While all this speculation is going on, Faolan has opened the box and is sitting there staring mutely at its contents.
<.>
Dmitri, noticing Faolan's stillness, is going to give a brush of his thumb and look over.
<.>
Faolan's head turns as though he wants to look at Dmitri, but the item draws him back. He doesn't look wounded, but rather as though he'd like to crawl into a hole and die.
Picking the ring up from the box, he inspects it, then offers quietly, "I've seen this before."
<.>
Dima continues with the brush of his thumb, and moves just a little, little bit closer to Faolan. Considering how best to approach the question - and what might best be avoided; what might prove thorniest for Fae - before asking, "Faolan. What is it?"
Meaning the ring, perhaps. Meaning also, 'are you all right?'
[q: is there anything about the box or ring dima might identify without picking either up? a: Not particularly. The ring is clearly an expensive piece, filigree gold with a blue stone, made for a larger hand. He has never seen it before.]
<.>
Faolan carefully sets the ring back in the box, which he then closes and pushes aside. He rests his elbows on the table and grips his hands together, pressing them without force against his mouth as he stares off. After a minute, he draws them an inch away and says the part he really didn't care to say to...anyone. Ever.
"One of my...Someone in Loch Bien wore it. When he'd come to me."
No, that's not the worst part, he decides. The worst part is saying out loud, "I didn't know his name."
<.>
Faolan.
What Dima would like to do is draw the man into his arms, draws his head to Dima's neck, and let him rest in quiet, tell him there's no need to say another word.
He can't do that. If there's meaning in this ring— They need to know.
What Dima does do, or will attempt to do, is to continue his thumb's caress at Faolan's back, and to move his free hand to settle on Faolan's arm. Speaking softly, "It's all right."
And, Messaging: [ Faolan. It's all right. ]
Rin, who has been watching Faolan with a somewhat guarded expression, seems to decide on something, and offers, "There's a lot of names in the world. And a lot of men." A shrug. "Sometimes it's not worth knowing."
Then, from Dima, "If you can tell us about him. What he looked like. How he seemed. It might help draw these pieces together."
<.>
Sen doesn’t think this is the time for him to say a word; he lets Dima and Rin handle this, though he does reach for the box to have a look at the ring. It is a unique piece; it’s likely Faolan knows what he’s talking about here.
With the exception of a flicker of his gaze towards Rin, Faolan doesn’t immediately respond.
He thinks about saying, It was a bad time. Or maybe joking, If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Something to diffuse this somehow. The problem is, the others don’t need diffusion (Rin knows what it’s like) (Dmitri didn’t slide his hand away in disgust; he drew closer, touched with his other hand as though reaching out-)
(How long will that last, really?)
He’s ashamed of himself, and he’s ashamed of being ashamed.
He’s ashamed that he stopped bothering to learn their names after a while.
(But Dima -
(‘My Dima’ was a name he could live on.))
He blinks a little too much and decides to just answer about his patron. He rakes a hand through his hair, the movement carrying it back and then before him again, where it settles very near Dmitri’s on his arm.
(Near, but ready for the moment Dmitri pulls away.)
“I saw him - saw him.” He huffs mirthlessly and shakes his head. “Accommodated him - maybe a dozen times. I suppose my shine wore off after that; I didn’t much care.”
His fingers drum the table. “He was a northerner, like me. Had to have been a noble - that’s all I’d take, and he had the means.”
Poking his tongue at the inside of his cheek, he summons a picture to mind. “Auburn hair. Green eyes. Thirties probably; slender, about my height. Had an average voice - not high, not low. Handsome, I suppose.”
He motions to the ring in Sen’s hand. “That would be his distinguishing feature.”
He finally cuts a glance at Dmitri, his expression stony, though not quite hiding fear of some oncoming loss. “He seemed like every other man who crossed my path.
“Predatory.”
Something in his expression weakens (softens the longer he holds Dmitri’s eyes) and he looks away, ashamed of something new, for once.
[ But not you. ]
Not yet. There’s still time, he tells himself.
To Rin, he says softly, “Most of the time, it’s not worth knowing. Better the name doesn’t haunt you after.”
<.>
Dima was unprepared.
For the settle of Fae's hand so near his own.
For the way Faolan seems to more-than-tolerate the lingering of Dima's hands, even as Fae struggles through his words, this difficult disclosure.
For the pain struck by a stony glance (stinging, but fairly dealt, to Dmitri's mind)—
And for Faolan's Message. For the way it resonates like seedlings that might yet find bloom; tentative but daring, daring to accept a silvered fall of rain. For the way his own heart stalls upon his pulse; the way the hand at Fae's back gives an encouraging brush, and the hand at Fae's arm moves to cover the man's own hand. To hold; to press.
It seems to Dima a gift of sorts and an unveiling; a daring to confess both a wound and the presence of some could-be-hope, known in spite of all the brutal lessons Faolan's been dealt. Faolan's offered him a revelation, and Dima swallows, nods; ignores the prick of burning at his skull.
And, returning: [ Not to you, Faolan. Never to you. ]
(To Calabra, though, and to the men who serve him in friendship. To the man who slandered Faolan so readily. Oh, Dmitri has predation to spare for those fucks.)
[ Thank you— For sharing this with me. For daring. ]
[q: does the description of this man strike any familiar bells for dima? slash is he aware of any prominent redheaded nobles of the northern variety?
INT, d: 5; The description could be of any number of nobles in the north. Red hair and green eyes aren't uncommon at all. ]
He could say more. He wants to say so much more: To tell Faolan that any man who could fail to see his shine in perpetuity must be a fool; to assure the man that Dima remains firm in his convictions and affections. Dima also gathers that now isn't the moment for these words, and that what Faolan doesn't need is an avalanche of words ahead of action.
And. And they need to determine what to do about this mess.
The auburn-haired man in question is unfamiliar to Dima— Rather, the features are so frequently found that there's little narrowing the field of possibility. Dmitri doesn't wish to push Faolan any further in his recollections; he also knows they'll need something more, unless Sen or Rin have somehow, somehow recognized this description.
Cautiously, gentle, he speaks again, nodding slowly, "I'm afraid I don't recognize the description precisely - or I cannot suit it to a name - but this is far, far better than a start.
"A question is whether this man freely gave the ring to Calabra, and where he fits into this entire picture."
Rin, who at some point leaned their head against Sen's arm, notes that they found that ring in the same place as the pouch of coins, so maybe there's a connection and maybe there isn't, and whatever's the case with the coins, they nod to Faolan. "I— Mm, I don't keep many names at all. Just the ones that matter, really." What they mean is that Faolan's words make a lot of sense to them. And they feel rather badly for this man, who really, really doesn't seem so much more than a kid.
Pressing Fae's hand again, Dima speaks, "Did this man mention any names, any locations?" There's a brief flash of worry in Dima's eyes, and he adds, "You needn't say, Faolan. What you've given takes us far further than what we had."
<.>
It's easier and not so, to have Dmitri's hand covering his own. He doesn't want pity - and he knows that's not what this is. He doesn't want amorousness, either, but Dmitri isn't being amorous.
He's being -
Gentle.
His heart could melt or break, and at the moment, it feels about the same to Faolan. He holds still under the touch the way a feral animal might if it once knew what it was like to be warm and fed. Frightened, yes, but likewise trying not to cause fright, itself.
(He said, never to you. As though Faolan is the exception.
As though Faolan is exceptional.)
The smile he gives Rin is more a pained curve of his mouth, because they're right. They are. That same smile turns into a laugh that carries the same pain in it: did the man mention any names or locations?
"We didn't exactly talk,” he says. He meant it as some sort of bleak joke, but it comes out flat, toneless. (And it's not true. He's just not going to tell Dmitri what words were spoken.)
That's as much as he can bear, he thinks. Saying that to them. Saying that to Dmitri, further illustrating what he did, who he is. Faolan starts to rise and slide away from Dmitri's touch, mumbling something about needing a rest, when Sen leans forward, arms folded on the table, and says in a perfect stage whisper, "You know, Faolan, if you run away to your room, you're going to be all alone with the only person who judges you for getting by."
Faolan freezes, not quite out of Dmitri's reach, half-risen from his chair, and gapes at the elf.
"Why don't you sit back down and enjoy having a few friends to act as a buffer between you and the witch hunt in your head?"
When Faolan, in a state of confusion, doesn't immediately act, Sen points to the chair. "Sit down. Let Dima pet you some more."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
Slowly, Faolan lowers himself to his seat. He's not entirely sure what just happened here.
<.>
Dima's first thought: Shit, he should have known.
Or should have suspected. Doesn't it seem most likely that any words exchanged would be... less than helpful for the current situation, and likely to cause Faolan pain in recollecting, let alone voicing?
His touch tries to follow Faolan; his hand drifts along the man's arm, not quite letting him leave, no without reminder of his presence; not without an attempt at some apology, acknowledgement that Dima spoke too far, and he's stumbling toward a Message, trying to decide what he might speak without causing further harm, when Sen speaks, and Faolan goes still.
The glance Dmitri throws to Sen is one of gratitude. (He can't even manage a feigned glare at the remark about 'petting.') (And Dima does want to offer continued caresses; at least that brush of his thumb, some steadiness to offer Faolan.)
And even before Faolan moves to sit, Dima's hand has found his elbow, to settle light. To let Fae make his own decision, while giving further proof to what Sen's said: That there's no judgment here, and that here, Fae will find only support.
As Faolan sits, Dima settles his hand again at the man's back— Then turns the touch into a loose embrace. Something Faolan can shake if he finds it too restrictive. Something that might turn into a twining, if Fae doesn't seem to find it unwelcome. He doesn't Message yet; he hasn't found the words.
So it's Rin who speaks next. (Rin, who watched Sen speak with wide eyes and a look like admiration, a look of adoration. Rin, who nudges their horns against Sen's arm, even as they look at Faolan.) "Sen's right, Faolan. You're okay here. You're okay wherever; just maybe it's harder to see on your own. Especially since—" They wave a hand vaguely, pulling a sour face. "Nobles have a lot of ideas about shit that doesn't mean anything. That's not your fault and, you know. They can [pound shit of their own prodigious assholes]."
And finally, Dima speaks, "Please, Fae; stay with us."
And, feeling a catch in his throat, thinking 'Stay with me,' he adds, [ I'm here with you. You've done nothing to be sorry for; you have no cause for shame. ]
<.>
He's too stunned to shake off Dima's embrace. (Would he have done so if he had the wits? Maybe.
Maybe not.) The nearer the man draws, the more the memory of last night solidifies, and Faolan wonders if he gave Dmitri the wrong idea. Or the right one.
But it feels softer than anything he's ever known, a safe haven - not just with Dmitri, but all three of them. He doesn't feel quite so alone. He wants to leave, oh, he always wants that, but just now, he doesn't want to leave them.
The final straw, the final blow that isn't a blow at all, is Dima's voice asking him to stay. Not messaged, but spoken for everyone to hear. (Stay with us, not with Dima specifically, but if he says 'us', he means he'll stay, too. He can't be part of 'us' if he's gone, Faolan reasons.)
(But he says I'm here with you, and why didn't he say that part out loud? Shame?
Or something else, something better and fonder?)
Sen's watching him expectantly still, and when Faolan blinks in further confusion, Sen nods subtly towards Dmitri. Hesitantly, Faolan shifts to draw an arm around the man, then looks at Sen to confirm that's what he meant, but Sen is turning away to flag down a barmaid.
"We'll have several rounds. That one's paying." 'That one' being Dima, of course.
Faolan sits stiffly like this for a beat or two, then slowly relaxes into a mutual, loose hold.
While Sen is busy detailing what drinks he'd like in what order, Faolan Messages back, [ I have plenty of cause. I've done plenty to be sorry for. ]
He looks down at Dmitri as though peering out through a cracked door. [ I'm here with you, Dima. All right. I'm here with you. ]
<.>
At the press of Faolan's arm (an intentional gesture, or one offered in a moment's confusion, loss?) (either way, it remains) (either way, Dima has to keep himself from a strangled breath, though he can't keep his pulse from stammering its beat), Dima leans in a little nearer, and lets his own arm wrap a little nearer, firmer. Not quite daring to look at Faolan for a moment (feeling, perhaps, the moment as a vibratory string near to breaking) (wary of what his own imposition might cause), but he can't keep from looking for long, and when he finds Faolan looking back, he can't help a small, a warm and fragile smile.
[ I could ask little better, Fae— ] (Fae!) [ Than that you remain. ]
('As long as you're able.') ('Forever; please, for always.')
[ You speak harshly of yourself. You think harshly of yourself. Please— I don't doubt you have been dealt with censure. I know you have been—
It hasn't been easy, has it?
But there is nothing you have done, nothing you can have done, to make me think or— Feel. Any less of you. ]
A pause, a huffed breath, and— [ And I am far from faultless. ]
Dima's aware, vaguely, that Sen's been speaking with a barmaid; that the barmaid has departed, and drinks are expected. He's aware of a relentless clock ticking down to some uncertain issue. And he's aware that the man beside him - sitting half-twined with him - is dear, his heart battered but beautiful, endless.
And, caught in eyes like deep amber, like honeyed, he speaks softly, aloud, "You're safe here, Faolan. I'll see to that."
no subject
<.>
Dmitri, noticing Faolan's stillness, is going to give a brush of his thumb and look over.
<.>
Faolan's head turns as though he wants to look at Dmitri, but the item draws him back. He doesn't look wounded, but rather as though he'd like to crawl into a hole and die.
Picking the ring up from the box, he inspects it, then offers quietly, "I've seen this before."
<.>
Dima continues with the brush of his thumb, and moves just a little, little bit closer to Faolan. Considering how best to approach the question - and what might best be avoided; what might prove thorniest for Fae - before asking, "Faolan. What is it?"
Meaning the ring, perhaps. Meaning also, 'are you all right?'
[q: is there anything about the box or ring dima might identify without picking either up?
a: Not particularly. The ring is clearly an expensive piece, filigree gold with a blue stone, made for a larger hand. He has never seen it before.]
<.>
Faolan carefully sets the ring back in the box, which he then closes and pushes aside. He rests his elbows on the table and grips his hands together, pressing them without force against his mouth as he stares off. After a minute, he draws them an inch away and says the part he really didn't care to say to...anyone. Ever.
"One of my...Someone in Loch Bien wore it. When he'd come to me."
No, that's not the worst part, he decides. The worst part is saying out loud, "I didn't know his name."
<.>
Faolan.
What Dima would like to do is draw the man into his arms, draws his head to Dima's neck, and let him rest in quiet, tell him there's no need to say another word.
He can't do that. If there's meaning in this ring— They need to know.
What Dima does do, or will attempt to do, is to continue his thumb's caress at Faolan's back, and to move his free hand to settle on Faolan's arm. Speaking softly, "It's all right."
And, Messaging: [ Faolan. It's all right. ]
Rin, who has been watching Faolan with a somewhat guarded expression, seems to decide on something, and offers, "There's a lot of names in the world. And a lot of men." A shrug. "Sometimes it's not worth knowing."
Then, from Dima, "If you can tell us about him. What he looked like. How he seemed. It might help draw these pieces together."
<.>
Sen doesn’t think this is the time for him to say a word; he lets Dima and Rin handle this, though he does reach for the box to have a look at the ring. It is a unique piece; it’s likely Faolan knows what he’s talking about here.
With the exception of a flicker of his gaze towards Rin, Faolan doesn’t immediately respond.
He thinks about saying, It was a bad time. Or maybe joking, If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Something to diffuse this somehow. The problem is, the others don’t need diffusion (Rin knows what it’s like) (Dmitri didn’t slide his hand away in disgust; he drew closer, touched with his other hand as though reaching out-)
(How long will that last, really?)
He’s ashamed of himself, and he’s ashamed of being ashamed.
He’s ashamed that he stopped bothering to learn their names after a while.
(But Dima -
(‘My Dima’ was a name he could live on.))
He blinks a little too much and decides to just answer about his patron. He rakes a hand through his hair, the movement carrying it back and then before him again, where it settles very near Dmitri’s on his arm.
(Near, but ready for the moment Dmitri pulls away.)
“I saw him - saw him.” He huffs mirthlessly and shakes his head. “Accommodated him - maybe a dozen times. I suppose my shine wore off after that; I didn’t much care.”
His fingers drum the table. “He was a northerner, like me. Had to have been a noble - that’s all I’d take, and he had the means.”
Poking his tongue at the inside of his cheek, he summons a picture to mind. “Auburn hair. Green eyes. Thirties probably; slender, about my height. Had an average voice - not high, not low. Handsome, I suppose.”
He motions to the ring in Sen’s hand. “That would be his distinguishing feature.”
He finally cuts a glance at Dmitri, his expression stony, though not quite hiding fear of some oncoming loss. “He seemed like every other man who crossed my path.
“Predatory.”
Something in his expression weakens (softens the longer he holds Dmitri’s eyes) and he looks away, ashamed of something new, for once.
[ But not you. ]
Not yet. There’s still time, he tells himself.
To Rin, he says softly, “Most of the time, it’s not worth knowing. Better the name doesn’t haunt you after.”
<.>
Dima was unprepared.
For the settle of Fae's hand so near his own.
For the way Faolan seems to more-than-tolerate the lingering of Dima's hands, even as Fae struggles through his words, this difficult disclosure.
For the pain struck by a stony glance (stinging, but fairly dealt, to Dmitri's mind)—
And for Faolan's Message. For the way it resonates like seedlings that might yet find bloom; tentative but daring, daring to accept a silvered fall of rain. For the way his own heart stalls upon his pulse; the way the hand at Fae's back gives an encouraging brush, and the hand at Fae's arm moves to cover the man's own hand. To hold; to press.
It seems to Dima a gift of sorts and an unveiling; a daring to confess both a wound and the presence of some could-be-hope, known in spite of all the brutal lessons Faolan's been dealt. Faolan's offered him a revelation, and Dima swallows, nods; ignores the prick of burning at his skull.
And, returning: [ Not to you, Faolan. Never to you. ]
(To Calabra, though, and to the men who serve him in friendship. To the man who slandered Faolan so readily. Oh, Dmitri has predation to spare for those fucks.)
[ Thank you— For sharing this with me. For daring. ]
[q: does the description of this man strike any familiar bells for dima? slash is he aware of any prominent redheaded nobles of the northern variety?
INT, d: 5; The description could be of any number of nobles in the north. Red hair and green eyes aren't uncommon at all. ]
He could say more. He wants to say so much more: To tell Faolan that any man who could fail to see his shine in perpetuity must be a fool; to assure the man that Dima remains firm in his convictions and affections. Dima also gathers that now isn't the moment for these words, and that what Faolan doesn't need is an avalanche of words ahead of action.
And. And they need to determine what to do about this mess.
The auburn-haired man in question is unfamiliar to Dima— Rather, the features are so frequently found that there's little narrowing the field of possibility. Dmitri doesn't wish to push Faolan any further in his recollections; he also knows they'll need something more, unless Sen or Rin have somehow, somehow recognized this description.
Cautiously, gentle, he speaks again, nodding slowly, "I'm afraid I don't recognize the description precisely - or I cannot suit it to a name - but this is far, far better than a start.
"A question is whether this man freely gave the ring to Calabra, and where he fits into this entire picture."
Rin, who at some point leaned their head against Sen's arm, notes that they found that ring in the same place as the pouch of coins, so maybe there's a connection and maybe there isn't, and whatever's the case with the coins, they nod to Faolan. "I— Mm, I don't keep many names at all. Just the ones that matter, really." What they mean is that Faolan's words make a lot of sense to them. And they feel rather badly for this man, who really, really doesn't seem so much more than a kid.
Pressing Fae's hand again, Dima speaks, "Did this man mention any names, any locations?" There's a brief flash of worry in Dima's eyes, and he adds, "You needn't say, Faolan. What you've given takes us far further than what we had."
<.>
It's easier and not so, to have Dmitri's hand covering his own. He doesn't want pity - and he knows that's not what this is. He doesn't want amorousness, either, but Dmitri isn't being amorous.
He's being -
Gentle.
His heart could melt or break, and at the moment, it feels about the same to Faolan. He holds still under the touch the way a feral animal might if it once knew what it was like to be warm and fed. Frightened, yes, but likewise trying not to cause fright, itself.
(He said, never to you. As though Faolan is the exception.
As though Faolan is exceptional.)
The smile he gives Rin is more a pained curve of his mouth, because they're right. They are. That same smile turns into a laugh that carries the same pain in it: did the man mention any names or locations?
"We didn't exactly talk,” he says. He meant it as some sort of bleak joke, but it comes out flat, toneless. (And it's not true. He's just not going to tell Dmitri what words were spoken.)
That's as much as he can bear, he thinks. Saying that to them. Saying that to Dmitri, further illustrating what he did, who he is. Faolan starts to rise and slide away from Dmitri's touch, mumbling something about needing a rest, when Sen leans forward, arms folded on the table, and says in a perfect stage whisper, "You know, Faolan, if you run away to your room, you're going to be all alone with the only person who judges you for getting by."
Faolan freezes, not quite out of Dmitri's reach, half-risen from his chair, and gapes at the elf.
"Why don't you sit back down and enjoy having a few friends to act as a buffer between you and the witch hunt in your head?"
When Faolan, in a state of confusion, doesn't immediately act, Sen points to the chair. "Sit down. Let Dima pet you some more."
[PERS, s: nat 20]
Slowly, Faolan lowers himself to his seat. He's not entirely sure what just happened here.
<.>
Dima's first thought: Shit, he should have known.
Or should have suspected. Doesn't it seem most likely that any words exchanged would be... less than helpful for the current situation, and likely to cause Faolan pain in recollecting, let alone voicing?
His touch tries to follow Faolan; his hand drifts along the man's arm, not quite letting him leave, no without reminder of his presence; not without an attempt at some apology, acknowledgement that Dima spoke too far, and he's stumbling toward a Message, trying to decide what he might speak without causing further harm, when Sen speaks, and Faolan goes still.
The glance Dmitri throws to Sen is one of gratitude. (He can't even manage a feigned glare at the remark about 'petting.') (And Dima does want to offer continued caresses; at least that brush of his thumb, some steadiness to offer Faolan.)
And even before Faolan moves to sit, Dima's hand has found his elbow, to settle light. To let Fae make his own decision, while giving further proof to what Sen's said: That there's no judgment here, and that here, Fae will find only support.
As Faolan sits, Dima settles his hand again at the man's back— Then turns the touch into a loose embrace. Something Faolan can shake if he finds it too restrictive. Something that might turn into a twining, if Fae doesn't seem to find it unwelcome. He doesn't Message yet; he hasn't found the words.
So it's Rin who speaks next. (Rin, who watched Sen speak with wide eyes and a look like admiration, a look of adoration. Rin, who nudges their horns against Sen's arm, even as they look at Faolan.) "Sen's right, Faolan. You're okay here. You're okay wherever; just maybe it's harder to see on your own. Especially since—" They wave a hand vaguely, pulling a sour face. "Nobles have a lot of ideas about shit that doesn't mean anything. That's not your fault and, you know. They can [pound shit of their own prodigious assholes]."
And finally, Dima speaks, "Please, Fae; stay with us."
And, feeling a catch in his throat, thinking 'Stay with me,' he adds, [ I'm here with you. You've done nothing to be sorry for; you have no cause for shame. ]
<.>
He's too stunned to shake off Dima's embrace. (Would he have done so if he had the wits? Maybe.
Maybe not.) The nearer the man draws, the more the memory of last night solidifies, and Faolan wonders if he gave Dmitri the wrong idea. Or the right one.
But it feels softer than anything he's ever known, a safe haven - not just with Dmitri, but all three of them. He doesn't feel quite so alone. He wants to leave, oh, he always wants that, but just now, he doesn't want to leave them.
The final straw, the final blow that isn't a blow at all, is Dima's voice asking him to stay. Not messaged, but spoken for everyone to hear. (Stay with us, not with Dima specifically, but if he says 'us', he means he'll stay, too. He can't be part of 'us' if he's gone, Faolan reasons.)
(But he says I'm here with you, and why didn't he say that part out loud? Shame?
Or something else, something better and fonder?)
Sen's watching him expectantly still, and when Faolan blinks in further confusion, Sen nods subtly towards Dmitri. Hesitantly, Faolan shifts to draw an arm around the man, then looks at Sen to confirm that's what he meant, but Sen is turning away to flag down a barmaid.
"We'll have several rounds. That one's paying." 'That one' being Dima, of course.
Faolan sits stiffly like this for a beat or two, then slowly relaxes into a mutual, loose hold.
While Sen is busy detailing what drinks he'd like in what order, Faolan Messages back, [ I have plenty of cause. I've done plenty to be sorry for. ]
He looks down at Dmitri as though peering out through a cracked door. [ I'm here with you, Dima. All right. I'm here with you. ]
<.>
At the press of Faolan's arm (an intentional gesture, or one offered in a moment's confusion, loss?) (either way, it remains) (either way, Dima has to keep himself from a strangled breath, though he can't keep his pulse from stammering its beat), Dima leans in a little nearer, and lets his own arm wrap a little nearer, firmer. Not quite daring to look at Faolan for a moment (feeling, perhaps, the moment as a vibratory string near to breaking) (wary of what his own imposition might cause), but he can't keep from looking for long, and when he finds Faolan looking back, he can't help a small, a warm and fragile smile.
[ I could ask little better, Fae— ] (Fae!) [ Than that you remain. ]
('As long as you're able.') ('Forever; please, for always.')
[ You speak harshly of yourself. You think harshly of yourself. Please— I don't doubt you have been dealt with censure. I know you have been—
It hasn't been easy, has it?
But there is nothing you have done, nothing you can have done, to make me think or— Feel. Any less of you. ]
A pause, a huffed breath, and— [ And I am far from faultless. ]
Dima's aware, vaguely, that Sen's been speaking with a barmaid; that the barmaid has departed, and drinks are expected. He's aware of a relentless clock ticking down to some uncertain issue. And he's aware that the man beside him - sitting half-twined with him - is dear, his heart battered but beautiful, endless.
And, caught in eyes like deep amber, like honeyed, he speaks softly, aloud, "You're safe here, Faolan. I'll see to that."
<.>