InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "i love you"

orym loves pie 🥧 and could kill you ⚔️ (littlemoon) wrote in valloic,
@ 2024-08-24 15:27:00

Entry tags:

!: network post, critical role: dorian storm, critical role: orym

Log: Dorym

Dorian & Orym

WHO Dorian Storm and Orym
WHERE Their bedroom, largely under the duvet
WHEN Just before the NPC Plot
WHAT Everything's real tough right now, so the boys have a check in (and a cuddle) about it.
STATUS Complete
WARNINGS Spoilers through CR C3E98. Discussion of death, grief, guilt.

"Are you taking care of yourself?"

With a hip check, Orym closed the refrigerator with a soft thud and scampered back over to the plate that he had been assembling on the counter. He stepped up onto the step that gave him better access to said counter at his height, surveying his work. Assembled were some of what he had come to know to be Dorian's preferred foods, the cheeses and dried meats (not quite jerky) that he liked, some fruit and bits of raw vegetable that he had picked up on him gravitating toward, and a couple bits of chocolate to even it all out. He blew out a breath. It felt like a meager offering, but an offering it was. A simple dinner wasn't going to fix anything and Orym didn't even know if Dorian would have the appetite to eat anything in the first place, but he could try. In the days since they had all remembered a great deal of trauma from Exandria, Orym had been doing all he could to take care of the others, especially Dorian. If his focus was on the people he loved, then there was less space in his mind to focus on his own guilt and feelings of helplessness. It wasn't healthy and it certainly wasn't wise, but seeing how distraught Dorian was, and rightfully so, had thrown Orym directly into caretaker mode. There would be time, he told himself, to focus on his own feelings. It felt only right, though, after time and again he had allowed Dorian to keep the pieces of him together after Orym received new memories on his own. Their relationship wasn't transactional and there weren't any debts between them, but stepping in to return the favor was a no brainer to Orym, as natural as the careful breathing he practiced in the Zeph'aeratam. Orym took the plate, balancing it with a pitcher of water and a glass before he started his way upstairs, back into the bedroom that he shared with his boyfriend. Again, this wouldn't fix anything, but it kicked up memories of his mother making sure he ate and cared for himself in the aftermath of the attack on Zephrah. That hadn't fixed anything either, but he had appreciated being cared for and being able to not have to worry about one thing as he grappled with his grief. He didn't know if the same could be said for Dorian, but Orym was going to keep trying. Once he reached their room, Orym closed the door behind him before he set the supplies down on the nightstand next to his side of the bed. Peering over the edge, he saw the bump in the blankets that was Dorian, right where he left him. Without a thought, he abandoned the food and drink for now, instead ducking under the duvet and scurrying up and onto the bed. Keen eyes skittered over Dorian's form in the darkness of covers, assessing silently as he settled in on his side. "No hurry," he murmured, his voice quiet as it felt like it needed to be when under blankets, "but I got you some food. Whenever you're ready for it." With time, Dorian thought he would be more functional. Better equipped to handle his weighty emotions and the grieving loss. But time only made it harder, gave him more time to think about it. He remembered FCG once discussing the five stages of grief, something about denial and acceptance and anger. All of which Dorian had felt, deeply and unequivocally, but he thought that would be it. Once he suffered miserably through them that it would end. But that wasn't how this worked. He cycled through them, not in any sort of order, and so intensely that being unconscious was the only way he could hide from them. And even then, dreams were cruel. Distantly, Dorian knew that he was not being very aware of the others around him. It was selfish, especially for Orym, and he was trying to focus on that. But if he couldn't take care of himself, how was he supposed to take care of Orym? The rest of their friends? It gnawed at him, so much so that he still had not made it out of bed that morning. Or that afternoon. Or that evening. Time was difficult to keep track of under a duvet. He heard the ins and outs of Orym in the room. He wanted to say something but the words seemed to all dry up in his mouth. He knew Chetney would try to coax some out of him, alongside Orym, but he was afraid if he opened his mouth, he would cry. He was trying not to do that. For a few hours at least. He wished they were somewhere else, not safely tucked away. Maybe fighting for their lives so that Dorian didn't have so much time to think. To regret. But suddenly there was Orym, crawling under the blankets, settling in beside him, and he was just enough of a distraction to interrupt his grief spiral again. "All right," Dorian said, his voice rough and quiet, he couldn't seem to make it louder. And then because he was trying not to think about himself, he inched very so slightly toward Orym, hands tucked under his cheek. "Did you eat?" "Not yet." Unconsciously, Orym shifted to mirror Dorian, closing the distance between them just a fraction as he curled on his side and pillowed his cheek against his hands. "I was hoping that maybe you'd share with me, once you get hungry." As it was, Orym hadn't had too much of an appetite himself, which was a shame given how much pie their kitchen was stocked with in thanks to FCG's stress baking. They were all a bit of a mess at the moment, he thought to himself, and each of them were coping in their own, unique way. It made it hard for Orym, someone who felt compelled to drop everything to care for his loved ones, to navigate from room to room. Who needed to be left alone? Who needed conversation? Distraction? All of the above? Was he even qualified to help with any of this, when what he was best at was swinging a sword to fix problems? That was a line of thinking that he knew would be healthiest to work through, but he pushed it aside for now and once again focused on Dorian. He eased one of his hands free and let it fall between them, palm up and in offering. He wouldn't be upset if the offer of connection wasn't accepted, but he wanted to give it, nevertheless. Still, his mind wandered back to who needed to be left alone? and Orym asked, "Is it okay if I stay with you for a while? Give you some company?" Dorian nodded, and closed his eyes. Sometimes just understanding that someone was taking care of him felt like too much. He should be able to take care of himself. And he didn't want Orym to suffer alongside Dorian when he was feeling like everything was impossible to do. Especially when anything felt like a hair-trigger to setting off his emotions about Cyrus. He heard another shuffle of Orym, and when he blinked his eyes open, he saw the offered hand between them. Moving was a slow process, realizing he hadn't moved for some time. Just a lump on the bed. He probably looked horrific, a tangle of hair and static and rumpled sleep clothes. And yet Orym was still here, still making an effort. Dorian didn't deserve him. He took his hand nonetheless in a loose grip, more a tangle of fingers and palms rather than a vice. The gentleness Dorian needed was right there, and all he had to do was reach out. "You can always stay with me," Dorian said, searching Orym's face. He realized that his mood and his own company might not have been the best lately, but that didn't mean that he didn't want Orym with him. He shuffled a little closer, until there was more gentle contact between them, knees and elbows. It wasn't the urgent, desperate grabs for one another when they wanted to make sure they were safe—but they were, they were safe—but just a calming sort of thing. "You never have to ask. I always want you here. I miss you when you're gone." Which was silly to say, Dorian knew. They were never far from each other, but the loss of his brother made him needy, irrational. In the brief moments of lucidity between his sadness when Orym wasn't beside him, he wanted him there. If it was possible, Orym's expression would have softened even further than it already was as he peered at Dorian. The look on his face wasn't pitying, but more some semblance of a troubled understanding—understanding because Orym knew too well how some of what Dorian was currently facing felt and troubled because he was having to feel it at all. He had taken on the job of guarding Dorian's heart Orym shifted one final time, taking advantage of how near Dorian was now after he closed that bit of distance. Extending his arm, his free hand reached out, fingers gentle as they began to slowly smooth over and through the hair at the top of Dorian's head. "I always want to be here," Orym promised Dorian. "When times are good and bad both, I just want to be by you." And this, so obviously, was one of those bad times. It was reassuring to know that despite that he felt like he didn't know what he was doing and that he was floundering in trying to take care of his partner, it seemed like he wasn't actually doing all that bad if Dorian still wanted him around. Orym ran his thumb along Dorian's. "I'm sorry, though, that things are bad right now." "It's not your fault," Dorian said, at Orym's apology. He felt like that needed to be clear. There had been so much turmoil and confusion and heartache, but none of it had been at the hands of Orym. In fact. Orym was actively working against all of it: by his kindness, by his concern and care. It had settled in Dorian's lucid awareness—Orym was here, Orym was taking care of him, Orym could make things better. He knew that Orym couldn't bring back his brother, but the moments he was near him, the pain wasn't so harsh. Maybe that was greedy of Dorian to want, when he knew that Orym was suffering his own losses. "I know they are bad, and I know they can be worse—" His voice pitched high, almost breaking. He didn't want them to be worse, he didn't want to jinx it. Dorian was usually optimistic, not leaning too hard one way or another in bad choices and bad days, a glass half full. But now he felt a little harder, a little sharper. Careful of the things he said because anything and everything could happen. He didn't always want to be like this, but he knew right now it was his only option. He didn't think he could bear anymore. He made a small noise, not happiness or pleasure, but just of gentle acquiescence when Orym combed through his hair. He felt a little unmoored, but not concerned that he was floating, figuratively, away. Orym had his way of doing that. "I know that it can't be easy for you either. I know you have not been untouched by everything." Dorian paused, inching closer, needing more of Orym's warmth. "Are you taking care of yourself?" There were two correct answers to that question and Orym knew which one Dorian would have wanted. He had been going through the motions of being a person, cooking meals and cleaning the house while checking in on their friends, which Orym thought could technically count as taking care of himself. But he knew that he was doing all of those things to distract from everything else, which he had a sense that Dorian, and their housemates, would argue that meant he wasn't taking care of himself. Sensing that Dorian wanted to be closer still, and always wanting that himself, Orym stalled in answering to close what little distance really remained. He tucked his head under Dorian's chin, it not escaping him that the proximity was similar to how when Dorian would hide his own face against Orym's neck before speaking some difficult truth, then slung an arm around him in an embrace. He slipped one of his legs between Dorian's, then Orym let his cheek press to his chest. It wasn't until that moment that he realized just how much he needed Dorian's warmth, too. "Can I be honest?" Not that Orym was ever anything but with Dorian, of course. He needed permission now, though. He needed to know that Dorian was in the right headspace. Oh, this was perfect. Not that his brain, which was heavy with grief and loss, could easily comprehend. But this was indeed everything that Dorian needed. The softness, the closeness. The inability to know what he desired seemed to balance perfectly with Orym, who was always so acutely aware. Who took it upon himself to take up residence in Dorian's space. With Orym tucked under his chin, Dorian sighed, a little broken noise as he held back his tears again. He squeezed Orym tight, the gentle tentativeness gone. He was solid and real and reassuring, the kind of thing that Dorian wanted even if he couldn't voice it. Instinctively his hands wrapped around Orym, smoothing down his back, into his hair. A reminder that he wasn't alone, even when things were bad. Even if they got worse, he had Orym. And he could be the person Orym needed right now. They could lean on each other. "Of course," Dorian said. He didn't think Orym couldn't be honest, but the circumstances were different. Complicated. "You never have to ask. I know things are—I know it's not—you never have to ask," Dorian repeated. It felt important to be clear, to have no stipulations or caveats. That Orym who was also suffering didn't have to put his feelings on the backburner for others. He was just as important, just as worthy of care. Yes, Orym thought to himself as Dorian spoke and pulled him in tighter all at once, he truly had needed Dorian's warmth. It was something that Orym knew he needed no excuse to ask for, but in that moment he found himself even more grateful than he usually was for this man he'd entwined his life with. And that man, Orym knew, deserved honesty. "I think that I have been focusing so much on being there for you and for the others when they need it, because I'm afraid that if I slow down it'll just—crush." The confession came quietly, his tone almost edging on surprised, as though he hadn't expected himself to ever be able to voice it. Orym had a certain level of self-awareness to know what sort of man he was most of the time, but he usually kept that close to the chest. Dorian tended to draw it out of him, though; it was how his presence calmed Orym or Orym's own desire to be known by Dorian in a way he wasn't always comfortable with when it came to others. Either way, the words just flowed. "Back home," Orym continued, his fingers curling into the fabric of Dorian's clothes, "we hadn't really had time to breathe, let alone think. There are fewer distractions here." He sighed, pressing his nose against Dorian's collarbone before he quietly admitted, "So no, I don't think I've been taking very good care of myself." There was a part of Dorian that knew what Orym's answer was going to be. Having been through heartache here in Vallo, and the memories from Exandria tripping Orym up constantly, it was almost expected. It wasn't very fair of Dorian to know, even in all his own grief and mourning. Orym should have been allowed to pretend he was doing okay in the face of everything brought to light between their friends. And between Dorian's loss of his brother. But they had been together so long, that even in his own hazy cloud, Dorian knew. His arms tightened around Orym again, burrowing further into the mattress under the duvet. The blanket would provide no real protection from an enemy should one decide to pop into their bedroom—and wouldn't that be a welcome distraction to not have their thoughts be around their lost loved ones?—but it would protect them from the world. Just for a moment. Just to make everything soft and kind, when the world was so, so cruel. "I guessed as much," Dorian said quietly, exhaling gently into Orym's hair. "You shouldn't have to take care of everyone when things get bad, when things are bad. You always run yourself ragged, Orym." And Dorian was aware Orym was doing it for him—out of love and care—but he didn't want Orym to not be kind to himself in the process. It wouldn't do. "And you have been doing so well, so so well, taking care of me. So you should ask for the things you need too. It would only make me feel miserable knowing you were in pain through it all." Dorian knew he was too. Just the fact that Orym was here, admitting it, meant he was. "Maybe we can just take care of each other, even if it's not the best, it's something rather than nothing." Dorian sighed softly. "What do you need?" "This." The answer came so quickly and so automatically that it surprised even Orym, the person who was uttering it. It was true, though. It was hard to put into words how Dorian's comfort helped him, especially when he was knowing that it was a two-way street. They were both suffering, but that didn't mean one had to ignore their needs for the sake of the other—a lesson that Orym had slowly, surely gotten better at remembering. He remembered now. Orym tipped his head up, pressing his lips to Dorian's chest. It wasn't sensual, like it so often normally might have been, but more just another point of connection. Another method of reminding one another of how close they were and always would be. "Being able to take care of you does help," Orym admitted. "I like to—I think that I need to feel useful. There's so much I wasn't able to do back in Exandria and there are things that I failed in, but here—it's not simple, but it feels straightforward." He drew in a long breath, the end of which hitched into something that was closer to a quiet sob than he'd expected. Though his eyes and cheeks were still dry, he'd been on a precipice of tears for days. "I'm just glad you're here and—and I'm glad you're there at home, even if the circumstances are so terrible. I'd missed you so much, Dor." This was easier. Dorian realized it almost like a surprise, like a known quantity that had been there and suddenly appeared: right and true. Turning his attention on Orym, who had always been so present, and now was suffering. And taking care of him was an instinct, as easy as breathing. He drew Orym up into his arms further—could he pull him further? Maybe, Dorian didn't care—tangling within the sheet and duvet. "You are useful," Dorian said, but it sounded not right. Like he was agreeing that Orym was only here to be useful to someone else. And that if he wasn't, he wasn't good enough. Dorian's face scrunched up, expressive in the way he usually was, not covered in the cloak of grief. Of course, Orym doesn't see him, so he pressed his lips to the top of Orym's head: a kiss to his hair, a kiss to his temple. "But you don't have to be, not all the time. You can have moments where you need a break too. It doesn't make you less. You're allowed. You know that right?" Dorian asked. He could hear the waver in Orym's voice, in the sob that wasn't a sob at all. The precipice of emotions that Orym was teetering toward. Dorian understood, he had been on the cliff's edge for days. "I'm glad I'm here too. And there. And with you. I missed you. Even if you think that I didn't, I did," Dorian said, his voice going softer with each word. "I wish I could have told you every day. But I will tell you now. While I can, whenever I can." There was a relief, Orym was finding, in letting himself be seen by Dorian. There were many benefits to having a partner like he did in his boyfriend and right now he was being reminded of some key ones; shouldering one another's burdens, reminding them that they were not alone, being a partnership in good times and in bad. It was everything that Orym had been doing his utmost to be for Dorian. Of course there would be relief when the roles were reversed. No, reversed wasn't the right word for it. Orym was still there for Dorian, in whatever capacity he needed. It was more akin to equality, each letting the other simply be there as the other required. As this realization flooded through Orym, his eyes closed at the careful attention that Dorian was giving him with each kiss. He took in his words, turning them over in his mind. "I think I just sometimes need a reminder that I can take a break, especially when we get memories like that. Sometimes I forget how." That wasn't entirely what Orym wanted to say, though. The mention of the memories, all wrapped up in his confession (that really couldn't have been much of a confession given how often he'd used the Sending stone, or at least tried), had him thinking of an Orym and Dorian a world and universe away. "I'm in love with you," he confessed, yet another confession that wasn't much of one given how obvious it might have been. "Back home, I mean. I don't think you feel the same way, though. Which is—" His voice trailed off as he shifted, craning his head back to finally look at Dorian's face, expression tired but determined. "Everything's fucked back home and I don't know if I'll get the courage to tell you there, so I guess I'm just telling you now, too. While I can." A little zing of appreciation went down Dorian's spine, at Orym agreeing that sometimes he forgot to take his own breaks. Dorian would remind him, that was something Dorian could do. This balance between them, of taking care of one another always needed to be that: a balance. Without it, one of them would swing wildly out of control, not realize that they were drowning, not being able to ask for the help they needed. Dorian knew he had trouble asking, even now when he was at his lowest, so he could only imagine—no, he knew—Orym was the same. Maybe even worse. But now, Dorian could feel the shift in the conversation. The urgency and concern that was more than just their collective losses of friends and siblings, but of what they didn't have back home. What was stolen from them, that they had so much of here—time. Part of Dorian's memory was torn, knowing that he had Vallo and his relationship here, and the strange messy collection of thoughts and emotions from Exandria. "I know," Dorian said quietly. Not to diminish what Orym was saying, but that he knew. He remembered the way Orym would look at him, would be kind to him, would care for him when others wouldn't. He knew, of course he knew, he just didn't know how to speak it into existence. How to believe it and reciprocate. "Everything is fucked at home, you're right. But I know. I knew then too. But I can't—" Dorian shook his head. "I'm not sure how I feel. You are so important to me Orym, I know that much. I don't think I know how to put it into words, what it means and how I feel," Dorian whispered into Orym's hair. It was such a tease of an answer, but he knew that he was being as honest as possible. His life here, holding Orym like this, loving him so profoundly in Vallo, was changing the shape of what he knew to be real at home. "At least there. Here, it's so very very clear." It didn't come as too much of a surprise that it was a complicated thing for Dorian to sparse through his own feelings in Exandria. Orym wouldn't have expected much less. He didn't know everything that the Crown Keepers had gone through, but he knew that it haunted Dorian, even if he was doing his very best to hide it. It had only been days since his brother had been taken and they and their friends had been in constant motion, as Orym had already mentioned as his own method of coping with loss and guilt; how could anyone expect Dorian to do anything more than just exist. Besides, he hadn't been lying: Orym himself wasn't sure of Dorian's affections, either. Knowing what they had become in Vallo did cloud things a bit, a two year relationship giving him hope. But even if they did come together in Exandria, it could never be simple. Their lives were not simple. Even there, as they laid under the duvet and pressed as close together as they could manage, Orym could feel the feywild thrumming through his veins, a reminder of the agreement he had made with Fearne's grandmother and the uncertainty he felt on where it stood in the wake of the loss of FCG. There was much that Orym wanted to say about all of that. Their not simple lives and their uncertain futures, the fact that there might not even be one at all if Ludnius succeeded in his plans in the first place, the weight that came with not being able to truly mourn, and so much more. But instead, Orym closed his eyes and requested, "Tell me, then. How do you feel here?" He knew. Of course he knew. But this was real and here and certain. Orym thought maybe they both could deal with focusing on that, for just a moment. The stillness that came over Orym was not unnoticed. Dorian knew that there was deep contemplation happening. It came from being around Orym all the time, understanding that observation and perceptive nature. Loving him for it. Dorian didn't pry, didn't ask for answers, didn't even try to guess what Orym was thinking about—even though he had some inkling—because he knew that Orym would be honest with him. Whatever he decided to say. It allowed for Dorian's own mind to wander too. His feelings, his memories, the mess of them inside his mind. How to parse them out, begin to sort and compartmentalize them. As much as he liked the peace under the duvet, Dorian knew he couldn't stay here forever. And he couldn't keep Orym here forever either. The world was passing them by, and Dorian shouldn't, and wouldn't let it. He shifted in Orym's arms, not to pull away but just to scoot down, so they were face level, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. Dorian knew he looked tired, worn down, out of words for the most part. But he could answer Orym's question. That might have been the easiest thing he was able to do since the memories arrived. Easier than breathing. "I love you. Without a doubt, without question. I want to be by your side always so that we never have to miss each other. I really really disliked missing you." Dorian may have indeed looked more tired and worn down than he normally was, but he was still one of the most beautiful sights that Orym had ever seen. That wouldn't change with circles under his eyes or hair made staticky from a duvet; if anything, he was even more beautiful in Orym's eyes. Dorian put together was a sight to behold, but this was Dorian at home, showing vulnerability and letting Orym see it. That felt special. "I love you, sweetheart," Orym murmured. He lifted one of his hands, thumb brushing gently along Dorian's jaw now that they were face to face and he could see him properly. "And that's all I want, too. I want to stay at your side, for as long as you'll let me." Inching forward, Orym closed his eyes as he brushed his lips gently against Dorian's cheek. "No more missing each other," he promised. He couldn't make that promise for Exandria, not when neither of them knew what was going to happen next in their journey, but he did feel like he could add, "Not here." "I love you too," Dorian said. It was really that simple, wasn't it? He felt like he hadn't said it enough, and every day he regretted the lost chances. He didn't tell his brother that he cared about him enough. That he loved him too. And would Dorian spend forever regretting that? Probably, but he had the chance to make it right with the people who were still here with him now. Who needed to know every day that Dorian thought about them, cared about them, loved them. The kiss to his cheek wasn't enough. Dorian turned his face to reciprocate, kiss Orym on his lips. Gentle and chaste, a comfort there that he was pulling from his boyfriend. Orym had wanted to be useful, and this was a good way to do that for Dorian without having to do much else. Simple, perfect. All Dorian needed, and all he hoped Orym needed too. For now, at least. "Not here," Dorian repeated, and kissed again at the corner of Orym's mouth. Then his cheek, so that they would match. "I know we can't stay under here forever, but maybe just a little while longer? Just until—" Dorian didn't know how long, but he knew it wasn't going to be forever. That was too long to miss out on life and his friends and spending it with Orym. "A few more minutes." Orym nodded and smiled, a soft and little thing, but a smile nonetheless, before he leaned in and took a sweet kiss of his own from Dorian's lips. He knew that all of the complicated and complex feelings that both of them were experiencing thanks to home weren't gone in this moment. It would take more than a conversation under a blanket for such a thing to happen, but Orym couldn't help but feel as though this was a very good first step in that direction. He knew a thing or two about healing from loss and trauma, but with that came the knowledge that everyone was unique and the journey wasn't linear. That was okay, though, he thought as the kiss broke and he brushed his nose almost playfully against Dorian's before pulling back to look at him properly. They had each other, no matter what that journey looked like.

CODING