WHO: Dorian Storm and Orym WHERE: Oh y'know, Hell WHEN: Today, January 29 WHAT: Orym gets stuck in his own personal hell loop, so Dorian helps. ART CREDIT:Here WARNINGS: Spoilers through Critical Role C3E40. Death (including spousal, parental, and his own), grief, buckets of survivor's guilt.
The day was normal. Orym was in his full guard uniform, shortsword on his hip and shield slung onto his back. Cherry blossoms were scenting the air and dotting the landscape with dots of pink as the gentle breeze of the village proper carried them on out, where the winds of the mountains and cliffs were far stronger. Every so often, his gaze drifted a short distance to his left, to where the taller half elf in a matching uniform stood. Whenever he did, their eyes met and his husband gave a wink before his features went back to the neutrality that they were meant to express while on duty.
Luckily, hardly anyone was paying attention to the halfling, so Orym would be spared a scolding (or teasing) as his own face struggled to shed the little smile it wore.
Before that thought could fully solidify, though, the courtyard exploded into chaos. Ghost-like assassins dropping from nowhere, their blades silent as they disappeared and reappeared and poofed into smoke or mist or the gods only knew what when purchase was made against them. Derrig's yells to protect the Tempest, who was already showing her own power over nature rather than run from the fray. Shouts of confusion and anger and pain. Orym moving on instinct, his sword sliding through shadows like butter and barely noticing when he took one hit or two, never quite enough to do the damage likely expected due to his small, poison resistant self.
It was only moments before it was over. The assassins were gone, not a single trace left behind beyond the aftermath that was pools of blood and death. And then there were shouts of a different kind, wailing and pleading. It wasn't until Orym fell to the ground next to Will, the pain echoing up his knees and his fingers gripping at bloody armor, that he realized that the sound was coming from him. Brown eyes stared sightlessly to the blue sky, long brown hair messy and falling from the braid that Orym had weaved only hours previously.
A flash and Orym was standing between his mothers, the one who raised him clutching his right hand while his left arm slung around the shoulders of a quietly sobbing Nel, the triplets a presence behind them. Before them, a matching pair of headstones. An aching pressure built in Orym's chest as the tears silently fell to his cheeks, only to be brushed away as he stayed strong for his mother, his mother-in-law, his sisters.
Later, when he was finally alone in the cottage that was supposed to be his and Will's place to raise children in, to grow old together, that ache in his chest would grow to full pain and he would finally succumb to the sorrow. It wouldn't bring any relief, though, because he should have been there. He should have been protecting Will or at Derrig's side, anything to keep them both smiling and laughing and living. They weren't, though, and he was and it didn't make any sense.
Next, he was hugging his mother, her cheeks wet with tears. "I don't want you to go," she weakly said, hands in his as she backed away, "but I know that you have to."
And go he went, pack over his shoulder as he put first steps, then miles between himself and Zephrah and the memories and everything he knew. But at night, either when curled up under the shelter of a tree or in a cheap room of some rundown inn at a village so small it wasn't on any maps, his mother's words would echo in his mind and Orym would wonder: was that what she had told his father, when he had left her, too?
And then, from a cold campsite that he was left alone and thinking of his mother, Orym blinked and he was at a very full one inside, the people he had met and befriended and come to care for from Emon surrounding him and a tension in the air that was as thick and strong as the wind that had picked up as this conversation had continued.
"Sounds like a threat, Orym."
Dorian's voice was colder than Orym had yet heard, at least in their time together. His own tone was less cold, but no less serious as he confirmed, "That's what it was. We've got to rely on each other out here and, after the last several days, I'm not going to feel comfortable doing that with you carrying it."
"Well, that hurts my feelings."
Orym's apology was sincere, but not nearly enough to diffuse the situation that he had created. He didn't blame Dorian for being upset, instead letting his words settle upon his narrow little shoulders. Later, he would replay them and linger on the knowledge that he could have very well changed this budding friendship and loyalty irrevocably, that he had lost yet one more companion by not doing enough to understand Dorian better, by not being the type of leader that anyone wanted or needed.
For now, though, Orym would take the barbs, feel some version of relief as Dorian threw their stolen vestige to Dariax, and pretend not to see the webs clinging to the genasi's hand; hands that he would one day, not too far off in the future, know intimately, but were for now the hands of a near stranger.
But then, it wasn't Dorian's head that the crown was placed upon, but Opal's. Opal, who was so young and already being torn in so many directions as she was dragged through situations both of her own making and those that were thrust upon her. And Orym had only been able to watch, unable to protect her from the claws of a betrayer god.
The world shifted for Orym and things wouldn't stay fraught with Dorian, something that was either a blessing or a curse. Orym told himself it was the former, but it felt particularly hard to accept that as truth when he realized that he had once again not been able to protect one of his friends from the cruelties of the world around them. Cyrus's situation was out of Orym's control, but he should have been able to find a solution. He should have been smart enough, clever enough.
Then again, Orym was only a guard, was he not? There was a reason for that. There was a reason he had guarded the rooms where decisions were made and not making them himself.
And so, he watched as the brothers left, imagining their boarding of a skyship and their departure from Marquet to a different city that was dangerous for very different, Nameless reasons as the pain in his heart sparked to life. It was a pain born of distance that he was used to, though he was unused to it being caused by any other man than Will. Another layer of guilt, one he hadn't expected, fell upon his weighed down shoulders.
A flash and no longer is Orym standing in the fine manor of Eshteross, but is instead in the midst of a dust storm, friends at his side and foe before them. An icy, immaterial hand slips into his mind and he is helpless to stop it.
"Who do you work for? Who sent you?"
Otohan Thull's voice is a force, it and the magic doing its work. A pain splits through Orym's head, nothing like the gentle coaxing of Imogen's magic, as the thoughts and memories rise to the surface and he tells Thull everything they need to know with no choice but to let it happen.
A flash and Orym is on his back, the only comfort in the moment being the cool, hard surface of the sending stone that he clutches in his hand. Is it a comfort, though, when he knows he will not be able to use it? That Dorian may never know what became of his friends, other than that they just never contacted him again? That Orym may never be able to say goodbye? That he might never--
"We've met before."
Orym stares up at Thull, their blade pressing into his sternum and the knowledge so clear that he is about to see his husband and father-in-law once more, that he had failed them. "Yeah."
Pain, and then he blinks and is looking up at Fearne's face, full of tears and relief. "Hi."
"Hey, Fearnie."
Nothing is truly okay, though, because he might be alive, he may have another chance to find justice for his family, but Laudna is gone. Laudna is gone and Orym is not. Laudna, a good person, a kind person who deserves so much more than the trauma of a life that she was given is gone… and Orym is not.
Orym and his friends may go on a quest to bring Laudna back and they may be successful, but the moment seems to stretch. The hopelessness that their magic is tapped. Letters cannot do it, Fearne cannot do it, none of them can bring Laudna back and yelling for help outside of Bassuras as Orym tries to do will do nothing but get the rest of them in an even more complicated predicament. As logical a mind as he has, it doesn't immediately click for Orym because all this means is that he is alive, but he has lost yet one more person that he cares about and this time it wasn't just chance. It wasn't just because the shadowy assassins had gone after different targets. It wasn't just because of an impossible bounty. It was because of a choice, because of a coin and Orym knew it wasn't deserved.
That feeling only grew when the dread of Eshteross's silence settled within Orym, when the confirmation came that their patron was, in fact, dead.
"It's connected with us," Chetney said, "but might not have entirely been just us."
Imogen, then, saying the words they all knew, that Orym knew: "She read Orym's mind."
The scenes came to a halt and the space around Orym felt dark and formless as he sank to the ground. He normally knew how to handle this loss. He had come so far and he knew how to compartmentalize, to understand that it wasn't all his fault. There were days, though, where it was too much. There were days where the hole in his heart seemed to overcome him. This, he thought, was that. This, he knew, was more than that.
And then, just as the guilt began to overwhelm Orym all over again and the sobs nearly overtook him, the scene shifted. He could smell the cherry blossoms and feel the warm sun beating down on his face. And there, just a short distance from him, was Will, winking at him.
Dorian discovered quite quickly that he was not a fan of this hell. He worried that his own guilt might consume him if he got too close. But then Orym was inside, and Dorian had promptly decided that it didn't matter what happened to him, only that Orym was in trouble. Orym had put himself on the line hundreds of times, asking for so little—if anything—in return. Dorian didn't hesitate to do the same. He would rush in, snatch Orym out without having to spend long wallowing around in the maybes and what ifs.
Except this was not what he expected. How could he?
The memories stopped Dorian short. All the bluster and ferocity that he had built up to come inside had abruptly stalled in place. And Dorian could do nothing more than be a horrible witness to the guilt that plagued Orym. Guilt that Dorian could have guessed, and the ones he didn't know had weighed so heavily on his boyfriend's shoulders. It felt wrong now to see this on display in a loop of constant, cruelly persistent moments. And it was that last one, the one that nearly broke Orym, as he sank to the ground that could have taken Dorian out at the knees too.
But the rules, the stupid, horrible, unfortunate rules about not being able to grab the people inside and whisk them away thumped in the back of mind, interrupting all his emotional reactions to the scenes. Dorian's hands curled into fists, frustration overwhelming him. Hell should not be this inhumane to someone like Orym, who was always trying to do the right thing, be the best person. Undeserving to be mentally tortured for the things that were out of his control.
It was that discontent with the situation that caused Dorian to step forward into this memory, making his presence known. He wouldn't allow Orym to suffer, not like this. He was beside the image of Will, breaking the tableau in a way that he hoped that Orym would understand and not allow Hell to trick him.
"Orym," Dorian said, his voice quiet. He seemed surprised that he was so hoarse, but being a bystander to Orym's grief had hooked into Dorian too. "Orym, please, you have to know this was not your fault."
Orym froze as the new voice punctuated the memory, it not taking any time at all to register that it was Dorian's voice. Dorian wasn't supposed to be here. Dorian couldn't be here, not now, not ever. He knew what happened next, having watched the moment play out in real life, in his dreams, in his waking thoughts, and Dorian couldn't be here for it.
Except, it wasn't just that Dorian couldn't be there, because Orym was unable to fathom losing him alongside Will and Derrig. An itch at the back of his head reminded him that Dorian couldn't be there because he just couldn't. Dorian hadn't been in Zephrah that day. Orym hadn't met Dorian for another six years. Something was wrong about this, something wasn't right.
No, Dorian couldn't be here, because he wasn't here, he never met Will, he couldn't stand by Will. But he couldn't be here, because the assassins were coming and Orym couldn't let that happen.
For the first time since this cycle began, Orym felt as though he had some form of control. Some part of him--probably the same one that understood that something was off--recognized that it was likely due to Dorian's presence here, but it allowed him to step out of the memory, in a sense, and actually take a literal step. Then another step and then one more, until he was right before Dorian and Will, the latter seeming to have no reaction to the change. None of the other guards, nor even the Tempest herself, were paying Orym any mind. That, too, felt off.
"Dorian," Orym breathed, reaching out a hand and stopping short of actually touching Dorian. "Dorian," he repeated, his voice taking on a desperate tone, "you can't be here. The--the shadow assassins. They'll come and you need to leave before they do."
Maybe Dorian should have waited, flipped the script on a memory that he was in, rather than step into one that put Orym on high alert. But he couldn't bear to watch Orym suffer and not help, not say something, not step in next to Orym's husband and try and pull his worry somewhere else. Somehow he had to help break the cycle and get through to Orym so that he could look at this mounting guilt with a clearer head. But Orym's mirrored worry for Will reflected onto Dorian broke something inside of him.
He lifted his hands to hold Orym only stopping at the last minute to not touch him. "Fuck," Dorian swore low, a rare occurrance. The stupid horrible rules. "I mean, I know, I know I shouldn't be here, I know they are coming, but I'm not going to let you face this alone—them, alone." He quickly corrected himself, worried that it would only make things worse. Dorian knew he was safe from an untimely death in Orym's memories, but it didn't make the scene feel any less real. It didn't make it less real to Orym either.
"But I'm not going to leave you. I'll stay with you through every moment of it." Dorian's expression was somber, growing more sad by the second. It wasn't pity he held for Orym, just his own grief that he couldn't hide. How did Orym do it?
He lifted a hand to his brow to look out among everyone, settling on Will—who was none the wiser to his presence. "Until you realize that the guilt you may feel for all of it is not all yours to hold alone."
It was, though. Wasn't it?
Orym's gaze followed Dorian's, looking at Will who was still standing sentry, just as Orym was supposed to be in the moment. He understood what Dorian was trying to say. In the aftermath of the attack on Zephrah, he had been told those exact words by so many, in so many different ways. There was a part of him that knew that there was some truth behind it, but...
"I stand in front of people," Orym said, an echo of words said in a life both another world and years away. He looked away from Will, but he couldn't bring himself to let his eyes lift to look at Dorian. "It's my job."
It was a job that extended beyond being a guard, too. Yes, he took the hits that others couldn't and he swung back in retaliation when they weren't able to, but it was more than just the physical. Maybe part of him knew that there hadn't been anything he could do against Thull and their diving into his mind, but it had been his mind that had led them to Eshteross. Maybe he understood that there was a reason he had been worried about Dorian being in possession of the crown and that his instincts were usually good, but he had caused that conflict so no one else had to. He already had so much weighing on him. What was one more thing?
"If I can protect people, from swords or their feelings, shouldn't I do it?" This time he looked at Dorian, a genuine question on his face.
Dorian, often oblivious and unperceptive, couldn't stop himself from seeing the complicated thoughts run across Orym's face. He could see him struggle with the truth, then be pulled back under into that deceptive voice that pushed him toward his guilt. Dorian was not going to give up.
"But it's not foolproof, Orym," Dorian said. He knew it sounded callous, but it was honest. Maybe that's what Orym needed. The job he had claimed with his sword and shield had given him unfair expectations. One that Dorian couldn't unravel for Orym, but one he could try and counterbalance. "You can protect people, and that's what I love about you, your sense of duty and the way you come to everyone you care about defense. Even the people you don't know because you're a good person, no matter what you think. But—"
This was where he struggled. And for the briefest moment, he glanced at Will who was unaware of the conversation happening, unaware of his fate in just minutes. To this Will, Dorian whispered low, enough for him to hear, if he could. He tried, know that he tried. Dorian closed his eyes, and turned back to Orym.
"Just because you can doesn't mean it will always work," Dorian said, the hardest fact to swallow. It hurt to say. "You can't protect people's feelings, you can't always win every fight. There are things you can't control, and it's those things, Orym, that aren't your fault. It's not for lack of trying, it's not that you're not good enough, because you are more than good enough."
Again he reached for Orym, and again he had to forcibly stop himself. "The world is unfair, complicated, unpredictable. And those are forces you can't protect against. I'm sorry that they ever let you believe that you failed the people you were protecting."
There was truth to what Dorian was saying and some part of Orym--likely the part of him that had, prior to being thrust into this impossible space of memory, already begun the journey to such acceptance--believed him. Life was chaos and that chaos could lead to some deeply unfair and complicated and unpredictable situations that were, as Dorian had put it, out of his control.
And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Orym was not a controlling man, but he liked to think that he had some influence in the world around him, that his presence mattered. He liked to believe that he could make a positive impact in the lives of those he loved because of his choices, not because of something like fate or destiny. That wasn't exactly what Dorian was saying, he knew this, but it didn't take much for his mind to slip a step to the left and ponder: if bad things just happened because that was the way of the world, what did that mean for his losses?
"I know you're right," Orym said, raising one of his hands to wipe at his eyes as he felt tears starting to form in them. The admission brought an odd sense of release, like a trickle of air escaping a puncture in a balloon. Still, with his free hand, he gestured toward Will, then Derrig, in the near distance. "They were good people, though. I don't know if I'm ever going to wish that I had done more."
It wasn't just his late husband and father-in-law that he held that wish for, of course. If it was, he wouldn't have been plagued by all of the other visions, including those he had of Dorian. He let his hands drop, looking up at him once more. "They might not like that, though. Me, hanging onto that. None of you would." He paused, then added with clear question in his voice, "Right?"
Dorian twisted his hands furiously into the hem of his ombre cloak. He couldn't touch Orym, he couldn't even give him physical comfort amongst the mental discomfort this place was putting him through. So he turned toward wringing fabric that endured his own building anxiety. If Dorian couldn't help him, he'd have to come back, bring others. And some part of Dorian knew that even though Orym was an open book, honest and earnest, showing off his guilt like a play would be worse. Dorian knew it would be much worse.
He exhaled softly, seeing some clarity starting to come through. Dorian knew they were getting close and he hoped he wouldn't mess it up. "Right," he said, gently. "No one is asking you to forget about it, or them." He thought about the other things Orym had taken the blame for—the crown, Eshteross's death, his own inability to stand up to Thull—and he knew it was too much to hang on to. It would be a dark path to follow if Orym let it drag him down.
"There is a balance, Orym. And I know, I know you have the capacity for it. You have shown how meaningful people are to you, what they meant to you. And if you want to keep their goodness in the world, it's not through the guilt of what you could have done for them, but what you can do in the future, what you can do now. You wouldn't want them to be the same way if the roles were reversed," Dorian said, then carefully, echoed, "Right?"
It was funny, Orym would think later when he looked back on all of this, how a single sentence would help shift everything into better perspective.
Orym had spent years being fueled by his guilt, survivor's guilt in particular. He had lived, while two of the most important people in his life were gone. Will and Derrig had been a staple in his life for more or less as long as he could remember. Though not actually his father, Derrig had filled that role in his life when his own father had left. Will had been his childhood best friend, a friendship that changed as they matured and understood how deep feelings of love could flow. They had helped shape Orym into becoming the person he grew to be, then they were gone. And he was still standing and it felt wrong and confusing, because why should he be the one left alive when they were the good ones?
What Dorian had said was true, though. Were the roles reversed, Orym couldn't imagine being okay with Will saying such a thing about himself, because he wouldn't. Were the roles reversed, he would hate thinking that Dorian blamed himself for letting Orym get too close to the Spider Queen. The same went for Opal and his mother and Laudna and even Eshteross.
The guilt would always be there, in one way or another. Orym would always have bad days, because this sort of processing would never be linear, but he didn't have to go through it alone; that much was evident, with Dorian here, with him in this odd space and helping him. The people he loved wouldn't want him to. He would never forget Will and Derrig, but there were other ways to remember them.
"Right," Orym nodded, blinking and paying no mind as the tears he tried to banish with a swipe of his hand moments ago splattered onto his cheeks. Still, he wiped at his cheeks with the back of his right hand. "You're right, Dor."
"There he is," Dorian said softly, as Orym visibly came to some kind of decision—one that wasn't living in this loop of guilt. Dorian knew it didn't mean that either of them were going to move on quickly, and there was definitely work ahead, but not here. Not where Orym would be tormented for every choice he ever made, for every possibility that slipped through his fingers. Dorian didn't want to say that there was a reason for everything, but some days it felt like it.
He hated that part of Orym's guilt had been attached to him, and maybe after this they would finally have a conversation about that. But not now, not when Orym was so close to being free.
Out of his pocket, Dorian drew out a soft handkerchief, unused, and passed it to Orym. "Take this, please," Dorian said, on the verge of his own frustrated tears. Was this interfering? They weren't touching, not really, but he didn't know how particular the rules would be. If Dorian had to fight mirages and hell monsters for his slip up, he would. His hand returned to the hilt of the scimitar at his hip. Bringing it with him had felt ridiculous at the time, but now as his own mind spiraled with the potential calamity of messing with Orym's loop, it seemed smart.
His gaze passed over a door behind Orym; it didn't match the landscape they had been standing in, and his heart picked up. This is what they had been told, but Dorian also knew he couldn't take Orym and run. There was still one last step. Dorian took a deep breath, and nodded toward the door.
"I think you have to go through it first. But I'll be right here, right behind you. I promise."
Normally, Orym might have been a bit sheepish about the tears and his need for the handkerchief, but he was too emotionally taxed to think much of it. He accepted it instead, drying his eyes gently before looking in the direction of Dorian's nod. His attention had been so focused elsewhere, that he hadn't even noticed it materialize. Part of him immediately panicked, wondering if this was just some warping of the space that they were in that would lead them to another difficult memory, but his more logical side pushed that thought away. Though he didn't yet fully understand what was happening, part of him just knew that this was a good sign.
Dorian's words of encouragement helped, too. Keeping the handkerchief clutched tight in his little hand, Orym drew in a deep breath and stepped toward the doorway that he hoped would end all of this.
Upon reaching the doorway, Orym hesitated. Looking back, he could see that Dorian had kept his word, but he looked beyond him to the images around him. Zephrah, his original home, so incredibly real and out of time. He missed it more than he could put into proper words to describe, from the tallest peaks of the mountains to the village that had raised him. More than that, of course, he missed Will and Derrig. He let his gaze linger on the two of them, time seeming to be waiting for him to look his fill and for the two of them to leave; whatever the case, he studied their faces, especially Will, and released another long breath.
They weren't really Derrig and Will, his mind was starting to understand. But damn if it didn't do things to his heart to know that he may never get the chance to see them like this again.
"See you," Orym finally murmured, just loud enough that he thought Dorian would be able to hear, before finally turning to push through the doorway. He wasn't too surprised to find himself stumbling out into their shared bedroom, where he would have woken up had he not been whisked away in the first place.
Dorian was a ball of restless energy. He didn't want to push Orym out—he knew that seeing people he loved would be a hard sell to walk the opposite direction away from them. But he waited and waited, letting Orym take his time, while Dorian kept one eye on him and one eye on the door. He didn't know what he would do if it disappeared. He couldn't bear the thought of having to convince Orym again, knowing how hard it was the first time. Orym was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for, and Dorian knew his convictions could keep him tied down if he let them.
He heard the see you, and for his own brief fleeting moment, Dorian turned away to glance at Derrig and Will; people he would never know, but had shaped Orym so much. People who lived inside Orym even after death. They were alive so strongly in Orym's mind that Dorian thought he might know them through him. Even Dorian couldn't shake the feeling that he had to stay and do something to save them. He lifted a hand, as if to say goodbye himself, backing up toward the door until he was through it after Orym.
Quickly, he grabbed the knob and pulled it closed. As it slammed shut, Dorian jerked his hands back, not wanting to touch it any more than he had to. It fizzled away until he was staring at the wall of their room. His sharp, heavy breathing was loud in his ears. They were out, they were out.
Panic seized him as he spun around toward Orym. He rushed to him, wrapping his arms around his body protectively and lifting him right up off the floor. He didn't want to let go, and began to press fierce desperate kisses to Orym's face, his jaw, his temple; a tidal wave of all the affection he was holding back.
"I've got you. I've got you, Orym."
Orym's arms were around Dorian's neck with not a moment of hesitation when the taller man scooped him quite literally off of his feet. He clung to Dorian, his own breathing short and his heart racing in his chest.
He still didn't quite understand what it was that he'd just experienced and how Dorian had been able to enter that odd mind palace in the first place, but it didn't really matter at the moment. Orym had questions and he just had to assume that there would be answers that would come later, when he wasn't so desperately in need of the comfort that Dorian was providing him in that fraught, emotional moment. He felt more exhausted, both mentally and physically, than he had in a very long time, but he was home. He was safe here, with Dorian, in his strong arms. As independent as Orym could be, he was happy to accept this.
That was, after all, what he'd just learned, wasn't it? It was okay to accept the help from others that he so readily offered them.
Still, his gut instinct was to apologize, a thought that he immediately did his best to dismiss. Not only was Orym sure that his getting stuck in that place wasn't really his fault, he knew that Dorian wouldn't need an apology. He wouldn't want one. Instead, he pressed his cheek to Dorian's, sucked in a shuddering breath, and murmured into a pointed blue ear, "Thank you."
"Oh Orym, you're welcome, you're welcome," Dorian said, tucking his face into Orym's neck. Dorian felt like crying, was sure he might actually be crying and was hiding it poorly. He didn't know how to cover up his feelings, not with Orym. And the fact that the loop had affected him so much was a testament to his empathy to others. The man he loved was struggling, and had to suffer terrible consequences for it. Hell seemed like it was a place to kick others while they were down, without actually helping them manage their guilt.. And so Dorian had lifted Orym physically and figuratively out of all of it.
Would it cause problems if he never put Orym down? It would make fighting complicated, that was for sure. But screw it for now. His hand had reached around to cradle the back of Orym's head, as Dorian's own emotional outburst settled into something calmer. Holding Orym and being held by Orym seemed to soothe him. Shouldn't he have been doing that for Orym?
"I will always be there for you, as long as you'll have me," Dorian whispered, just for Orym. "Even in hell. Or Hell, or whatever that was. I have some very strong words I'd like to have with the management of that place."
"If anyone can tell them off properly," Orym said quietly, fingers sinking into long hair, "it's my words guy." It was a joke--a very bad joke, but an attempt of a joke all the same. He was too emotionally exhausted to pull off much more than that, but he thought that Dorian might appreciate the try.
Orym had a lot to unpack, starting experiencing every piece of guilt that he had been consciously and subconsciously hanging onto and ending with how Dorian had been willing to step into hell (because, he realized now that he was no longer there, that's what there was) for him. His heart seemed to simultaneously hurt and feel like it was overflowing, which was a new sensation, especially at this degree. He needed to think about everything, process it at his own pace--and, very likely, do it with the help of those he cared about most.
For now, though, he just wanted to lay down and maybe even sleep, preferably while wrapped up with a very specific air genasi.
"I love you." The words were said at just above a whisper, as if Orym was afraid to break a spell or alert the wrong person that he was no longer in that hell loop. He leaned back, staying pressed close thanks to Dorian's arms holding him there, but giving Orym just enough room to ghost his lips along his cheekbone and then press his face against Dorian's once more. "And I'll love you even more," he added, something like a smile quirking the very edge of his mouth, "if we can take a nap."
Hopefully, he thought, his better jokes would come back after all that processing, too.