WHO Orym and Dorian Storm WHERE The Spoons Room at the Crossed Quills WHEN June 14 WHAT Orym has a run in with some flan while coming home after patrol and Dorian patches him up. STATUS Complete ART CREDIThere WARNINGS discussion of injuries, a briefly shirtless halfling, continued yearning
It had not been a very good day, Orym thought to himself as he approached the Crossed Quills, limp evident.
The creatures that had invaded the forest had been causing a litany of problems and Orym had been among those on the defense teams that were called out to help try to cull some of the numbers and drive them away from those who needed protection. That was all something that he was rather good at. The drive to protect others was in the halfling's very blood, though it had looked different in each stage of his life. The fighting of dangerous creatures was likewise something he was used to; these creatures in particular were a bit more reminiscent of those from home than he liked, but at least, as a team, they could be dispatched.
Rest was needed, though, even for those who were tasked with keeping others safe, so Orym had headed home, taking a familiar route and keeping vigilant on the off chance he would find himself face to face with a flan.
It turned out "off chance" was more "guaranteed" and "a flan" actually was "more flan than necessary". They were a different sort than he'd dealt with that day, seeming to not be as weak to his sword attacks, and, though he had reigned victorious in the end, left him with a fair more bruises and cuts than he'd had when he'd finished his time on patrol. The now sore ankle was also new.
The sight of the inn that he and his friends had been living in the last couple of months was a welcome one. Not wanting to attract too much attention, both from patrons and his friends alike, he bypassed the front door and instead located the open window to the bedroom he shared with Dorian and Fearne. He would (rightfully) be kindly scolded by Fresh Cut Grass for not going directly to them for healing, but Orym just needed a moment to collect himself. His sword and shield went through the window first with a clatter, then a spring of his boots on his good ankle later and he, too, went through the window--thankfully missing both the shield and sword when he landed in a heap on the floor, injuries making themselves known all over again.
Laying on his stomach, cheek pressed to the wooden floor, Orym let out a long sigh. This was a little dramatic, he knew, but it felt like it was all right to indulge, just for a moment.
This was why Dorian should have stayed awake. He had gotten too comfortable, too relaxed, too unperceptive of their surroundings. He had said to Orym ages ago that it felt strange to not take shifts in a new place, and yet Dorian had done nothing to rectify that. He continued to let his guard down.
And now someone was breaking into their room at the Crossed Quills, and he was barely aware of it.
The shield hitting the floor initially woke him from that soft doze on the sofa in the sitting room. The sword that followed was enough to sober him into full consciousness. He had no weapon, his lute was in the other room. Dorian was making what the heck gestures at himself for being so stupid, and in an attempt to rally his courage to stop the intruder.. Rationality was long gone—because no other option other than a thief could be climbing through their window—and he crept slowly, carefully, wincing at every creak until he stopped.
No, the thief stopped. Laid down? He couldn't tell unless he got closer. But even in the half-dark of the room, the silhouetted form of Orym was a give away, stature notwithstanding. Dorian released the biggest sigh of relief. It was only his friend, laying on the floor. His friend, on the floor.
Dorian's eyes hadn't adjusted, and Orym was still mostly in shadows, so he did what any well meaning person would do, and crouched to get lower, right above Orym's head. "You're on the floor, you know. And that was the window," Dorian said, gently, gesturing to said window. "I assume the patrol either went extremely well or poorly. I'm hoping for the former?"
On most occasions, Orym was an incredibly perceptive man. He should have heard Dorian's approach, quiet though it may have been, and been able to deduce that it was the genasi's quiet footsteps and not their faun roommate's hooves on the wooden floor. This day--largely in thanks to the everything that had led to this moment--was an outlier, however, and it wasn't until Dorian spoke that Orym realized he was very much not alone as he laid prone on the floor.
He startled, a reflex that Orym immediately regretted as his ankle protested the sudden movement. Grimacing as he pushed himself to sitting, turning so his back could press to the wall directly below the window, he said, "Patrol went okay. It was the getting home that ended up being tough. Something so...gooey looking shouldn't be such a tough opponent, I feel."
Orym looked up and managed a tired smile to his friend. After a long day, there was a warm and familiar sense of safety and peace that settled in his chest at the sight of Dorian. "I thought the window would be smart, so I didn't worry anyone going through the tavern. I'm sorry if I just worried you instead."
So I didn't worry anyone in the tavern. The line stuck out to Dorian in the worst sort of way, and all the pieces started to come together—the slight strain in Orym's voice, the way he slowly moved to sit up, the mention of gooey opponents. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dim, but Dorian didn't need to have any kind of bright light to realize what he missed initially.
"Orym, are you hurt?" Dorian asked, then repeated it with more concern in his voice. "You're hurt. You should have said—of course, I'm going to worry, I—" Dorian was immediately flustered, and he was standing again, searching for the mechanism to raise the flames in the oil lamps. No, too long, that was taking too long. He quickly stepped to the washroom instead and grabbed what he could: towels, a small bowl full of water that was supposed to be for bathing, and, gods. Where were the bandages?
Dorian was back within seconds, slide-dropping all the materials he had gathered beside Orym, but now with more light that he found in his scrambling. He frowned, his attention gentle as he searched over Orym's injuries. They probably weren't as bad as they looked, but the optics tended to panic Dorian more than rationality. "Why didn't you go to FCG? I'm not much of a healer, you know."
He dipped the small cloth into the water, and rang it out as he came close to press it against the most worrisome of Orym's immediate injuries. "What did you say did this again?"
As Dorian began to clean his injuries, Orym sat up a bit straighter, a flash of a wince crossing his face as he did so. With a practiced hand, he loosened his armor and pulled it up and over his head, to lay forgotten alongside his sword and shield. Once settled back against the wall, he looked to Dorian and gave him a small nod, signaling that he could continue his work. It went against every instinct, of course; likely the same part of himself that had left him choosing to tumble through the window instead of looking for their friend that was always happy to heal--or Fearne, their friend that was sometimes a bit more hesitant--had him very nearly protesting the help and attention.
That protest faded away, though, when Orym leaned his head back against the wall and looked up to Dorian. It was Orym's self-appointed job to keep all of their friends safe, but sometimes it was okay to accept that help in return. It was a lesson that he'd once known very well, but had only recently started remembering again.
"Someone called them flans, I think," Orym said, voice quiet as he addressed Dorian's questions. "They reminded me a bit of puddings or slimes from home. It wasn't so bad when I was on patrol and not alone, but I got a bit ambushed coming home." He made a mental note to report this to the others and suggest that no one go out into the forest alone, at least until this was all sorted. Orym knew his friends were formidable and could handle themselves, but why risk it?
"And I was going to go to FCG eventually," he continued, expression going sheepish. "I knew none of this was all that threatening, though, and thought I could benefit from a moment alone to get my head on right." The moment the words left his mouth, Orym realized how that might have sounded and his hand immediately lifted to circle around Dorian's wrist, half in assurance and half to keep him from potentially retreating. "I'm glad you are here, though."
Dorian did almost retreat. It was complicated to know your friend needed space, but he also needed tending to, and Dorian was the one that had to make the decision of what was better in the moment. He was terrible with decisions, especially when both of them had equal pros and cons, but it was Orym who stopped him from leaving—he was going to leave, right?—that settled him. A long, unusually tense moment passed, where he was still in Orym's grasp, not pulling away, but Dorian's whole brain slipped sideways and he couldn't think.
Gently sliding his wrist free, Dorian continued dutifully wiping away the drying blood and dirt, to make sure he could truly assess the injuries on Orym. In case he needed to wake FCG and point them all out.
"Flans?" Dorian asked, a little distracted. It wasn't as if they had never been in this kind of space before, close while they tended to each other's wounds, but it was usually a group effort. After a fight or at the end of a long day, sitting around the Spire by Fire, drinking far too much than any one person should. There was a quietness now.
"Pudding did this? Their name is kind of deceiving, don't you think? Maybe when you talk with the defense team, someone should suggest that they change it, given the circumstances." He dipped the towel again and pressed it to another cut, muttering a soft sorry as he did so. "Where else? Anything not visible? I'll know if you hide something," Dorian said, teasing and scolding all at once.
"Name is totally deceiving," Orym agreed, soft smile on his lips as he let his eyes flutter shut for just a moment while Dorian did his work. "Kind of put me off of eating most wiggly desserts for a while, honestly. More reasons to just eat pie."
At the very warranted teasing and scolding, however, his smile grew into something a bit more amused--still tired, but the humor was there. Orym opened one green eye to look up at Dorian, meeting his teasing with some of his own. "Such demanding bedside manner, Healer Storm."
Orym clearly wasn't going to argue, though, as his other eye opened and his hands went to the hem of his shirt. He glanced up at Dorian, amusement turned a hair sheepish; he wasn't exactly modest when it came to revealing skin, but the last thing he wanted was to make Dorian uncomfortable. They may have spent a long time traveling together, laying close for warmth on the road and sharing a bed when able to stay in an inn, seen each other in various stages of injury, opened up and expressed certain vulnerabilities--but, Orym unwittingly thought concurrent to Dorian, those were alongside Fearne or the other Crown Keepers or Bells Hells. This felt different.
But, he couldn't very well check if there were any lingering injuries hiding without actually looking under his shirt, so Orym lifted the fabric and grimaced yet again. There were a few cuts and scrapes and places his armor had left marks, but what caught his attention was the expanse over his right ribs that promised to be a very colorful bruise if left alone. "One of the flans slammed me to the ground pretty hard, so I'm guessing that's what this is. Nothing's broken, I don't think."
"If you start calling me that, FCG might get offended," Dorian teased back. "But I'll make sure to avoid offering you anything other than pie for a while."
He had seen Orym naked before—plenty of times actually given their close quarters for so long—but a surge of nervousness ran through him when Orym lifted his shirt. Dorian's face flushed, feeling the need to look away out of modesty and politeness. He waited what he felt like an appropriate amount of time, which was only a few seconds but they crawled at an unnatural pace for Dorian, before he turned back. And then frowned again.
"This one is going to be particularly ugly," Dorian said, reaching to touch it, but not in any tending type way. More like he wanted to cast a few bits of magic to make it go away, and maybe through touch alone he could do it. His blue hand was cool and comforting on Orym's side, painfully gentle, and it was only after he felt the rise and fall of Orym's breathing did he realize the positions they were in. But he didn't immediately remove his hand.
He was helping. This was helping, right?
"Right, right, nothing broken though. Well we'll have to make sure in the morning. No trouble breathing, anything like that?" Dorian asked, earnestly, focusing overtly on the task at hand and not that he had his hands pressing against Orym's sides.
If he were to be entirely honest, Orym would have to admit that breathing wasn't as easy as it had been just a moment previous--but he knew full well that had nothing to do with flans or injuries sustained from them. In a way, he was reminded of coming home to a small cottage in Zephrah after a particularly brutal guard training or, later on, a long shift as a fully fledged guard, with equally gentle fingers checking the extent of bruises or cuts that hadn't been deep or serious enough to warrant magical healing. It was familiar, but wholy different; Dorian was not Will and Orym's feelings might have been similar, but were still unique to each.
Orym's mind slowly caught up to Dorian's question and he managed a few deeper breaths. "No trouble," he confirmed, voice quiet as his gaze lifted to take in Dorian's expression. For as perceptive a man as Orym tended to be, his ability to read others and gain insight was touch and go. It didn't help when his emotions were heightened and distracting, both of which they absolutely were in the moment.
Because Orym knew that he had feelings for Dorian. He'd known it for a long while, the separation forced after Dorian and Cyrus had needed to leave Marquet just bringing it into stark relief. There was nothing to be done for it back home, though. They were continents apart, with important missions and duties of their own to focus on. Orym knew their paths would cross again one day, but there was no telling when that day might come.
That was all different now. Now Orym saw Dorian every day, usually waking up tucked into his side. The feelings were harder to ignore when the source of them were right there, exchanging smiles over the table at meals or performing in the tavern at night or--tenderly taking care of his injuries.
Orym swallowed, a hand moving on its own accord to come to rest hesitantly on one of Dorian's, sandwiching it between his side and small fingers that were rough from old calluses and new. He pulled in another deep breath, as though demonstrating to Dorian that he could do it, before repeating, "No trouble."
Dorian wasn't stupid, and sometimes he wasn't as obvious as he seemed to portray. But there was often a willful ignorance on his part, choosing to disregard things that were right in front of him. A strange form of self-preservation, because hope could be a wild, dangerous thing. And Dorian was someone who could be wild, and dangerous, and also very practical. It depended on who he was around, and Orym was practical. He couldn't let hope get the best of thim.
But it was as though he was fighting instinct, a series of motions playing out in his mind, his muscle memory attempting to move and Dorian actively trying not to. But the tension was palpable, and Dorian swallowed hard looking at Orym. Words, talk, say something, anything his mind was screaming at him in panic. He was making this weird, and then Orym would never come to him for help again. Dorian exhaled, a shaky thing.
"Good, that's good. I'm glad that you're good, because we're good, it's good, I can't stop saying good." Dorian rambled. "But it is good—" He used the hand that had been on Orym to cover his mouth, removing contact. He started to laugh behind his palm, because he was being ridiculous. He was a man possessed by the sudden outburst of hilarity.
"Sorry, please—it might hurt more if you laugh, I know it's contagious," Dorian said, putting his hands back out, in surrender, to keep Orym from laughing by association over Dorian's lack of vocabulary. "If it helps, you're right, it's not as bad as some of the other times I have seen you injured. Jrusar had its fair share."
Though the urge to laugh was there, Orym managed to listen. The laughing cut through the tension that Orym knew had risen thanks to his memories--which he also knew was a (to follow the theme) good thing in the moment. Still, he couldn't fully help the amused, yet fond, smirk that crossed Orym's face as he watched Dorian try to get his laughing under control.
Orym hummed at the mention of Jrusar, the incidents that they had managed to fall into flashing through his mind. "You know, we weren't even there for two weeks. I think we're trouble magnets."
That much, at least, was a given. The fact they'd been in Vallo as long as they had and this was the first time that Orym had come crawling back with injuries was a damn miracle. He missed aspects of that life, though; there was something to be said about going out on a job as a group, not knowing what they'd come up against but always acting as a team and taking care of one another. They still had parts of that in Vallo, of course, just with less gold handed over to a merchant for healing potions.
Looking down at his torso, Orym pressed two of his fingers against the bigger bruise, idly testing the injury as he continued. "You're right, though. At least this wasn't like with that fey asshole, when both of us had a real hard time of it. I didn't get knocked out, no one got turned into a turtle, I didn't lose another expensive magic item. Kind of a win." A win that still had him aching all over, but it was what it was.
"I don't think that saying we're trouble magnets is going to make FCG worry any less when you go to them," Dorian said, with his own wry smile. Those two weeks, despite the danger, had been some of the best of his life. Turtle polymorphs aside.
Dorian took one last moment to wipe away another superficial scratch, just to do something with his hands—which would normally be picking up an instrument to strum away at. He was slower with his cleaning this time, while Orym touched at a bruise. "We'll have to ask Gilmore if he has any magical rope he might be willing to give us a bargain on, or at least haggle for. And maybe make sure Fearne stays outside?" He didn't want her to ruin any goodwill by insisting on granting herself a five-fingered discount. Dorian was confident they could woo him. Maybe.
"But, c'mon," Dorian said, pushing himself up to his feet. He felt less frenzied about Orym's injuries, not less worried, but there was a placating difference to the emotions. The urgency wasn't because Orym's life was in danger, but more like the sight of him hurt was making Dorian feel urgently concerned. He had seen him hurt plenty of times, and vice versa, but it never felt like this.
He offered out a hand, both his hands, for Orym to stand back up. "Let's get you to FCG. I'll even carry you, if I must."
The thought of letting Fearne loose in Gilmore's store was, to be frank, a terrifying one, as much as Orym loved his chaotic friend. For as kind and forgiving as Gilmore seemed to be, both in their time back home and at his current age, he had to assume that there was a line there.
Then again, as charming as Fearne was? Who could really tell.
"All right," Orym agreed, reaching out his own hands to take Dorian's and allow himself to be helped to his feet. "I think I'll be fine to walk it." Or maybe not, as it turned out that it was lucky that Dorian had offered his hands as Orym had forgotten, while he had been sitting and resting, just how he'd had to limp his way home thanks to his ankle and that the bruises were not the worst of his injuries. He lurched to the side, swearing under his breath as he adjusted most of his weight to his other foot.
Orym sighed a well, this might as well happen sort of sigh that turned into a self-deprecating chuckle. "Okay, so I might need a little help."
Dorian was right there to catch him when he stumbled, his hands at Orym's sides. Again, panic flashed across his face, but it was quickly dashed away when Orym didn't crumple all the way down. The saving grace was that Orym was laughing about it, and not wincing intently in pain more than he already had been.
"Only a little?" Dorian asked, teasing, as his attention flicked down to Orym's ankle then back. He hadn't been kidding when he said he would carry him. There was no good way, with their height difference, to offer a shoulder in any helpful way. Dorian mumbled something like hang tight, as he bent down to catch Orym under his knees and around his shoulder blades; a proper bridal carry without a wedding in sight.
There was no mistaking their closeness now.
He was inordinately tender as he held Orym and walked to the door. There would be a problem with having a free hand to open said door but Dorian wasn't worried about that. He made it work, albeit awkwardly. "I'd say be more careful next time, but that seems a moot point, since we are trouble magnets." Dorian said, before quieter, now that they were in the hallway. "Do you want me to stay with you?"
Orym was sure that there were others with shorter stature like himself (Chetney, for example) that would take umbrage to being carried by anyone, let alone a friend. He was not like that, though. He had grown up with a circle of friends that were largely half-elves, he had married one of them, and was long since used to being the short one in the bunch. And so, while there might have been vague embarrassment that he actually had injured himself enough to need Dorian to carry him, Orym thought very little of the act itself.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. Orym felt a lot about it, most of which was positive and left his heart to race a bit as he settled into Dorian's arms. His ankle, off the ground and no longer taking any weight at all, immediately felt relief.
Tipping his head back, Orym looked up at Dorian from this new angle. "I'll still try to be careful," he promised, smile going a bit lop-sided. "We'll just have to see how that goes."
He had to pause, though, to properly consider Dorian's offer. It was silly, most likely, to have to put any consideration in at all; Orym knew that Dorian wouldn't offer it unless he was fully willing to follow through and stay with him. Still, the last thing he wanted was to take advantage of kindness. "You've already done a lot for me today, so I feel like that's just more for me to ask, but--" His gaze dropped, landing somewhere on Dorian's shoulder and he continued smiling that small, crooked smile. "You can stay, if you wanted."
Dorian did not think through carrying Orym. If the uninhibited contact from before made his heart clamor around in his chest, holding Orym close to him while Orym hid smiles was making Dorian feel weak. It was already terrible to recognize the obvious relief from the pain that Dorian's carrying did. Oh,this was unaccounted territory. He wasn't allowed to do this again. At least, that's what he was telling himself while looking seemingly unaffected as he carried on conversation down the hall.
"I'm glad you said yes, I probably would have found a way to convince you otherwise if you said no. You came through our window first, I'd like to see it through until you're patched up," Dorian said, giving Orym a fond side eye. "Besides, what else am I going to do but just worry alone back in the room? Sitting around with you and FCG is much more productive. I might even learn a thing or two from them when it comes to healing."
The walk didn't take long. They were all just a few rooms apart in this tiny inn, but Dorian had done his best to be speedy for Orym's health while also not wanting this moment to end. Was it selfish? Probably. And he'd scold himself later. But for now, he used the tip of his boot to knock softly at the other door.
"Prepare yourself," Dorian said with a matching grin. "FCG is going to fuss."
Despite that Dorian had very much told him not to laugh before, Orym absolutely did. He had been trying to keep to his usual more subdued chuckles, but there was something about the moment--the relief from the pain? the culmination of what the day had resulted in? Dorian's mere presence?--that left him feeling momentarily lightweight and, with it, came the laugh.
And, of course, Dorian had been right to suggest that Orym try not to laugh; the bruises around his ribs reminded him of their existence almost immediately. It felt worth it, though.
"Then I'm especially glad you came." Orym bumped his head once against Dorian's shoulder, a gentle press before he looked back up to give away another smile. "You can distract them before the fussing gets too bad."