WHO Dorian Storm and Orym WHERE Dorian's bunk in the rebel base WHEN After the rescue mission WHAT Orym helps bandage up Dorian after their return from the rescue, then tells fills him in on their relationship in Vallo Prime. STATUS Complete WARNINGS None, really!
After a few days in this topsy-turvy version of Vallo, Orym felt like he understood most of the rules. People were different, varying from small differences (Chetney preferring to work with metal over wood) to very large (Caleb and so many others were evil). Those that had been left behind in the Vallo that he was most familiar with did not exist in the new Vallo (there was no Gilmore to go to for emergency potions, for example). People's arrival in this world seemed to correlate with that of his own. There was hardly any pie.
All of that added up to a great many things, but in this moment, as Orym peered around a corner at Dorian Storm, it just meant that he knew a few things. This Dorian was, as Chet had put it, a hardass. Orym had never existed in a Vallo with this Dorian and, given how their relationship had finally sparked and progressed for Orym and his Dorian, he knew what that meant for this Dorian. And finally, he had been here, dealing with this wild world, for almost two years.
Orym knew that he should just walk up to him and say hello. He knew that he probably looked like some kind of coward, having been observing Dorian from a distance since they got back from the rescue, but it wasn't so much about Orym. Yes, he was worried about his own heart and how it might twist to be the one forgotten or lost, but when had Orym ever put his own emotions ahead of Dorian's? He didn't even know if this Dorian knew him, but Orym's litany of "what ifs" in his mind would not stop scrolling.
And so, he remained with one eye poking around the corner, watching Dorian in what he hoped looked like a subtle way, but in reality…well. There was a reason Orym wasn't a rogue.
Being captured by the Council had been such a goddamn rookie move. He didn't think he had held much information, and starting strong against the various unique torture prospects had been a testament to his strength. His imprisonment felt more like a because they could rather than they needed him. And so Dorian would not break, he would not give in, and he had remained resolute through gritted teeth, shouting obscenities every time one of the Council carted off his friends or his peers.
Now back underground was a blessing. A deep exhaustion had come over him upon being in his little bunk, with none of this minimal possession touched. Like the Outlanders knew he would come back, and he wasn't a lost or forgotten cause. It warmed his cold dead heart that people cared.
But the problem now was not trying to close his eyes against the memories of the weeks in Elmcroft, or even trying to find a comfortable position when his body ached from injuries. No, right now it was the fact that Orym, who had never been in Vallo, was suddenly here, hovering around their little group of Exandrians like he knew something or wanted to explain a universal truth that none of them would believe.
Dorian sure as fuck wasn't about to believe it, even if he was prone to at least listening to hairbrained ideas. Even if he was one to make them too.
He continued wrapping his hand and wrist, currently mottled with old and new bruises, and a jagged cut that was barely healing and going to leave a terrible scar if he didn't try to do something about it. But he had waved off help ("Get to the others first, they fucking had it worse than me, I can do it.") only to realize he was not as skilled at doing this with his non-dominant hand. Dorian was clearly having trouble. And with Orym still hovering around the corner, Dorian's patience was spent. Quickly.
"I can fucking see you there," Dorian said, without looking up from his bandage debacle. "I know you have the perception of a god, but you're not that great at hiding. You can either go somewhere else or you can, I don't know, give a shit and give me a hand."
With a little jump of surprise, Orym realized that his hiding and watching plan was flawed, what with Dorian having eyes. He recovered quickly, though nothing could fully hide the way the tips of his gently pointed ears turned bright pink in embarrassment, especially as he slinked in toward Dorian.
He looked different. He still looked like Dorian, of course, but Orym had memorized him over the years they had known one another. Looking at this Dorian, he could easily see where the years of a difficult life had chiseled away at him, turning him into the (handsome, always handsome, but also) hardened man Chetney had told him he was in this world. It did something to Orym's heart that he knew he had to ignore for now.
Instead, he hopped up onto Dorian's bunk, kneeling next to him. Without asking, Orym gently took the bandages arm and began unraveling the work that Dorian had already done, until it was bare again. He assessed the injuries for a moment before getting to work, starting with druidcrafting the moss that Nel had taught him all those years ago would help when supplies were low. It wasn't a permanent fix, but it would help with the cut in the meantime.
"This is going to sting for a moment," Orym said, looking up through his eyelashes at Dorian for permission before carefully packing the cut with the moss.
Dorian's attention was sharp on Orym, the way he bounded into the room, so eager. Too eager. The nice ones always were. He also regretted saying anything and inviting him in to care, especially at the harsh involuntary hiss he let out when Orym removed the bandage. But the sting of his bad first aid, was replaced with the sting of the moss, and Dorian gritted his teeth because there was no way he was going to let Orym know he was in pain. He had been through worse.
"I feel like you're turning me into a tree. So like, give me a heads up or something if you're going to scramble my insides to resemble bark or something," Dorian said, curtly, knowing full well that was not the case. He was just talking, running his mouth, being a smart ass because that was the only way he knew how to fill the quiet. The other option was being an anxious, nervous mess—which, ugh, gross, Dorian would never look so goddamn weak.
He huffed, annoyed that it was taking too long (it was not taking long at all) and finally said, "Okay what's the fucking deal? You came, you saved us, everyone's been really fucking weird about things. I feel like we all need a solid round of What The Fuck Is Up With That so we can get this bullshit out of the way," Dorian said, starting to get antsy about sitting still. About how gentle Orym was being with him. About how close they were.
"You're still that really intense stoic guy I know, but you were staring at me like something was fucking wrong with my face. What the fuck is up with that?"
There were two warring sides of Orym in that moment: the part of him that was growing more and more tense with each word out of Dorian's mouth and the other part that couldn't help but be amused at each curse. He'd heard his Dorian swear, of course, but not like this. It shouldn't have been funny—and it truly wasn't—but there was something about the absurdity of the situation as a whole that had Orym feeling off-balanced.
Off-balanced though he was, Orym kept his focus on the bandaging of Dorian's hand and wrist. This situation felt easier with a task to keep his mind on. He tried not to think about what he would do once said task was completed.
"There's nothing wrong with your face." Orym kept his own face downturned, watching his work as he tested how secure the bandages were. He knew that was not at all the question that Dorian was asking, but the answer wasn't a simple one. How was he supposed to express that his face was the one that he was in love with and he just kept waiting for that little bit of softness, that recognition in blue eyes over what it was that they shared, but knowing it wasn't going to come? He settled on, "You're just different than what I'm used to." He paused his movements, thinking for a moment before actually looking up at Dorian. A small, crooked smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. "And I don't have the perception of a god."
"Different than what you're used to, uh huh. Okay," Dorian said, absolutely not sounding convinced. He didn't like knowing that another version of him was out there, different and weird and probably a loser. Pause. Wait. Fine, not a loser. He could hear Ashton's voice in the back of his head saying that he shouldn't be so pessimistic and hard on himself. Dorian was a lot of things, but no version of himself could suck.
Which now made him more curious. The version of Orym he knew had been gone for years. He didn't have these scars or look this determined. This one seemed like he had seen some shit, and Dorian was trying so hard not to ask because asking meant they were chummy, and Dorian did not want to seem like he was friendly with people. Even his friends. That was pretty fucked up though, he knew that.
So that just meant Dorian, despite all his best efforts to be aloof and mostly a hardass, watched Orym tend to his arm, contemplated his life choices, and blurted out, "Just tell me, man. Like, it's going to fucking bug the shit out of me if you don't tell me what's different about other me. And I'm going to tell everyone you have the perception of a god—yeah, I fucking said it—unless you give me the details. You owe me."
Orym didn't owe Dorian anything, but usually when he punctuated sentences like that, someone could dredge up some guilt to feel obligated to Dorian. Technically, Dorian owed him and the others for coming to rescue him, but he didn't point that out.
With a little quirk of his eyebrow, Orym returned to his work. "I don't have to be in debt to you to want to answer questions, you know," he said, knowing that could be opening himself up to the gods only knew what. Still, for as different as the Dorian he was tending to was compared to the one that was usually tending to Orym instead, he did believe that they weren't completely separate entities. Maybe if Orym took the time to search for them he would find that they were minimal, but he knew they were there. He was here, after all, among the rebels and not with the Council; that alone seemed like an indication.
"I don't know you well enough to know all of the differences," Orym continued, his voice its regular even, quiet tone, as though this was a normal conversation to have. "But he's a bard, mostly plays the lute but he has a flute and sings, too. We train together so he's gotten real good with a blade—a scimitar is what he uses. He's incredibly kind and smart, but he doesn't give himself enough credit on either of those things."
He began to concentrate on tying off the end of the bandage, securing it to hopefully hold until Dorian got it checked out by an actual healer instead of a not-a-druid. "Doesn't swear as much as you. That was always Ash's job." That had been a funny enough thing to witness, too. Cheerful Ashton.
"There." Orym let go of Dorian, lifting his hand to push through his hair distractedly, bashfully, as he added quickly, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, ah—he's my boyfriend, too."
"Ash would rather jump into lava than swear," Dorian said quickly. It sounded like a fairytale. The kind of person Orym was describing was both Dorian and not. He could see the similarities. He had lost his scimitar when he was captured by the Council, and had not thought to grab it back. They couldn't afford to lose weapons but his mind had literally been escape escape escape. He'd mourn the loss later.
"And I don't really do the bard stuff anymore. I used to, but not really worth it here. People need action, protection. I can't do that with a mandolin," Dorian said, sounding slightly aggrieved. He had used the mandolin as a bat—unable to grab anything sharp at the time—in order to help one of the younger Outlanders. Spawned an Echo of himself, and the rest was a disaster but it was like the world telling him right then and there: singing was off the table.
He had been inspecting Orym's handiwork on his bandages but stilled immediately at the boyfriend bit. "What the fuck?" He paused, tried again, and only managed another, "What the actual fuck?"
Dorian immediately stood, getting some distance between him and Orym. Not because he hated the idea, but just because these admissions required room to breathe and being in a sewer, breathing was hard to come by when crammed together. "You and me are together? Like together-together? No way." He started waving his hands back and forth like he was dismissing the words from the air. "No fucking way. We barely even know each other where I'm from. Did Chet put you up to this? How?"
In retrospect, Orym knew that he probably ought to have been more gentle when dropping that particular bombshell, but he had a feeling that Dorian wouldn't have appreciated that any more than what he had done. The bluntness probably did him favors, even if Dorian's reaction caused a twinge in the center of Orym's chest. It was an unfair feeling, he told himself. He knew, once he found out that there had never been a version of himself in this Vallo, what that would mean for his and Dorian's relationship. Still, the reminder stung; he had been holding out hope that they would always find each other, be that at home, Vallo, or some other world in between.
Swallowing hard, Orym realized that he was still sitting on the bunk and he followed Dorian's example, sliding to the ground. He proceeded to brush off invisible pieces of lint and dust from his clothing, needing to give his hands and eyes something to do that wasn't reaching out or staring at Dorian. "Where I'm from, you're one of my best friends. We met in Emon, traveled together for some time, went on adventures, all of that. You volunteered to join me when I needed support on a mission I was given in Marquet. And then we got pulled into my Vallo and one thing led to another."
Finally, Orym forced his gaze north, looking up up up to Dorian. "I'm not expecting anything of you. But you asked and deserve to know."
The expression on Dorian's face was nothing short of huh? He couldn't seem to unscrew the look of pure confusion and annoyance at being confused. He wasn't used to people surprising him. And then when someone did (usually Chetney) he would give the old man a noogie and tell him to fuck off, geezer. He couldn't exactly do that with Orym, especially not when he was looking so, so, so—
"Fuck, you look like I told you I kicked a baby moorbounder," Dorian said, and then started doing that pacing thing that he did when he was getting agitated and no one was listening to him. Which, if he was being honest, his plans were usually just to fight shit and interrogate later, and that wasn't really a plan. He understood while people didn't always listen to him. But right now Orym was so goddamn attentive to him, probably too intensely, waiting for him to not say something shitty. Dorian didn't know if he was capable.
"Okay, look. You—I wasn't expecting that, okay? So just fucking stop being so nice about it. You're basically looking at your boyfriend and I'm going, yeah fuck no way." Dorian held up his hand, gesturing at Orym in a c'mon. "It's not a no way, man. Just look at you. Other me must have shit himself when you said you liked him. You probably do all kinds of that sick cutesy stuff, definitely some love there."
And well, that made him a little ill to think about. Maybe that was just the after effects of being under the Council's thumb for weeks. Maybe he should actually be sleeping and not having this conversation with Orym, but... here they were. "So now I know, now what?" Dorian asked, because he for once did not have any clue how to move forward from this.
Orym tried, he really tried, not to show the immediate rush of bashfulness that went through him at the compliment. At least, he was pretty sure it was a compliment. It sounded like a compliment. He would accept it as one, either way.
But it did make his heart squeeze, a sensation he was growing too used to. This wasn't over, obviously. None of it would be over until they found everything they were looking for and hopped back across the portal, hoping it would set their worlds right. It didn't sit well with Orym to know they weren't entirely sure what was going to happen to these people in this Vallo, but it wasn't something he was wholly unused to; he had traveled to the future and done all he could help there, but didn't rightfully know if they were better off after they had touched it. Could the same be said for the people in this Vallo?
What Orym did know, though, was that he wanted his people back. He wanted his Dorian back. Did that make him selfish? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that.
"I don't know that that's totally up to me," Orym said, because it felt right enough. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, so I'll leave you alone, if you want. Like I said, I haven't got any expectations here, I just thought you should know, in case I accidentally do look at you, like--well, the kicked a baby moorbounder description is probably apt." He smiled at that, trying for a bit of nonchalance.
"But if you don't want me to leave you alone, well. I don't know." Orym tipped his head to the side, shrugging one of his shoulders. "Maybe we can spar later. Chet said you're good with swords and I'd like to see that."
"You literally can't come in here and be like we kissy face at each other in another world and then be like but peace out, like come the fuck on," Dorian said, waving Orym's niceness away. It was a good thought. And a better man might have taken Orym up on the offer. But Dorian was not a better man. He had been alone with a handful of Outlanders for weeks being tortured for gods-knows-what, and he just wanted to enjoy this freedom. As weird as it was. And maybe, maybe not alone.
"Just keep the heart eyes or whatever to a minimum. I also look like fucking month-old garbage so I can't be that fucking appealing. I also—" Dorian lifted his good arm to give his armpit a sniff. "I smell like it too. So maybe just rethink how much you're gonna be sad-facing at me. And definitely don't let Chet see you making that face. Or fuck, Ash. They'll start asking if you're okay and being really nosy in your business and it's fucking— I know they mean well, but shit. Sometimes you just wanna think your thoughts by yourself without someone breathing down your back about shit, you know?"
He watched Orym for a long, likely uncomfortable moment. He did think Orym knew. Understood the feeling of just having his own space to have all those big feelings. Did his other Dorian give him that space? Did he help the thoughts when they turned sad or bad? For a small blip he wondered what it would look like to have Orym as his boyfriend to share stuff like that together.
Nope, no. Couldn't indulge. Too weird.
"Yeah we can spar," Dorian agreed. "But no going easy on me because you're worried about my arm and stuff. I'm fine. Better than fine, actually. I'll probably still kick your ass."
Orym did know, he really did. He remembered that time in Zephrah, that handful of months that he play acted as himself while trying to grapple with his grief. As much as he knew how much his family loved him and that their checking on him was an act of care, it could be too much. Sometimes he truly just needed to be alone and he got that for nearly six years—and then he made himself another type of family that was just as nosy as Dorian was describing. Some things didn't change, even across portals.
But it was truly that as much as Orym needed time and quiet sometimes to calm his thoughts, nothing helped quite like Dorian. His steady presence, the way he would hold Orym close at night when his thoughts most often turned toward the dark, how he would just be there when the nightmares invaded. All of his friends held a place deep within his heart, but it was Dorian who held it.
It hurt, a bit, to think that this Dorian didn't have an Orym to have that chance with. He had to hope that he might, someday. That maybe they really would find each other in every world.
That was a sadly romantic thought, both of which were faces that Dorian had just told Orym not to make. Pushing the thoughts away, though he knew that they would revisit him again and again and again until they finally completed this mission, Orym fought through the sad heart eyes and just smiled, backing away from Dorian.
"Big talk," he said, turning to walk toward where his sword was leaned against the nearby wall. He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "How about you prove it?"
"I can literally see you overthinking this," Dorian said, with a huff. And yeah, Orym should get to think all the things he wanted without Dorian stopping him, given the circumstances. Dorian, right now, in this room, was not the Dorian of fond memories and schmoopy shit and that probably continued to suck. Part of him wondered what it would be like—to have someone to lean on, to share secrets and feelings and all the anxiousness that often built up inside him but had nowhere to go. What would it be like to have a boyfriend? A companion? Someone like Orym of the Goddamn Air Ashari? Yeah, Dorian remembered that mouthful of an honorific.
He needed to stop wondering all the what ifs. Because he could literally feel himself heart-eying Orym the longer he didn't say anything. That would be bad? Yes, bad. Definitely fucking bad. Maybe.
Dorian stepped up beside Orym, taking the other sword that had been placed there. It wasn't his scimitar but it would do. "No going easy on me," Dorian said, flashing his now expertly wrapped arm. It twinged with pain, but it was less so. Orym's first aid trumped Dorian's own. That seemed poignant some how. Dorian wanted to know more—the hows, the whys, the ins-and-outs of Orym and all this knowledge he wasn't privy to. Other Dorian probably was. Fucking hell.
"And I won't go easy on you, and when I kick your fucking ass you know it was because you didn't hold back." He rubbed his hand into Orym's hair, obligatory noogie. And a secretive little hair touch. "Deal?"
Orym smiled, nudging Dorian's thigh with his shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to dodge away from the noogie. Dorian was so obviously different from his Dorian, but Orym could feel a similar tether to him. That ease and contentment, the knowledge that he could be his authentic self and let all of the walls crumble around him. It wasn't entirely the same, but it had echoes of what he knew.
With one more nudge at Dorian, this time with his elbow, Orym's smile tipped into a mischievous sort of smirk. He took his sword, swinging it a few times as though trying to prove that he wasn't going to go easy on the genasi. "It's a deal."