Faolan hears Dmitri as clearly as the wraith. He feels the urgency, the worry in the press of hand upon hand and thinks, No one has ever-
And the wraith answers, Shouldn't he, then, cast light where shadows have taken hold?
Think it over. Until an hour before dawn. When you walk away from this place, you could feel as though you've never been touched at all.
And, helpfully (?), it adds:
He asked your thoughts on memories of falling and roses. For unease.
Dmitri speaks again as the wraith relinquishes its hold on his mind. Faolan blinks and exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
When he looks at Dmitri at last, he hasn't schooled his expression; he hasn't remembered to turn aside the longing, the desire, and briefly, their intensity shows through. (Then all of it vanishes again behind a wary mask.)
"Do roses make you uneasy?" He tries to joke, but finds his thoughts venturing to how a seaside would be, scenting of roses and salt spray, and Dima (Dmitri!) in his arms.
[ I'm all right. I was - lost in thought. ]
<.>
(That isn't the whole answer.
Faolan was too still for too long, and Dima hadn't been watching him - Dima should have been watching him - or where Phaedron's focus may have settled. Dima doesn't know what the wraith may have attempted, or whether it was anything at all.
Dima also can't pursue his questions far because—)
For a long-drawn stretch of moments, Dmitri finds himself stunned by the sight of this man. (Is that so surprising? He's certain he could stay beside Faolan for years (forever) and still be shattered by the sight, the sound, the essence of him.) He can't quite trust what he sees; can't quite believe it isn't his own wishfulness, his own belief in both the warmth and vibrance, the ferocity of this man—
How well Dmitri would like to be beheld (held) by Faolan with precisely that focus and that wanting. (Or, better still, he'd like to see that wanting paired beside fulfillment. He'd like to be so much for Faolan.) He'd like to think that glimpse was truth, but now he sees wariness again, and—
And at least Faolan responds.
At least he's lost his stillness.
(For now.) (They need to get away from this booth. From this area; there's plenty more to see, and Dima curses himself internally for choosing this of all booths to begin with.)
He manages a huff, a slight lift of one shoulder. "In the right light, and in the wrong hand."
[ We're moving along. I'm not—
We need to move on, I think. ]
Dima glances at the wraith, then passes the scroll back to Nerys, looking the elf over, memorizing his image. "We may be back. There are a few items that tickle my interest, but as I said, I've only just begun my search.
"Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."
If Faolan doesn't protest, Dima is going to begin moving away from this circle of booths and the tents, in the direction of a few tables laden with trinkets. Looking for a place to pause, away from the booth. Making certain Faolan keeps with him.
<.>
Faolan doesn't protest being drawn away; he doesn't cast more than a single glance backward over his shoulder, but that's enough for him to know that the wraith and Nerys are now deep in silent conversation.
And also.
He's already made up his mind.
(He saw, he saw how Dmitri looked back at him, and maybe it's worth it - even when this all turns to shambles - to replace one soured memory with something beautiful -)
It doesn't matter what might replace it. He knows he doesn't want to think of anyone else under starlight.
He can't tell Dmitri; he's too suspicious (possessive?), too wary, and Faolan can't put voice to why he wants to do what he's thinking of doing. (And what will the wraith pay, anyhow? What does he want from this place?)
At the nearest table, glittering with amulets of all shapes and colors and purposes, he reaches down to turn one over so it best catches in the blue light.
"Strange place."
His fingertips echo the brush he felt only moments ago. He doesn't see the amulet at all; only feels warm skin and the ache that comes with touching what's not his own.
"Did something happen?"
Looking up, meeting the man's eyes, he amends, "Not just now. With you, and roses, and the wrong hands?"
And then a shrug. "You don't have to say. I'm only curious."
<.>
Dima feels a little too frenetic; as if a worried, wary energy travels through his veins now that they're a distance from the booth; as if he wants to do something (fix something?) (what?), but has no outlet for the sensation, the itch. He tries puzzling over what happened at the booth; what might have happened with Faolan. He attempts to peruse the offerings on the table, silently asking Liviana if one of these was the object that first caught her eye, his fingers tapping the table's edge, and it takes work to keep his expression schooled.
What helps is the brush of fingertips.
What helps allows him also to exhale more evenly, to straighten his back and pick up an amulet for Liviana's inspection. And Dima thinks, maybe he can approach this, solve the problem if there was one (if the wraith attempted anything), rest easy if there wasn't. Faolan's first question draws Dima's eyes—
And the rest.
For the rest, he simply can't look away. (Won't leave those eyes.) Though there's a slight flicker of a frown; the trace of a flinch. Though he makes himself shrug, and lets his head tilt just slightly. (He'd like to retreat from these queries.) (He doesn't want to back off (doesn't want to leave, abandon) this man.)
And after a moment, an aborted attempt at speech, he manages in a ghost that takes the barest guise of ease: "Many things happen.
"Or some things did happen. I knew my share of disappointments before—" He attempts a short laugh and very nearly (almost) manages. "Before I completed my schooling, I'd had enough of disappointment."
Another attempt at a casual shrug, and Dima sets the amulet down in order to show Liv another. His eyes track from Faolan's for a moment; they also quickly, quickly find their way back.
"That was years ago." His inclination since has been to avoid even the thought of companionship—
Until now.
Until very recently.
Until he watched Faolan across the campfire; until he watched Faolan produce flame upon his palm, and felt Faolan's hand within his own.
Swallowing - his hand still in Faolan's; his fingers daring to twine just a little closer - Dima glances to Liv, at the amulet she's now nudging with her beak, then asks the nearest seller what the item is, precisely, and what its cost might be.
<.>
Faolan listens as the undead shopkeeper explains - without any embellishment - that the stone is an Ioun stone meant for reserving spells for such a time when they may be needed and one's personal reserves are spent.
"Rare, but not so much as others I've seen," she says. "I'll let you have it for two breaths of life from each of you."
A beat, and, "And one feather from your fey bird."
Faolan is watching Dmitri, thinking for the first time that maybe, he's not the only one to suffer loss and heartbreak. Dmitri must have been his age when he 'had enough of disappointment'.
Lacking anything to say, he lets his own grip tighten so that he wonders how much it would take to force them apart. (How tightly could he hold on to keep Dmitri with him for (always) a longer while?)
(He's beautiful. He was beautiful when he formed from the shadows and into firelight. He was beautiful razing that mound. He'd beautiful right now, under strange blue light, with a raven perched on his shoulder.)
What he does say is, [ If Liviana thinks you might need that stone, I'll pay my share for it. For you. ]
<.>
[ No. ] His answer is immediate, and he shifts just a little nearer to Faolan. [ Thank you, Faolan, but no. ] He'd sooner give two breaths, three of his own. Not knowing the cost - and there is one; a thought carried with a shiver - still he knows he can't let this be taken from the man.
And anyway. And anyway: Who better to forfeit some breath of life than one who works his days among the dead?
(Faolan said—) (Faolan said.) (’For you.’ He'd give that, he'd offer, for Dima.
If Dima lingers in that thought, he'll forget to breathe; forget the world around them.)
He looks to Liviana, asks her if the stone suits her, asks her if she needs it, wants it. He'll give what he must for it; he tells her this, as well. And voices concern over the feather. [ Who knows what he might use it - use you - for. ]
Liviana's response flashes in images, impressioned with emotion: Desire for a flash of light; longing for something shining and shiny, something magical to call her own, a trace of loss and broken skies, and then a fall of feathers with worry, a void opening into divide; it isn't, she decides, worth the question of the cost. Not this one. Not this.
Dima watches her, asks if she's certain, and returns the amulet to the table. "Not at this time."
To Liviana: [ We'll find something. The right one for you. ]
And, to Faolan, with a slight, a worried smile: [ It isn't lost on me, the weight of what you offered. And Liviana extends her thanks, as well.
We need to be cautious, Faolan. I suspect there's more trouble in this price than we can see; a life's breath can hold many shapes, and many consequences. ]
He doesn't want to see this man wounded; Dmitri's certain Faolan needs no more loss in his life, or no more than can be helped.
And in his heart, curling again, again, Dima hears echoing: ’For you.’
<.>
It occurs to Faolan that the stone wasn't meant to be for Dmitri; the familiar wanted something shiny and blue for herself.
Rather like a raven.
(But. And. Isn't that still 'for Dmitri'? It's shared, their existence. Their souls are united.)
He'll have to keep an eye out. Maybe he can find her a stone she'll like, instead.
He focuses on this as a way of staving off a sense of hurt - and also, a feeling of having confirmation. Validation for all his suspicions.
He'd tried to offer something. (Stupid, stupid.) He hadn't expected chiding. (Or to be thanked by Liviana, like a ward placed between him and Dmitri.)
He answers, [ I can't imagine anything here can be bought for coin. ]
And.
[ I don't gamble with something I'm not prepared to lose. There's no need for worry. But if it reassures you, I won't offer again. ]
By chance, his eye is caught by a nearby tent, and he slips his hand from Dmitri's. "I'll be back. Or I'll find you, if you'd rather not wait."
<.>
(Oh. Oh no.)
Dmitri doesn't know where he went wrong, but something's fallen out of place. Faolan's turned inward, a bank of fog's slipped in between them, and suddenly his hand's gone (Faolan's drawn his hand away), and Faolan's— Leaving him?
(For a moment.) (He'll return.)
(With or without this fog?)
He needs an answer. He needs to answer, to explain himself, that Liviana chose to seek elsewhere, that Dima doesn't want to see this man lose anything more, that what's willfully given doesn't always compass the full measure of cost. (As well, perhaps, there's something about worthiness, what Dima knows he is and isn't worth the risk off; no matter what he feels for this man, no matter his intentions, Faolan doesn't know him any more than Dima knows the whole of Faolan.) (Wouldn't it be heartening, though, if Faolan felt as certain of Dima as Dima does of him?)
He manages to Message, feeling several steps outside himself: [ It isn't only you. Each one of us needs to step wary. ]
There's more he wants to add. About how much there is yet to see; how much they might yet barter. About how much it means that Faolan offered; how certain Dima is that the offer was made in earnest intention, earnest feeling. About how much Faolan's life is worth; how Dima would like him to value it more.
What he says, hand hanging limply, hand flexing against the air as if to seek an absent hand: "I'll be here."
As much as he wants to follow Faolan, he can't quite move; thinks it might be an error to follow the man just now, when he's torn himself away. Dima will wait. Dima will listen to the space around, Dima will keep an eye on the tent, and Dima will wait.
<.>
The tent, as it turns out, is exactly as he suspected from the glimpse he caught a moment ago: empty. It's a chance to slip out beyond Dmitri's line of sight.
He wonders if Dmitri really does mean to wait for him, or if he'll find the man and bird gone when he returns.
Faolan knows which outcome is the safe, smart bet. Better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. (Heartbroken.)
Casting Pass Without a Trace on himself (Stealth: 17), he doubles back to the path they just left - where he runs into Nerys.
The wood elf looks at him neutrally, so Faolan asks, "What's he offering?"
"Ah," Nerys says with a smile, as though he was only waiting for that question.
no subject
And the wraith answers, Shouldn't he, then, cast light where shadows have taken hold?
Think it over. Until an hour before dawn. When you walk away from this place, you could feel as though you've never been touched at all.
And, helpfully (?), it adds:
He asked your thoughts on memories of falling and roses. For unease.
Dmitri speaks again as the wraith relinquishes its hold on his mind. Faolan blinks and exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
When he looks at Dmitri at last, he hasn't schooled his expression; he hasn't remembered to turn aside the longing, the desire, and briefly, their intensity shows through. (Then all of it vanishes again behind a wary mask.)
"Do roses make you uneasy?" He tries to joke, but finds his thoughts venturing to how a seaside would be, scenting of roses and salt spray, and Dima (Dmitri!) in his arms.
[ I'm all right. I was - lost in thought. ]
<.>
(That isn't the whole answer.
Faolan was too still for too long, and Dima hadn't been watching him - Dima should have been watching him - or where Phaedron's focus may have settled. Dima doesn't know what the wraith may have attempted, or whether it was anything at all.
Dima also can't pursue his questions far because—)
For a long-drawn stretch of moments, Dmitri finds himself stunned by the sight of this man. (Is that so surprising? He's certain he could stay beside Faolan for years (forever) and still be shattered by the sight, the sound, the essence of him.) He can't quite trust what he sees; can't quite believe it isn't his own wishfulness, his own belief in both the warmth and vibrance, the ferocity of this man—
How well Dmitri would like to be beheld (held) by Faolan with precisely that focus and that wanting. (Or, better still, he'd like to see that wanting paired beside fulfillment. He'd like to be so much for Faolan.) He'd like to think that glimpse was truth, but now he sees wariness again, and—
And at least Faolan responds.
At least he's lost his stillness.
(For now.) (They need to get away from this booth. From this area; there's plenty more to see, and Dima curses himself internally for choosing this of all booths to begin with.)
He manages a huff, a slight lift of one shoulder. "In the right light, and in the wrong hand."
[ We're moving along. I'm not—
We need to move on, I think. ]
Dima glances at the wraith, then passes the scroll back to Nerys, looking the elf over, memorizing his image. "We may be back. There are a few items that tickle my interest, but as I said, I've only just begun my search.
"Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."
If Faolan doesn't protest, Dima is going to begin moving away from this circle of booths and the tents, in the direction of a few tables laden with trinkets. Looking for a place to pause, away from the booth. Making certain Faolan keeps with him.
<.>
Faolan doesn't protest being drawn away; he doesn't cast more than a single glance backward over his shoulder, but that's enough for him to know that the wraith and Nerys are now deep in silent conversation.
And also.
He's already made up his mind.
(He saw, he saw how Dmitri looked back at him, and maybe it's worth it - even when this all turns to shambles - to replace one soured memory with something beautiful -)
It doesn't matter what might replace it. He knows he doesn't want to think of anyone else under starlight.
He can't tell Dmitri; he's too suspicious (possessive?), too wary, and Faolan can't put voice to why he wants to do what he's thinking of doing. (And what will the wraith pay, anyhow? What does he want from this place?)
At the nearest table, glittering with amulets of all shapes and colors and purposes, he reaches down to turn one over so it best catches in the blue light.
"Strange place."
His fingertips echo the brush he felt only moments ago. He doesn't see the amulet at all; only feels warm skin and the ache that comes with touching what's not his own.
"Did something happen?"
Looking up, meeting the man's eyes, he amends, "Not just now. With you, and roses, and the wrong hands?"
And then a shrug. "You don't have to say. I'm only curious."
<.>
Dima feels a little too frenetic; as if a worried, wary energy travels through his veins now that they're a distance from the booth; as if he wants to do something (fix something?) (what?), but has no outlet for the sensation, the itch. He tries puzzling over what happened at the booth; what might have happened with Faolan. He attempts to peruse the offerings on the table, silently asking Liviana if one of these was the object that first caught her eye, his fingers tapping the table's edge, and it takes work to keep his expression schooled.
What helps is the brush of fingertips.
What helps allows him also to exhale more evenly, to straighten his back and pick up an amulet for Liviana's inspection. And Dima thinks, maybe he can approach this, solve the problem if there was one (if the wraith attempted anything), rest easy if there wasn't. Faolan's first question draws Dima's eyes—
And the rest.
For the rest, he simply can't look away. (Won't leave those eyes.) Though there's a slight flicker of a frown; the trace of a flinch. Though he makes himself shrug, and lets his head tilt just slightly. (He'd like to retreat from these queries.) (He doesn't want to back off (doesn't want to leave, abandon) this man.)
And after a moment, an aborted attempt at speech, he manages in a ghost that takes the barest guise of ease: "Many things happen.
"Or some things did happen. I knew my share of disappointments before—" He attempts a short laugh and very nearly (almost) manages. "Before I completed my schooling, I'd had enough of disappointment."
Another attempt at a casual shrug, and Dima sets the amulet down in order to show Liv another. His eyes track from Faolan's for a moment; they also quickly, quickly find their way back.
"That was years ago." His inclination since has been to avoid even the thought of companionship—
Until now.
Until very recently.
Until he watched Faolan across the campfire; until he watched Faolan produce flame upon his palm, and felt Faolan's hand within his own.
Swallowing - his hand still in Faolan's; his fingers daring to twine just a little closer - Dima glances to Liv, at the amulet she's now nudging with her beak, then asks the nearest seller what the item is, precisely, and what its cost might be.
<.>
Faolan listens as the undead shopkeeper explains - without any embellishment - that the stone is an Ioun stone meant for reserving spells for such a time when they may be needed and one's personal reserves are spent.
"Rare, but not so much as others I've seen," she says. "I'll let you have it for two breaths of life from each of you."
A beat, and, "And one feather from your fey bird."
Faolan is watching Dmitri, thinking for the first time that maybe, he's not the only one to suffer loss and heartbreak. Dmitri must have been his age when he 'had enough of disappointment'.
Lacking anything to say, he lets his own grip tighten so that he wonders how much it would take to force them apart. (How tightly could he hold on to keep Dmitri with him for (always) a longer while?)
(He's beautiful. He was beautiful when he formed from the shadows and into firelight. He was beautiful razing that mound. He'd beautiful right now, under strange blue light, with a raven perched on his shoulder.)
What he does say is, [ If Liviana thinks you might need that stone, I'll pay my share for it. For you. ]
<.>
[ No. ] His answer is immediate, and he shifts just a little nearer to Faolan. [ Thank you, Faolan, but no. ] He'd sooner give two breaths, three of his own. Not knowing the cost - and there is one; a thought carried with a shiver - still he knows he can't let this be taken from the man.
And anyway. And anyway: Who better to forfeit some breath of life than one who works his days among the dead?
(Faolan said—) (Faolan said.) (’For you.’ He'd give that, he'd offer, for Dima.
If Dima lingers in that thought, he'll forget to breathe; forget the world around them.)
He looks to Liviana, asks her if the stone suits her, asks her if she needs it, wants it. He'll give what he must for it; he tells her this, as well. And voices concern over the feather. [ Who knows what he might use it - use you - for. ]
Liviana's response flashes in images, impressioned with emotion: Desire for a flash of light; longing for something shining and shiny, something magical to call her own, a trace of loss and broken skies, and then a fall of feathers with worry, a void opening into divide; it isn't, she decides, worth the question of the cost. Not this one. Not this.
Dima watches her, asks if she's certain, and returns the amulet to the table. "Not at this time."
To Liviana: [ We'll find something. The right one for you. ]
And, to Faolan, with a slight, a worried smile: [ It isn't lost on me, the weight of what you offered. And Liviana extends her thanks, as well.
We need to be cautious, Faolan. I suspect there's more trouble in this price than we can see; a life's breath can hold many shapes, and many consequences. ]
He doesn't want to see this man wounded; Dmitri's certain Faolan needs no more loss in his life, or no more than can be helped.
And in his heart, curling again, again, Dima hears echoing: ’For you.’
<.>
It occurs to Faolan that the stone wasn't meant to be for Dmitri; the familiar wanted something shiny and blue for herself.
Rather like a raven.
(But. And. Isn't that still 'for Dmitri'? It's shared, their existence. Their souls are united.)
He'll have to keep an eye out. Maybe he can find her a stone she'll like, instead.
He focuses on this as a way of staving off a sense of hurt - and also, a feeling of having confirmation. Validation for all his suspicions.
He'd tried to offer something. (Stupid, stupid.) He hadn't expected chiding. (Or to be thanked by Liviana, like a ward placed between him and Dmitri.)
He answers, [ I can't imagine anything here can be bought for coin. ]
And.
[ I don't gamble with something I'm not prepared to lose. There's no need for worry. But if it reassures you, I won't offer again. ]
By chance, his eye is caught by a nearby tent, and he slips his hand from Dmitri's. "I'll be back. Or I'll find you, if you'd rather not wait."
<.>
(Oh. Oh no.)
Dmitri doesn't know where he went wrong, but something's fallen out of place. Faolan's turned inward, a bank of fog's slipped in between them, and suddenly his hand's gone (Faolan's drawn his hand away), and Faolan's— Leaving him?
(For a moment.) (He'll return.)
(With or without this fog?)
He needs an answer. He needs to answer, to explain himself, that Liviana chose to seek elsewhere, that Dima doesn't want to see this man lose anything more, that what's willfully given doesn't always compass the full measure of cost. (As well, perhaps, there's something about worthiness, what Dima knows he is and isn't worth the risk off; no matter what he feels for this man, no matter his intentions, Faolan doesn't know him any more than Dima knows the whole of Faolan.) (Wouldn't it be heartening, though, if Faolan felt as certain of Dima as Dima does of him?)
He manages to Message, feeling several steps outside himself: [ It isn't only you. Each one of us needs to step wary. ]
There's more he wants to add. About how much there is yet to see; how much they might yet barter. About how much it means that Faolan offered; how certain Dima is that the offer was made in earnest intention, earnest feeling. About how much Faolan's life is worth; how Dima would like him to value it more.
What he says, hand hanging limply, hand flexing against the air as if to seek an absent hand: "I'll be here."
As much as he wants to follow Faolan, he can't quite move; thinks it might be an error to follow the man just now, when he's torn himself away. Dima will wait. Dima will listen to the space around, Dima will keep an eye on the tent, and Dima will wait.
<.>
The tent, as it turns out, is exactly as he suspected from the glimpse he caught a moment ago: empty. It's a chance to slip out beyond Dmitri's line of sight.
He wonders if Dmitri really does mean to wait for him, or if he'll find the man and bird gone when he returns.
Faolan knows which outcome is the safe, smart bet. Better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. (Heartbroken.)
Casting Pass Without a Trace on himself (Stealth: 17), he doubles back to the path they just left - where he runs into Nerys.
The wood elf looks at him neutrally, so Faolan asks, "What's he offering?"
"Ah," Nerys says with a smile, as though he was only waiting for that question.
<.>