WHO: Dorian Storm and Orym WHERE: Their bedroom in the Bells Hells house WHEN: Morning of January 2 WHAT: Orym has a canon update, which leaves him more gifts than just memories. He fills in an almost panicking Dorian, they both have Feelings™. Ghost bandages are utilized. ART CREDIT:Here WARNINGS: Spoilers through Critical Role C3E40, beware. Otherwise touches on discussion of some death, injuries, violence. Just D&D Things.
It was disorienting, and probably always would be, how waking from a flood of memories was like stepping through a veil between worlds. First: Orym was sitting on the railing of the Silver Sun, legs dangling over the edge as the landscape of Marquet rolled along, miles and miles below him. Then: Orym was smiling softly at the familiar sound of Dorian's voice expressing regret at not being with him, then--is this thing on? Finally: he heard steps approaching him from behind and he was falling through that veil, waking up in a warm bed with strong arms holding him to a warm chest as the earliest of morning light started permeating through the curtains of the bedroom Orym had been calling theirs for months now.
Orym laid there, his eyes closed and just appreciating the proximity to Dorian. It was an emotional whiplash that he was more familiar with than he might have expected, only in reverse; he was no stranger to having dreams of being in the company of someone he loved, only to wake up and find himself without. This time he had felt that loneliness and longing in the memories, only to wake to the comfort of Dorian being there with him, at least in this world.
The relief was just one facet of the warring emotions within Orym in that moment, but he was distracted before he could wade through all that was on his mind as he raised his hand to push his hair out of his face and found it came away damp. He stared at his fingers in confusion for a moment, the room still too dark for his halfling eyes to make out what he was looking at, but his mind cleared as he remembered what had happened on the deck of the skyship under the light of a Ruidus flare.
Sighing--and mentally swearing--Orym carefully extricated himself from Dorian's arms in a show of expertise that could only be thanks to months of practice. Once free, and fairly satisfied that he'd only minimally disturbed Dorian, he padded off toward the bathroom, barefoot, shirtless, and with one hand raised to his face where he knew there were injuries from Chetney's loss of control, thanks to the red moon plaguing them even more than it already did.
A few moments later, he slipped out of the bathroom again, his face clean, but still sporting the marks. They would fade, he hoped, with a little healing magic, but in the moment they were as fresh as they had been in Exandria and stung. It wasn't the first time a new injury or scar had followed him to Vallo, but, as he climbed back into bed next to Dorian, he wouldn't mind if it didn't become a habit. It was tempting to just curl up and go back to sleep. Normally this was when he would start his morning routine of exercise and Zeph'aeratam, but for once he just wasn't feeling it. Instead, sitting up with his back against the headboard of their bed, Orym reached over to where Dorian's head laid and began to slowly, carefully work his fingers through his soft hair in gentle strokes.
Depending on the day, Dorian was a moderate-to-deep sleeper. It wasn't always like this—he remembered the days early on in Vallo where he felt the need to take a watch, his body too used to the constant interrupted cycles of punctuated sleep. But lately his anxiety had leveled into something manageable where he could put his head down on the pillow, curl around Orym, and sleep until the sun rose. His most preferred method.
But since news of Eshteross broke, and there were so many more unspoken things between all of the Bells Hells, his nights were met with tossing and turning, grabbing sleep when he could because worry seemed to plague him even when he was unconscious. His least preferred method.
Distantly aware of Orym getting up, exhaustion claimed him once more— in a "five more minutes, I'm just resting my eyes" sort of way. But perception was never Dorian's strength, and he only realized time had passed because Orym had come back to bed and was currently smoothing out his hair. It was almost enough to lull back to sleep, but there were things to do and places to go and people to face, and Dorian assumed that this was Orym's gentle way of being his alarm.
He rolled over with a blissful sigh, took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Dorian was saying, "Hi, good morning," before he had actually taken in the sight of Orym. Even with his face washed there was no hiding the jagged scars and Dorian went from soft smiles to Panic™.
"Orym, Orym, Orym–" Dorian was sitting up. His hands were framing Orym's face, then moving away like he might have hurt him by sheer touch alone, then back again because he couldn't get in close enough to inspect without holding him. Dorian was careful not to press at the wounds, but his concern was overflowing. "What happened? Are you alright? Does it hurt? Are you hurt anywhere else? Can you see? I mean, I know it's dark but it's low light, but..."
"I'm okay." The reassurance came quickly, it being the most important to Orym as he watched Dorian clearly panic. Part of him wished he had gone about this reveal a bit different, but he didn't think there was anything in particular he could have done when the thing he was trying to hide was his face. Perhaps it was best to rip off the bandaid, as they said.
Lifting his hands, Orym lightly took hold of a blue wrist in each before allowing himself to take the comfort that came with gingerly pressing his face into Dorian's hands. It still stung, the pressure on that side of his face enough to make him wince just a bit, but his need for physical comfort in that moment, and the fact that person he wanted it from was there, overrode anything else.
"I remember more from home," he started by way of explanation, though immediately realized that didn't do much to explain the injury. "The memories came with another souvenir, I guess." Orym let go of one of Dorian's wrists, using that hand to gesture vaguely toward his bare chest and the scar that was an unfortunate reminder of Thull, to point out what he'd already woken up with before.
"I am okay, though. It's sore and stings a bit, but it's the worst of it. And," Orym's eyes flicked up to meet Dorian's, "I can see fine. Promise."
I'm fine and I'm okay did little to assuage Dorian's worry. He never liked seeing anyone hurt, and it did something brutally unfair to his heart to see Orym injured. Especially since he also insisted on putting himself in harm's way to protect Dorian, among others. It felt like a necessary risk with the job, but it didn't mean that Dorian had to like it.
Now more awake, Dorian pressed a low and gentle healing spell to Orym's face. It wouldn't make the wounds go away immediately, but he hoped to take away some of the bite of their pain. Just because Orym suffered the injury didn't mean he had to endure any of the agony that came with it. That was too masochistic for anyone to sustain regularly.
"I don't know if I like all the scars these new memories are leaving behind, Orym," Dorian said softly, sadly. There was a little guilt there—part of him wondered if being there with the Bells Hells would have prevented some of this. With Thull, with Eshteross, with whatever these new memories were now. He would never know, and he knew Orym wouldn't have wanted him to be privy to it, even if Dorian insisted.
He was still tenderly touching his face, careful of the semi-healed wounds, knowing they would leave another mark regardless of what Dorian did. "How?" Dorian asked. "How did you get this one? What happened?"
Orym's eyes fluttered closed as the warmth of Dorian's healing magic did its work. It always felt a bit odd, the way magic would stitch his muscle and skin back to rights, but he had been getting into scrapes, both as a guard and as an adventurer, to have grown used to it. There was also something especially comforting when the healing was coming from someone that he knew cared about him; the same could be said for FCG, who Orym knew also cared about him, just in an obviously different way than Dorian.
He breathed out a long, slow sigh at the question, before cracking one of his eyes open to look up at Dorian. Orym didn't know if this was a breach of confidence, something he ought to talk about with Chetney before anyone else, and a twinge of guilt touched his chest at the knowledge that he was definitely going to tell Dorian. After the conversation that they had just had and the agreements made to be more upfront about these sorts of things, Orym knew that he would pass the information along. There was no red moon here to flare up and cause nightmares or loss of control, but it was still something that it felt like warranted a discussion.
And so, Orym would start here, with Dorian. In an unexpected way, his thoughts turned briefly to Will. He'd never been able to keep anything from him, either.
"We were on the skyship, headed toward Yios," Orym started, eye closing again as he once more pressed his cheek into Dorian's hand. He could picture the night as clearly as Dorian himself would be, he thought, if he kept his eyes open. "Fearne, Chet, and I were on the deck when there was a flare--you know, from Ruidus. Chetney, well, he lost control? Turned into his wolf and just started attacking. Fearne and I were able to get him out of it, but he got some good hits in first."
Orym blew out another huff of a breath, before actually opening his eyes. He didn't really look toward Dorian, instead furrowing his brow in thought. "It's not the first time I've seen him lose his cool and come at me, but the other time it was more brief. I think he has it mostly locked down, but it just sneaks out sometimes and this time the moon was fucking with him."
Dorian's mouth pressed into a firm line, not quite frowning but not nearly relieved to hear that it was Chetney. He couldn't be mad at him—Dorian would never truly understand that loss of control that came from Ruidus. But he was realizing how much more he was missing by not being there with them; how quickly things could spiral at just the simple flare of a red moon.
Eventually Dorian let out a shaky breath, his hands still holding Orym's face, as if by sheer touch alone he could will the scars into healing. The lines made sense now—they were claw marks from a werewolf, and with that knowledge Dorian wasn't certain he could ever unsee it. He knew that Chetney wouldn't either, once he knew. If he already knew.
"I hate to say this but it looks awful, Orym," Dorian said, then tsked at himself, and shook his head. "Not that you will look awful with them if they are permanent, just that with these and—" He nodded toward Orym's chest where the remainder of Thull's close call sat. "It's so much, it's so so much. I know you're used to it, I hate that you're used to it, and Yios—I didn't know you were going to Yios. Did I know?"
There was that bubbling feeling, that overwhelming sense of doubt that crept over him. Had he done the right thing? Were they doing the right thing by splitting their party at home? "You're just so far and if I knew this was happening, I would have tried to find you, met up with you. Help with Chetney, I don't know, I don't know."
With every word from Dorian, Orym felt that seed of guilt that had already sparked just grow. He was telling Dorian all of this because Orym was an honest man at his core and he had been asked; of course he had been asked, given the evidence that something had gone amiss was right there on his face. But seeing Dorian's despair at not being there to help, the clear spiral that he was going down? It made Orym wish he could spare Dorian from it. All he wanted was to protect Dorian, because Orym loved him and he wanted the people he loved to have only good things as that was what they deserved, but that wasn't feasible, of course it wasn't.
That guilt was only compounded by the fact that he still had the Dorian of Exandria's words through the Sending stone still in his mind, echoing with what the Dorian in front of him was saying, only with a limited pool of words.
Orym moved, pulling out of Dorian's hands to push himself up onto his knees and be at least a little more even of a height. His hands reached out, each moving to carefully tuck Dorian's hair behind each ear, gentle in an attempt to be grounding.
"You know," Orym started, deciding to focus on the easiest question first. "The very last thing that I remember is sending you a message on the stone about going to Yios and you responding to me. I couldn't tell you much with only twenty-five words, but I told you we were headed to Yios and that Estheross--" Orym's voice cracked on their patron and friend's name, head dipping just a fraction as he took in a breath. "That he was gone. I've been trying to keep you up to speed, as best as I can. It's hard over the stones, but I do try."
Orym's hands continued to move as he eased a little closer, giving himself the reach to smooth over Dorian's hair at the sides of his head. It was reminiscent of how he woke him just moments ago, in a way. "I won't pretend that you aren't missed--by the group, by me--and I have to believe that we'll see you again. I'm just sorry that I have to keep giving you these bad news updates, both here and home, and that things are so... that they're not great. I know that can't be easy."
"Are you comforting me? Orym—" Dorian sounded put out, almost embarrassed, that Orym would do such a thing. He realized that Orym's fingers were in his hair and he was being so gentle with him, when Dorian wasn't even the one with a facial scar and a head full of new memories. He reached for Orym's wrist, pulled it to his lips, and placed a kiss on his sword-roughted palm.
There was pain there, Dorian could hear it in his voice, more than his own at the mention of Eshteross. They kept losing people, and Dorian knew it was just the way of the world, the unfairness of it all. But Orym's losses seemed to mount so steadily, that Dorian would do anything to stop it in his tracks. An impossible feat, but one he felt adamant about attempting.
"I'm glad you tell me, I'm glad I hear it from you. It's not your fault that these things aren't easy to hear and that you're the one that has the ability to message me from the stone and—" Dorian exhaled, a sad little huff, and cut himself off. He may have felt a surging amount of guilt, but there were at least a few things in his control at the moment.
"Please, let me get a better look at your face. I know you're trying to push through it, but I think that might be making things worse," Dorian said with a fierceness that left no room for debate. He was already sliding off the bed—his clothes sleep-rumpled, his hair a somewhat-reasonable mess—but he never kept his back to Orym, always turning over his shoulder to make sure he was following.
"I'll carry you if I have to. Don't think I won't."
It was Orym's instinct to comfort the people he cared about, just as much as it was his instinct to protect them, through sword and shield or gentle words. He would never lie, not to a friend or loved one, but if he could soften a blow, give assurances, he would give them without a second thought. It was instinct to do that with even less of a second thought when it came to Dorian, but less so to receive it in return.
If he focused on what Dorian was going through, though, it was easier to set aside what Orym was going through. Wasn't that the issue back home too, though? Their friends kept saying he was the kindest, the most normal, the one least likely to snap and attack the others. It wasn't untrue, but it didn't mean that Orym wasn't going through anything. He'd had more silent or private panic attacks in the last handful of weeks in Exandria than he had during his entire thirty-some odd years.
And Dorian was right, of course, even if Orym didn't realize it; Orym's losses seemed to just be mounting. There were those that were permanent, but even the separation between himself and Dorian, no matter how necessary it had been for the brothers to flee Marquet, was wearing on him. Orym would always put others first, as it was just the man he was, on top of it having been ingrained into him as a Tempest Blade where it was his duty. It was honorable, he had always thought, but it weighed on him and he knew it. Right then, it was quite the press against his slight, halfling shoulders.
So maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to receive the comfort and care that Dorian, his best friend and boyfriend and partner, was offering.
"Tempting," Orym murmured, a gentle smile to his tone despite it all, "but not necessary this time." He hopped down from their bed, pausing to pull his discarded shirt from the night before over his head to hide at least one of the unwanted gifts from home before letting his small hand slip into Dorian's larger one to give a firm squeeze.
With all of Dorian's attention on Orym, it was easy to see the complicated set of emotions that played across his features. Maybe it came from being around one another so much in Vallo, maybe it came with the closeness their relationship provided, now that they were more than friends. Regardless of what it was, Dorian was more observant of Orym than ever and he knew there was more. More heartache, more confusion, more stories to tell. There was always so much and even though they were not separated with a tiny sending stone to keep in touch, it felt as if having more than twenty-five words still wouldn't suffice.
"Mmm, not this time," Dorian echoed, as if to point out there would be another time. He hoped it had nothing to do with injuries and more to do with something softer, more comfortable, more romantic. But for now, Dorian took a steadying breath, readying himself to see the injuries up close and in the light, before turning them on in their tiny bathroom.
Again, Dorian's mouth tightened into a hard line. He was trying very hard not to panic, though his heart was pounding in his chest. He had to remind himself that he had healed some of it already, that it had been worse before this. And he avoided looking at the sink, fearing evidence of the wound would be there too.
With gentle fingers, Dorian lifted Orym's chin up, tilted his head from side to side, inspecting it as though a healer would. "After everything, did anything else happen? Nothing else strange with the flare? Or with anyone else? I'm not sure what to ask, and I'm not sure what else I want to know." Or if the guilt would cause him to spiral, but Dorian didn't say that part out loud.
Orym let Dorian direct his head this way and that, this time resisting the urge to close his eyes under the attention. He watched Dorian instead, taking in each microexpression that crossed his face. Lucky for not only them both, but the entirety of the Bells Hells in that moment, he didn't have too much else to report beyond what Imogen had last told them. At least, he didn't have too much else violent to report.
"Imogen had a dream, which I guess isn't that odd since it happens a lot with those flares, and something happened with her mother, but everything there was still a bit unknown." Wasn't that the story of their lives as of late? With every question answered, three more questions popped up. "The whole Chet thing kind of brought up worry about how many of the rest of us might snap and unintentionally turn on the others, which is--it's not a thought I like having to entertain, but it's not the first time either so... I don't know."
This time, Orym did close his eyes. It was just a moment, as he heaved a sigh that seemed too big for someone of his size. When he looked back up at Dorian, he didn't bother trying to disguise the weariness that he felt. "I'm just tired, Dorian. I'll keep going forward as long as I'm able to back there, because of course I'm going to, but it doesn't mean it isn't a lot."
Dorian wondered when it would finally happen, when Orym would realize that he was carrying so much alone. He didn't want to say I told you so but he knew he couldn't be the person to explain it to Orym. He had to discover it on his own, and Dorian—while pleased it was finally happening—still felt his chest hurt for Orym's sake. He couldn't imagine him snapping, but that didn't mean it wasn't impossible.
"I know you are and I know you will, that is what has always made you you, unstoppable," Dorian said, pausing his inspection, which was more just him frowning a lot than anything productive. He leaned in to press a kiss to Orym's forehead, then his uninjured temple. He lingered there, holding him close. They weren't together in Exandria, but they were here and Dorian would do whatever he could to soothe that exhaustion when they were together. So why not do it now?
"And I know that if I was with you, I would tell you to find strength, stay steadfast in what you're doing, because you have always been someone to see things through for everyone and anyone. I'll send you fairer winds, though it may not mean much here or there..." Dorian said, then kissed Orym's cheek before pulling away and looking for bandages in their cabinet. If he couldn't heal it all the way, he could at least get it covered before facing the rest of their friends, especially Chetney.
Dorian's words were familiar, of course, because he had already told Orym all of it--just in the stilted, punctuated way of partial sentences that was necessary through sending stone. It felt good, though, as though a balm had been pressed to his heart, to hear them again, aloud and from the Dorian that had been with him all this time in Vallo. He was the same Dorian that was in Exandria, of course, but their experiences together in this new world couldn't be discounted and it meant a great deal to Orym that some things stayed the same, even with time, distance, and new adventures.
Everything was difficult back home and even Orym was finding it hard to be hopeful. That was why he used the sending stone when he did; yes, to update Dorian on their progress and location, but also to get that unique brand of optimism and comfort that he could only get from the blue bard. In Vallo, Orym got that optimism and comfort in abundance, this moment being a chief example as Dorian searched around for bandages to help him before he could hopefully get additional healing from FCG.
It was something that he refused to ever take for granted.
In one fluid motion, Orym hopped up so he could sit on the edge of the counter, next to the sink and with his legs dangling over the edge. He watched Dorian rummage for a moment before reaching out a hand in his direction. "Dor." He paused, head tipping to the side to make sure he had Dorian's attention before he quietly added, "Come here for a second."
Not expecting Orym to make quick movements, Dorian had briefly startled away from the cabinets, with three bandaids in hand, which were far too small to use even on Orym's halfling features. But now that Orym was sitting on the edge of the counter, he was very nearly face-to-face with Dorian. And Dorian's hectic search softened into gentle confusion.
"I know there are other ones down here," Dorian said, thinking that Orym wanted to talk to him about what he was doing. He also believed Orym was putting out his hand to take the bandages, and so he clung them close to his chest as if to say no way, I've got this. He used his free hand to take Orym's offered one, and closed into the negligible space between them.
His eyes moved Orym's hands to his mouth to his eyes, to the wound then to his expression, trying to reason out what Orym was going to say before he said it. "You're not getting out of this, I intend to clean it up the best I can or you're going to have everyone fussing over you. Actually, they still will, but there is nothing they can do about it, because they care about you. And I care about you, so—well, there."
"You can bandage me up however you see fit." Orym glanced down to the bandages that Dorian was being so protective over with a small smile. "Promise."
Reaching out with his free hand, Orym let his fingers tangle into the ends of Dorian's hair. That reassurance wasn't what he had actually wanted to say, of course. But now, with Dorian's attention on him, he found himself floundering, just a little bit, to put what it was he wanted to say into proper words. He was not, as he had said before and would likely say again, the words guy, particularly not between the two of them. He could try, though.
"I'll let you finish taking care of me in a moment, but what you just said before, about staying strong and steadfast and you sending fairer winds. That's what you told me over the stone, too." Orym's eyes dropped again, this time to look at where his fingers were still toying with Dorian's hair. "And I guess that I just want to say that, well? I don't know what's going to happen back home. We'll see each other again, I know we will, but I don't know what that will mean for us."
At that, Orym looked back up, expression open and meaningful as his eyes searched Dorian's features. "And I know it's probably obvious and I don't have to tell you, but I just want to say that I'm real glad we're here, now. Maybe it'll happen at home eventually, if we're lucky. But I'm relieved to know that in at least one world, I know for sure that I get to have you."
Dorian thought it would be strange to hear that he had said those words before. He didn't know this, only that they just felt right. Words were the best way to give Orym comfort in the middle of all the heartache that he woke up with this morning, and previous mornings, and mornings six years ago when the losses were just as fresh in a different way. But Dorian knew that he was the same no matter the world they were in, always growing and changing but no less a friend to Orym in any instance.
His feelings for him had been able to flourish in Vallo, and with time together, certainly in Exandria. Dorian could bet on it, without having to steal a floating bar in the process.
"I know that it may not have been easy, and it won't be back home, it barely is here some days, but I will always care about you, I will also be there for you, maybe not physically but just a sending stone away," Dorian said with a soft melodic laugh. He put down the ghostie bandaids—assured that Orym wouldn't swipe them away to take care of himself—and took Orym's hand in his, bringing it close to his lips. He pressed a kiss to every knuckle, and did not let go.
"I am so very glad to have you too, Orym." He knew that they were lucky here, that Orym wasn't being melancholic when he said that. That they were constantly pushing the boundaries of their good fortune that would inevitably run out. But here it seemed to come in abundance, and Dorian wouldn't waste it.
He swooped in to steal a kiss from Orym, full of all that understanding, from here and home. "And mostly in one piece."
Orym sunk into the kiss, reveling in everything that was being said between the two of them, both through their spoken words and the silent message given with that kiss alone. As he had already said, he knew that his feelings were obvious, just as Dorian's were to him. It may have taken them some dancing to arrive where they were, but now that they were here, there was no confusion as to where they stood. The reassurance was nevertheless nice to hear now and again, just as nice as it was to give the reminder from Orym's side of things.
It didn't fix everything, of course. Orym still had plenty resting on his shoulders back home and, for better or for worse, he wasn't the sort of man that could truly brush those worries aside and focus only on his new life in Vallo. He had friends back home, a mission from the leader of his people to potentially bring about justice for his husband and father-in-law. As much as he liked his life in Vallo, those were things he couldn't just forget about.
But, Orym wasn't about to brush aside the good things, either. Not anymore.
"Mostly in one piece," Orym repeated after Dorian as he backed away, both a confirmation and a promise. He brushed his fingers along Dorian's cheekbone once, taking a moment to just memorize the moment, then looked down to the bandaids--really looked at the bandaids.
"Are you going to put ghosts on my face?"
Dorian waited, watching, making sure that what he said to Orym was indeed getting through. Not that he thought Orym wouldn't believe him, but that things tended to be so complicated that it was easy to not indulge in the thoughts or find an excuse to leave a seed of doubt. But the gentle touch on his cheek that followed assured Dorian, and he leaned into the contact for comfort, closing his eyes.
Except that he nearly forgot about the bandaids.
His eyes flew open as quickly as they shut, and his attention darted toward the ghosts. He opened his mouth a few times to say something, then thought better of it, before settling on, "Maybe? I think Laudna would like it that her purchases are going to a good cause, but I don't know if I have enough of them to cover up the wound properly."
Dorian swiped them off the counter, and began to open one anyway. They may not have healed everything, but they would give some levity to the conversation with the Bells Hells that was inevitable once they left this room. "But I do think they will distract from the hard news we'll have to tell them," Dorian said, purposely saying we instead of you. He wasn't about to let Orym do this alone, and Dorian hoped that he caught on, and—more importantly—wouldn't fight him on it.
Orym caught the we and it did several complicated things to his mind and heart as he peered up at Dorian.
The first, of course, was the instinct to tell Dorian it wasn't necessary, that he didn't have to wrap himself up in Orym's troubles. That was silly, though, wasn't it? Orym knew what it was like to be in a dedicated relationship with someone and how one party's troubles automatically became that of the other, because that was how a partnership was. Dorian had already been wrapped up in Orym's plights, just like Orym had willingly wrapped himself up in Dorian's, even before their friendship elevated to what it was now.
It was the word itself, though, that made his heart squeeze. It was the assumption that came with it, the association of the two of them, that it was inevitable and expected that they just would tackle this together. Though Orym had his friends and he was grateful for their love and loyalty, it had always been different with his bard.
Which led to the very simple conclusion of: after so long of being just I or me, Orym really liked the thought of being a we with Dorian.
Letting out a soft huff of a laugh, Orym acquiesced and tipped his head so the injured side of his face was better facing Dorian and the ghost bandages. Still, he couldn't help but softly add, "You keep saying things that just make me want to kiss you."
All the bad feelings from before—the guilt of not being there and his own anxieties and almost-panic spiral—seemed to be scrubbed away by Orym's realization. Dorian's brows rose appreciatively, as if to say see, I knew it. Because being a we was always going to outweigh the cons of going it alone.
But Dorian couldn't hide the bright, blooming blush on his face despite trying to keep his expression even. Leave it to Orym to say things that made Dorian want to kiss him. What a pair they made. How did they manage to get anything done? "I promise you can kiss me all you want once I put one of these on. I want to look as though I tried to help before everyone else gets up in your business about things," Dorian said, primed with a ghost bandaid and his hand lightly holding Orym's chin in place.
"Now hold still, while I—" And in an unsurprising and self-indulgent move, he dipped down and captured Orym's lips with his.