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Golden rays of sunlight painted the insides of the white tent orange like the fruit. Dorian’s discarded jewelry in their night table, gold as the sun, shimmered under the light when the warm breeze of the last hours of summer pushed and pulled from the tent’s fabric, letting the light in.
Days were hotter in the Silken Squall, for the sun always shone brighter above the clouds, Orym learnt this quickly. So, in the privacy of their tent, both of them wore no shirts.
Dorian was sitting on their bed as he hummed a quiet tune he accompanied with the soft cords he made his orange mandolin sing. It wasn’t a song, just a nameless melody that danced with the slow beating of Orym’s heart.
Of the arts he knew just enough to admire them and sometimes partake in them, but nothing made his heart lighter than seeing Dorian perform on a stage or lazily hum in their bed as the day came to an end.
Orym was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. He had been cleaning and sharpening Seedling, but had long ago left his sword unattended on his lap and the cleaning cloth dropped somewhere on the floor. At some point his eyes shifted to the blue fingers that stroked the strings of the orange mandolin, to the pursed lips that sang a song with no words and he had completely lost his focus.
He let his gaze wander. He went to meet Dorian’s eyes, but they were closed in a calm expression he didn’t wish to interrupt for now. His hair was undone, it fell over his shoulders like hot mist embraces the mountains in the humid jungles of the south. The melody moved slowly, and so did his fingers, stripped of any rings. The only object he wore as an ornament was his Sending Stone, hanging from his neck like a necklace. Under the golden light his blue skin looked ethereal, as if he was made of the last winds of summer and not skin and bone. Wearing only a pair of pants and holding a mandolin in his arms, he still looked like a prince.
Orym put Seedling to rest on the floor and stood up. In a couple quiet steps he made his way to the bed and crawled to Dorian until the tips of their noses touched.
Dorian opened his eyes and parted lips in a big smile.
“Oh, hello there.”
“Hello there.” Orym responded before kissing him for no more than a couple seconds, just pressing his lips against his. “I like your tunes.”
Dorian chuckled, as he blindly put the mandolin on the night table and wrapped his hands around Orym’s torso, gently.
“Thank you very much.”
Now it was him who kissed Orym, his fingers moving up and down along his spine in a quiet caress.
Orym adjusted himself atop Dorian’s lap, now that nothing stood between them. He hugged his neck and buried his fingers in his hair. With their bodies pressed to each other, their hearts beat against the other’s skin in an ever so slightly increasing rhythm.
Before his hands started to ache to move to Dorian’s toned abdomen, Orym broke the kiss. Breathing heavily, he rested his head on Dorian’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Dorian tightened his hold around Orym’s body and rested his head atop Orym’s, taking deep breaths as if the man between his arms was made of the sweetest of smells.
How long it had been since Orym had last experienced this warmth, how long and how bad had he ached to go back to the days when his life had been filled with an intimacy like this, how long had he thought those days were forever over, how bad had that thought tortured him.
He still dreamt of Will, his memory still pained him. But now, under a new someone’s warm and strong embrace, he could hear the beating of his own heart. He was alive, and he felt safe, happy. If there was an afterlife, Orym hoped some day he could introduce this wonderful new someone to the man he first and always loved.
“Thank you.” Murmured Dorian. Orym knew he wasn’t talking about his tunes anymore, but he continued anyway. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Of course.” He opened his eyes and caressed Dorian’s shoulder blades with his thumbs. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
He shifted his head so he could look at Orym in the eyes.
The golden light that filled the tent made his blue eyes shine like two precious stones. From so close they were just as mesmerizing.
When they first arrived, both the townsfolk and Dorian’s parents, had greeted them with such affection Orym had felt at home in a land he had never been before. Dorian had hugged his mother like only a son could, he had spent most of his mornings conversing about serious and inconsequential matters with his father over breakfast or between congresses with their fellow folk, but it took no more than a moment for Orym to understand why he had asked him to accompany him.
Just like Orym sometimes believed to see Will and Derrig’s silhouettes in the corner of his eye when he visited Nel’s abode or passed by their old training grounds in Zephrah, he knew Dorian saw himself and Cyrus fighting and rolling in the fields near their parents’ tent. Orym knew Dorian saw his brother’s smile every time his mother laughed, he heard Cyrus’ steps and voice every time he passed by the empty tent that used to be his dorm, he looked for him in the throne room as soon as he stepped inside. But he was never there.
Orym understood.
He was an anchor and a kind voice to him, he was a distraction from tears and a reminder of life. Orym wished he could do more, but he knew this was all he could be to him now.
“We’re here.” Orym whispered, holding Dorian tight. “Days have been long, but one thing stays the same.” He moved one of his hands to Dorian’s chest and felt the beating of his heart. “Tonight the moon will rise and autumn will come and we’re here. You're here.”
Dorian’s gaze narrowed as he smiled. He took one of his hands to Orym’s face and caressed his cheek.
“Yes, we’re here. Despite it all, we’re here.” His smile broadened. “You have a fascinating way with words. Ever thought of becoming a poet?”
To that Orym laughed.
“I’m no poet. I’m a fighter.”
Dorian smiled and brought him close to him once more. In the curve of his neck he whispered, “I owe you so much, Orym.”
He immediately shook his head.
“No debts between us.”