffy parties where he was the youngest person in the room and was treated as such. This was with people his own age who wanted to hear what he had to say, see what he had to offer.

So, he struck up a conversation with an elven guy, who was nearly a foot shorter than him, smiling up at him with warm eyes and complimenting his gorgeous hair and pretty eyes.

And he wasn’t quite sure how they got there, but eventually Brontë and this elven boy who’s name he never caught were kissing. It wasn’t anything like the kiss under the stars with the ambassador’s daughter—not that it was bad , it was just clearly something he was doing more for fun.

The elf pulled away and laughed teasingly, “You don’t seem like you know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I have no clue,” Brontë admitted boldly with a flush in his cheeks. “Is that—“

“That’s fine, I promise. You just are so tense,” he laughed. “S’okay if I kiss you again?”

“Yes, please.”

It was a little embarrassing how quickly he responded, but the attention was nice, and this kindness was nicer. And dammit, a few kisses later and Brontë was sure he got the hang of it finally.

Eventually, Cyrus came back to find his brother and pried him away (thank gods he hadn’t been mid-kiss when he did, that would be a very awkward conversation, in Brontë’s opinion). They bid their farewells to everyone they met and rushed back to their camp in the dim moonlight, giggling and recounting their evenings vaguely to each other.

They were barely able to successfully sneak back, only getting caught just as they were getting into sleepwear with flushed faces.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you boys in a few hours,” their father commented, his tone only mildly accusing. “Where did you go?”

Brontë and Cyrus, sharing a quick glance and biting back their smiles, shrugged a bit before one of them said, “Just went for a walk around the camp.”

• 3

Brontë actually usually enjoyed it when they hosted banquets at the Squall. It wasn’t common, but on the rare occasion that they were the host, he was always ecstatic to dress up and mingle. That’s all he could do, truthfully.

It’s not like he had much freedom over his wardrobe, but there was at least an opportunity for some extra flair. And he had pretty strict instructions on who to interact with and how he should, as his parents wanted to make sure they all stayed on good standards. 

It’s not his fault that, this time, one of the guests who he was mingling with happened to be close in age with him, and instead of conversing about something scripted out by his family, they mingled over their love of theatre. It’s not entirely his fault that they laughed a little louder than the rest of the guests, or that Brontë kept excitedly clapping and giggling. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal that they leaned in close to each other—to hear better, to focus on each other, honestly nothing more.

Though, it was partially his fault that his forehead collided with theirs, but partially his mother’s fault because she startled the daylights out of him as she practically snuck up behind him.

“Brontë,” she had said, triggering the jolt forwards. 

“Mother.”

“A word,” she said softly, gesturing.

He excused himself, apologizing once more before the family stepped a few feet away.

“Bron, my dear, I am glad you are mingling, but you should be greeting everyone. This is an important banquet.”

Brontë frowned a bit. “I don’t see the issue–”

But his concerns fell on deaf ears, as she just continued on—in a soft yet somewhat condescending tone—about how he had duties, and this wasn’t just a party, and he should be a better host, and his lack of composure, while endearing, showed an unfair bias towards a singular guest, and more jargon about how he can’t have joy or friends or whatever.

And Brontë loves his mother, but he’s twenty five and he feels like a child being scolded. And still, he has no friends, and he is craving outside attention aside from the people of the Squall, but there was an odd power imbalance, even if he tried to act like there wasn’t.

“—unless this is finally some courtship that might be in our favor, maybe you should continue to—”

Oh.

And this wicked idea planted in his head, and it’s not fair to anyone, and he feels immediately guilty, but he disengages from his mother and saddles up hastily to the stranger. Quickly, before his mother can get back in earshot, he ducks down close to their cheek and whispers, “We’ve bonded over our love of theatre; would you like to put on a little show with me?”

And thank the skies for whatever situation this noble was in that made them so daring and so adventurous—Brontë felt so seen.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. We are romantically involved now. May I kiss you?”

“Give it your all, pretty boy.”

Brontë felt his ears flush, but had no time to think as he heard the click of his mother’s heels behind him and he went for it. 

He wasn’t sure what deity willed two matching souls to meet, but he had so much fun the rest of the night, putting on a show of disgusting affection, kissing this stranger, even meeting their family and convincing them as well, before eventually staging a semi-messy break-up at the end of the night that only got him mildly scolded but partially consoled for.

As they were leaving, they looked over their shoulder and flashed a bright smile. Brontë wrote a few letters to them later in life, but nothing came of it.

• 4

Finally, there was a pushing point in his life where Brontë left home. After years of being cloistered, bursting at the seams with want of exploration, he finally worked up the courage to pack his bags and flee.

It was an interesting first year, bumping through cities, playing at various taverns, learning the world was not provided to him the way it had been at the Squall. Which, at first, confused and frustrated him, but then he found the thrill in all of the irritating little moments. No, he did not enjoy the nights where the only room to stay was the smallest, most uncomfortable room of the inn, but the day after, he could think this was a true adventure.

He was making a name for himself, and a new one at that—he realized early on that he should not, nor did he want to carry the Wyvernwind name on his shoulders when he was finding himself. That defeated the purpose. He wanted to just be him , not tied down by a name with a history.

Thus, Dorian Storm was born. And for a year, Dorian Storm paraded around alone, performing wherever he could and sleeping wherever he could.

Until he met a small crew of folks like him—not necessarily bards, but young people looking for an adventure for whatever reason, and while the week was blurry, what he knew now, in this moment, was they were allowed to stay in a townhouse in the Upper Slums of Emon, as the young man who owned the house was someone they’d helped.

And what do a group of adventurers, who have just met, do when they have a whole house to themselves? 

Party, of course.

Dorian had not drank much when he was living in the Silken Squall, outside of one glass of expensive wine at important dinners, so the feeling of being past lightly buzzed and onto very tipsy was odd to him. Though, his new dwarven companion and the human girl with white hair seemed like they were well acquainted with the bitter taste. 

“I knew you’d be a party girl!” Dariax laughed as Opal downed another shot of whatever liquor that had swiped from the cabinet.

“Fork found in kitchen,” Dorian heard Orym mutter from behind him as he casually sipped whatever drink he’d poured for himself.

Dariax had turned around to acknowledge the voice, but upon seeing Dorian, his entire train of thought took a sharp right turn.

“Dude! Your face gets this really pretty shade of purple when you blush!”

Dorian blinked a few times, the words starting to turn over his head before he felt his skin get warmer.

“What?”

“Like—y’know… you’re blue, so it makes your face purple, and I knew that would happen or whatever but it’s so pretty!”

And for some reason, Opal and Fearne got very intrigued by this, and they both leaned in from wherever they suddenly appeared from, getting right in his face. And the genasi only got more flushed as the girls just shared the same sentiment as the dwarf. He heard Orym hum something behind him, but it was muffled over the rim of his glass.

“Personal space! Do you know it?” Dorian finally hiccuped, and all three of them swung back fast, Fearne only toppling a little bit as she did.

“I could’ve sworn a pretty boy like you would be used to being doted on all the time,” Opal teased, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Someone must be inexperienced ..!”

“I–”

“Woah… is that true?” Dariax asked with genuine curiosity as he pulled his glass away from his face mid swig, splashing booze drunkenly over his shirt.. “Like, you’ve never even kissed anyone?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, I have!” Dorian scrambled to drunkenly defend.

“I call bullshit,” Opal said in a sing-song voice. “Man, I bet you’re the worst kisser out of anyone here! I bet– I bet you’re so bad at it!” Followed by a snort and a fit of tipsy giggles.

“I am not!” Dorian wasn’t sure why he was defending so hard; he knew his value went beyond his ability to kiss and how well he did. It wasn’t even that important to him. But in this drunken state, the need to prove that he was capable, to pretend he hadn’t been so sheltered, took over. “I’m not!”

“Prove it, then!” Opal slurred in challenge.

And without thinking, he leaned forwards and said, “I will!”

And now, everyone was staring at him expectantly. Shit.

“Uhm… how would you… like me to do that, exactly?” he added, suddenly sheepish.

Opal narrowed her eyes, suppressing a burp before whipping her head to Dariax. “You’re gonna be the judge,” she said to him.

“Huh?” the dwarf said. “What? Okay, yeah, sure!”

“Okay, I’ll go first!” Opal said, and clumsily grabbed at Dariax’s shirt to pull him in and—

Oh, so that’s how this was gonna go.

Dorian watched as Dariax understood a moment too late what judging meant as Opal kissed him with what looked like all of the passion she could muster, and pulled back with an expression that looked unbothered and uninterested. Meanwhile, the dwarf sat wide eyed and red, only able to muster a ‘wow’ alongside some incoherent babbles.

Opal turned to the other three, and Orym immediately put a hand up to signal that he was going to pass, leaning back and simply supervising. 

“Oh, we’re all going?” Fearne asked. “I thought this was a Dorian competition.”

“Does Dariax not get the option to compete?”

“No, he’s the judge!”

“Honestly, I am having a great time,” Dariax finally confirmed.

Fearne grinned, her little tail wagging as she gave a quick look to confirm that Dariax was still on board, to which he flashed an eager thumbs up, and then the faun leaned in and gave him a kiss, much less intense than Opal’s, but there was something about Fearne herself that had this odd allure and charm that had Dariax eliciting yet another ‘wow’ —though the alcohol could have easily been playing another part.

And finally, they all looked at Dorian expectantly, with his violet cheeks against his sky blue complexion, his crystal blue eyes darting back and forth. 

He was a performer—he could do this, he’s kissed people before. The alcohol gave him a boost of confidence, and he surged forwards, unending breath kicking in on instinct, and he tangled his fingers in Dariax’s hair as their lips collided. It was a little messy, but Dorian must’ve done something right because when he pulled back, Dariax was staring at him with saucers for eyes, red in the cheeks and panting a bit. 

“Woah…”

Dorian pulled his hands back, realizing he hadn’t let go of his new friend, and he flexed his fingers awkwardly as he untangled them from his messy, ruddy hair.

“I’m so sorry, maybe that was too much—“

“Dorian wins.”

There were shouts of protest and disbelief from Opal, surprise from the others, and the genasi hid his face for a moment, flustered at the attention.

“Yeah, well— well I bet I could pee the farthest off the roof!” Opal slurred drunkenly.

And suddenly, everything was forgotten, and they were onto the next odd, intoxicated competition.

• 5

This almost felt adjacent to the night of drinking in Emon. It was odd, playing spin-the-bottle-slash-truth-or-dare in the late hours of the night before a very serious, heavy morning awaited them. It was juvenile, it was silly, it was a nice escape.

Except for the heavy questions they all had lingering in their minds, their guilty doubts towards their friends. It sucked to have such morbid thoughts about the people they loved and had grown to trust. Dorian felt so guilty as he threw his own heavy question onto Laudna next to him.

He never would want to think about what would happen in a worst case scenario. He didn’t want it to be, but what if? What happens when someone loses control? There are so many risks within their circle, and—

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said with a shake of his head. “I hate to be a downer.”

“This is what we’re here for,” Ashton assured, their voice shockingly soft, and the bard only shrugged a bit.

“Do you want to spin the bottle, Dorian?” Imogen offered abruptly amongst the tense silence, an almost pitying look on her face as if she hadn’t been as equally roped into the question.

Yes. Maybe he did. Was that even in the rules? He was supposed to spin it only if he denied answering a question. But something about intimacy was comforting in this moment. Maybe it was the hope that…

“Kind of,” he admitted, but then stammered his way through with, “but nah, I’m okay.”

Braius urged, “Go for it, it’s fun!” 

And there was another weak “No,” from Dorian, but he really wanted to, so he gave into peer pressure the second another voice began to chime in, not actually caring what was being said as he caved immediately with an eager, “Okay!” and he reached for the empty, chipped bottle on the floor in front of him and spun.

And he watched as it spun so slow, turning and turning and never stopping but getting so close . He watched as it passed over each of his friends, he could hear Fearne chanting ‘come on, come on, come on’ , Imogen humming some kind of jaunty tune, something they might’ve heard if this was a game at a carnival. And then it slowed to a stop, and Dorian didn’t even have to look up to know who it was pointing at. He knew where Chetney was sitting.

“ No!” he shrieked—and maybe it was rude, but maybe he realized there was one person who he really, really didn’t mind skipping. But it was too late, and everyone was laughing as they realized, The gnome was getting ready for his second kiss of the night. “Anything but that!”

Oh, gods , when Dorian finally looked up, Chetney had his hands behind his head, already laying back on the bed again, with his lips pursed, and the genasi protested “No! Please!” once again.

“Chet’s lucky night,” Imogen teased.

“I’m not moving,” Chetney said without opening his eyes. “I’m just saying, you’ve got to earn these lips.”

It was nice to know that Dorian was in control of the situation, if anything. And honestly, as embarrassing and mortifying as it was, everyone was laughing and smiling and having fun! And maybe, if Dorian did what he did best and put on a show, he could get them to smile more.

Fighting back a smile, Dorian started to move in towards Chetney as he said through gritted teeth, “Ooh, if you didn’t smell like cedar and chestnuts!”

And he kissed him. That was the game, afterall. Everyone cheered, and he guessed he did a pretty good job, because the old gnome looked absolutely dazed. Dorian didn’t dare to glance around the room for specific reactions—he would either embarrass himself further, or maybe let it go to his head a little if he caught some attention. He felt this pang of selfishness and almost darted his eyes to the side—

“These bards are fucking serious!”

He shook his head a little bit at Chetney, forcing his focus on the old man as he said, “I fucking knew it,” and tossed him back on the bed. 

He didn’t miss the, “He is royalty!” from Chetney as he scurried back to his spot. He put his head in his hands for a moment, laughing through the awkwardness and the adrenaline.

He did not look at Orym.

• + 1

Oh, Orym.

At the end of everything they have ever known, as they geared up for a battle they didn’t know if they would survive, he had Orym.

Orym, who had shown him nothing but kindness, who had stuck by him, who had found strength in him and who he found strength in. Beautiful and kind Orym, who had made Dorian feel a way he had never felt before.

And as he wished to himself for a life of peace, a life where there were no expectations, no threats, no loss—he feels a tug on his hand, and barely has time to register that it’s Orym before he realizes he is already moving, allowing himself to be dragged out of the room.

As they round the corner, the halfling stops, turns to face him, and motions to get closer as he asks, “Come here.”

“Yeah?” Dorian says, taking a knee immediately so they were equal.

“I don't know if we have twelve hours or twenty-four hours or no hours.” He watches as Orym takes a deep breath after spouting his whole sentence in one breath. And then, with determination, “I'm going to kiss you now.” Which he immediately backtracks. “Can I kiss you?”

And Dorian couldn’t stop his inside thoughts from becoming outside thoughts: “Ohh, shit! Yes!”

And he does. Orym grabs him by the front of the shirt and pulls him in, and they kiss. They kiss like it’s not the end of the world, like for these few seconds, everything is perfect. Like this was their first date, or maybe like they’d been together forever. 

Of all the kisses he’d had, of everyone he has dared to share an intimate part of himself with, of everyone who may have caught his eye or made his heart skip, no one has made him feel love the way Orym had.

And as green eyes stared back at him, after their ten-second eternity, he just knew .

“If we’re here tomorrow, I’d really like to figure out…” Orym paused and took a deep breath as he searched for a moment, “ this. If you want?”

“Oh, I want.”

And with a smile so fond and bright it could melt the coldest winter away, and with the realization that he was actually falling in love, Dorian kissed him back.