This man is nothing like he's heard. Nothing like the cruel, vindictive portrait painted of him. (Or maybe. Maybe it's that he's not like that for Faolan.) (Or maybe he's biding his time.) (Or maybe there's truth to be found in the uncertain jumble of thought, of rumor, but Faolan can't get past the smile Dmitri gives him.)
That smile.
It's so tentative, so frail, like hope, and Faolan wonders how it would look if Dmitri smiled without any fear of loss. If he was happy, if Faolan made him happy -
(If they could find some happiness together.)
He's going to get hurt. He knows it. It's set in stone, it's waiting for him at the end of the road north, and Dmitri will smile a different smile, a cruel one while he laughs -
(His faith in that has a fracture in it. There's a blue cast over it the same shade as Dmitri's eyes.)
Faolan looks as though he'd like to speak one thing, but shakes his head and carefully answers, [ You haven't known me long enough to say any of that, Dmitri. ]
Somehow, his hand has found Dima's and he looks down now, studying it. How it looks, held in his own. (Perfect.) (Dangerous thought.)
It's unwise, he knows, but he still says, [ A month might be long enough to know one another. ]
Sen, meanwhile, has been occupying himself and Rin while the lovebirds talk; the game has become one of exotic drink ingredients and what the names of said concoctions might be.
<.>
For a moment, his smile faltered. Not his touch, no, but there's that worry again (not only a worry; a very real chance): That he's pushed too far, spoke with too much claim or asked Faolan to step further than he safely can.
(He isn't used to this: The wanting to see someone happy; the wanting to provide both warmth and aegis for anyone at all. Dima has little practice in speaking words of— Of affection, let alone the feeling he knows now, a certainty wrapping through his veins, suffusing every action.
He feels more for this man than he has words for; he knows such certainty in Faolan.
And though all of this is new, though he knows the way ahead requires care and knows himself ill-equipped for its discernment, he wants and means to learn, to try.)
Faolan speaks, 'a month,' and Dima's smile returns, he, blinking rapidly. Shutting his eyes for a moment, only briefly - only to let the words (the promise? the hope) settle into place - before meeting Fae's once more.
[ Give me a month, then, and I will cherish every hour.
Let me know you, Faolan. And I will— I'll show you what I can. What I am. ]
There's a tilt of his hand; subtle, graceful in the motions that bring his palm to Faolan's, and twine the man's fingers with his own. [ I'd like that very much. ]
Rin is in the middle of holding up three fingers, the better to signify three particular varieties of frog, and how a drop of the not-terribly-toxic poison from each, muddled with citrus and a garnish of crocus petals, might make for a sweet drink with a sharp bite, and that they would call the drink 'Til Drink Croak-Us Part.' It doesn't make sense, exactly, but they'd argue that that is part of the point: No one partaking of this drink would wish to bear an ounce of sense!
<.>
Like the night before, Faolan draws Dima's hand to his lips; there's pain in the way he closes his eyes as though he's certain of the loss facing him, but he knows there's no avoiding it now. Why not give Dmitri more cause to smile like that?
As though he's been given all the world. (Like no one's ever smiled at Faolan.)
It's a promise: their joined hands, the kiss he offers. If by some miracle Dima still smiles at him like that in a month, he'll believe in as much time as Dima gives him.
His attention returns to the thieves and their lively discussion; he's not particularly good at this, but interjects tentatively, "You should add ale to it."
At Sen's bewildered stare, he continues in the same low, somewhat meek voice, "So it hops."
<.>
Rin.
Is.
Grinning.
Grinning and tugging Sen's sleeve, pointing at Faolan. "See, I like him."
There is a good chance that Rin will, at sporadic moments for the next day or so, say aloud to themself 'So it hops.' And they're certain that if they ever were to make this drink - which is unlikely, as catching frogs requires patience and also Rin prefers drinks with cherries! - it would of course include ale.
Dima isn't entirely processing this conversation. Dima is in fact look at his hand in Faolan's, feeling the subtle afterburn of his kiss (like the seal upon a vow, or the casting of a breakless spell), thinking how strange it is, that after decades of existence, he should have found new life; some part of himself that's never had a chance to breathe.
Thinking how fortunate he is, to have this month, and know Fae will be with him through it all.
(Thinking of the sorrow, the pain that runs through Faolan, and thinking that a month may be time to learn small steps to pain's alleviation; to giving Fae - his? Fae? - cause to smile, and know there's life, there can be so much life beyond the ills he's known.)
When Dmitri manages to turn his eyes back toward the group, he finds the barmaid's begun to set out drinks, and reminds himself that there's work to be done yet, there's the haphazard puzzle before them, and— And he need not forfeit Faolan's company, or Faolan's touch in order to address the issues.
So he looks over the correspondence, thinks, and when the barmaid's departed, speaks: "What I cannot fathom - one of the many pieces of the mess I cannot fathom - is the cause of Calabra's fixation on Gower's daughter. What he thinks he can gain through her, and why he went to the trouble of locating Gower and—" A tick of his lip, a sneer he doesn't hide. "Of setting us after the Market. There would have been a simpler way to locate the girl, surely."
"We have the debris of several mysteries; there must be something binding this mess together."
<.>
"Not if Calabra thought she was still in Mysos," Sen muses. "And not if Gower never mentioned where he was from. I don't suppose it ever came up in casual conversation between master and servant."
The man he met didn't appear to give a single shit about his employees beyond their service.
"This was in the nightstand, you said?" he asks Rin, prodding the ring now replaced in its box. "Dima, have you known Calabra to tend towards men that way? Oh, fuck alm- Dima. Pay attention. He's not going anywhere."
If Dima's attention has been diverted, it might be because Faolan's other hand joins the first and holds Dima's tightly clasped against his thigh. There's a fearful quality to this, as though he's certain it'll all be snatched away. It's rare and precious, how Dima seems to want him. It's different from the possessive, self-assured way others behaved. (Predatory.) (Never to you.)
Faolan's own attention may have been on their hands and a faint smile has been playing at the corners of his mouth: a little break in the clouds, a little grain of hope shining through. The look fades when he remembers the enormity of the puzzle before them, and how much there is ahead.
"Maybe we ought to start off for the ruins now and see if Nerys is camped there. We can worry through the rest while we walk. Unless he gave you a way to contact him?" he looks quizzically at Dima, wondering how he's meant to inform Nerys when he finds Seddum Madin.
[q: doeS dima have any notion of whether calabra will or will not get it on with men? AND! does the contract from nerys happen to. mention. any way of contacting him?
INS, d: 19 ARC, d: 22
dm: Dima is aware that Calabra has rejected every man who ever approached him, and by all appearances and accounts, is heterosexual. For the latter: Dima has a sense that the contract scroll itself has a spell on it that could (and probably does) alert Nerys when Dima's side has been fulfilled. That said, otherwise he has no way of contacting Nerys other than marching out into the woods.
q: does dima have a sense of whether the nightmare market is on another plane? a: It's not on another plane, nope]
<.>
Dima’s attention was in fact entirely diverted, as much by Faolan’s smile - almost, tracing hint of a smile, and Dima’s heart could break in its beholding - as by his touch. He does let himself be drawn back to the conversation, though he doesn’t lose sensation of the warmth he knows at the way Fae’s clasped his hand, at the way he almost seems to want Dima and Dima’s guarding close.
To Faolan’s question, Dima frowns just slightly. “I’m afraid I have no way to reach him; not directly. As I understand, the scroll is touched with a spell that will alert Nerys on completion of the contract.
“So. Short of locating Seddum, I have no certain method of communication. “
There’s a click of his tongue, a cant his head. “I suppose— I might try writing a message on the contract itself. There isn’t much chance that it would reach Nerys, but it shouldn’t harm anything.
“There is also the option of burning the document, but I’d rather not run that risk; it might sever any opportunity for further return.” Dima’s tone suggests that he’s willing to try it if necessary, but would rather find another option.
It occurs to Dima that if they had access to Gower’s corpse, they might be able to raise an alarm— But that suggestion’s liable to go over poorly, include an unpredictable host of consequences, and anyway, they don’t know where the body is. Still—
“There are spells that could hypothetically allow us to contact Nerys, or even Gower himself. They are—“ His brow furrows, he shakes his head with a huffed breath. “At present, I am unfamiliar with this magic. And Messaging won’t manage what we do.”
He asks Liviana whether she holds any magic that might aid them; then looks over the group again. “If it comes to seeking Nerys in the forest, I’m not opposed. But if any of you have a way of reaching him or Gower— Or anyone we met last night. We might spare more time and energy to direct elsewhere.”
A blink; a thought. “Faolan. What you gained last night—“ The tattoo. The scimitar. “Does any part of it carry a connection to its creator?”
If Faolan isn’t certain, Dima will ask Fae if he can take a look and attempt to discern any potential for connection.
no subject
That smile.
It's so tentative, so frail, like hope, and Faolan wonders how it would look if Dmitri smiled without any fear of loss. If he was happy, if Faolan made him happy -
(If they could find some happiness together.)
He's going to get hurt. He knows it. It's set in stone, it's waiting for him at the end of the road north, and Dmitri will smile a different smile, a cruel one while he laughs -
(His faith in that has a fracture in it. There's a blue cast over it the same shade as Dmitri's eyes.)
Faolan looks as though he'd like to speak one thing, but shakes his head and carefully answers, [ You haven't known me long enough to say any of that, Dmitri. ]
Somehow, his hand has found Dima's and he looks down now, studying it. How it looks, held in his own. (Perfect.) (Dangerous thought.)
It's unwise, he knows, but he still says, [ A month might be long enough to know one another. ]
Sen, meanwhile, has been occupying himself and Rin while the lovebirds talk; the game has become one of exotic drink ingredients and what the names of said concoctions might be.
<.>
For a moment, his smile faltered. Not his touch, no, but there's that worry again (not only a worry; a very real chance): That he's pushed too far, spoke with too much claim or asked Faolan to step further than he safely can.
(He isn't used to this: The wanting to see someone happy; the wanting to provide both warmth and aegis for anyone at all. Dima has little practice in speaking words of— Of affection, let alone the feeling he knows now, a certainty wrapping through his veins, suffusing every action.
He feels more for this man than he has words for; he knows such certainty in Faolan.
And though all of this is new, though he knows the way ahead requires care and knows himself ill-equipped for its discernment, he wants and means to learn, to try.)
Faolan speaks, 'a month,' and Dima's smile returns, he, blinking rapidly. Shutting his eyes for a moment, only briefly - only to let the words (the promise? the hope) settle into place - before meeting Fae's once more.
[ Give me a month, then, and I will cherish every hour.
Let me know you, Faolan. And I will— I'll show you what I can. What I am. ]
There's a tilt of his hand; subtle, graceful in the motions that bring his palm to Faolan's, and twine the man's fingers with his own. [ I'd like that very much. ]
Rin is in the middle of holding up three fingers, the better to signify three particular varieties of frog, and how a drop of the not-terribly-toxic poison from each, muddled with citrus and a garnish of crocus petals, might make for a sweet drink with a sharp bite, and that they would call the drink 'Til Drink Croak-Us Part.' It doesn't make sense, exactly, but they'd argue that that is part of the point: No one partaking of this drink would wish to bear an ounce of sense!
<.>
Like the night before, Faolan draws Dima's hand to his lips; there's pain in the way he closes his eyes as though he's certain of the loss facing him, but he knows there's no avoiding it now. Why not give Dmitri more cause to smile like that?
As though he's been given all the world. (Like no one's ever smiled at Faolan.)
It's a promise: their joined hands, the kiss he offers. If by some miracle Dima still smiles at him like that in a month, he'll believe in as much time as Dima gives him.
His attention returns to the thieves and their lively discussion; he's not particularly good at this, but interjects tentatively, "You should add ale to it."
At Sen's bewildered stare, he continues in the same low, somewhat meek voice, "So it hops."
<.>
Rin.
Is.
Grinning.
Grinning and tugging Sen's sleeve, pointing at Faolan. "See, I like him."
There is a good chance that Rin will, at sporadic moments for the next day or so, say aloud to themself 'So it hops.' And they're certain that if they ever were to make this drink - which is unlikely, as catching frogs requires patience and also Rin prefers drinks with cherries! - it would of course include ale.
Dima isn't entirely processing this conversation. Dima is in fact look at his hand in Faolan's, feeling the subtle afterburn of his kiss (like the seal upon a vow, or the casting of a breakless spell), thinking how strange it is, that after decades of existence, he should have found new life; some part of himself that's never had a chance to breathe.
Thinking how fortunate he is, to have this month, and know Fae will be with him through it all.
(Thinking of the sorrow, the pain that runs through Faolan, and thinking that a month may be time to learn small steps to pain's alleviation; to giving Fae - his? Fae? - cause to smile, and know there's life, there can be so much life beyond the ills he's known.)
When Dmitri manages to turn his eyes back toward the group, he finds the barmaid's begun to set out drinks, and reminds himself that there's work to be done yet, there's the haphazard puzzle before them, and— And he need not forfeit Faolan's company, or Faolan's touch in order to address the issues.
So he looks over the correspondence, thinks, and when the barmaid's departed, speaks: "What I cannot fathom - one of the many pieces of the mess I cannot fathom - is the cause of Calabra's fixation on Gower's daughter. What he thinks he can gain through her, and why he went to the trouble of locating Gower and—" A tick of his lip, a sneer he doesn't hide. "Of setting us after the Market. There would have been a simpler way to locate the girl, surely."
"We have the debris of several mysteries; there must be something binding this mess together."
<.>
"Not if Calabra thought she was still in Mysos," Sen muses. "And not if Gower never mentioned where he was from. I don't suppose it ever came up in casual conversation between master and servant."
The man he met didn't appear to give a single shit about his employees beyond their service.
"This was in the nightstand, you said?" he asks Rin, prodding the ring now replaced in its box. "Dima, have you known Calabra to tend towards men that way? Oh, fuck alm- Dima. Pay attention. He's not going anywhere."
If Dima's attention has been diverted, it might be because Faolan's other hand joins the first and holds Dima's tightly clasped against his thigh. There's a fearful quality to this, as though he's certain it'll all be snatched away. It's rare and precious, how Dima seems to want him. It's different from the possessive, self-assured way others behaved. (Predatory.) (Never to you.)
Faolan's own attention may have been on their hands and a faint smile has been playing at the corners of his mouth: a little break in the clouds, a little grain of hope shining through. The look fades when he remembers the enormity of the puzzle before them, and how much there is ahead.
"Maybe we ought to start off for the ruins now and see if Nerys is camped there. We can worry through the rest while we walk. Unless he gave you a way to contact him?" he looks quizzically at Dima, wondering how he's meant to inform Nerys when he finds Seddum Madin.
[q: doeS dima have any notion of whether calabra will or will not get it on with men? AND! does the contract from nerys happen to. mention. any way of contacting him?
INS, d: 19
ARC, d: 22
dm: Dima is aware that Calabra has rejected every man who ever approached him, and by all appearances and accounts, is heterosexual.
For the latter: Dima has a sense that the contract scroll itself has a spell on it that could (and probably does) alert Nerys when Dima's side has been fulfilled. That said, otherwise he has no way of contacting Nerys other than marching out into the woods.
q: does dima have a sense of whether the nightmare market is on another plane?
a: It's not on another plane, nope]
<.>
Dima’s attention was in fact entirely diverted, as much by Faolan’s smile - almost, tracing hint of a smile, and Dima’s heart could break in its beholding - as by his touch. He does let himself be drawn back to the conversation, though he doesn’t lose sensation of the warmth he knows at the way Fae’s clasped his hand, at the way he almost seems to want Dima and Dima’s guarding close.
To Faolan’s question, Dima frowns just slightly. “I’m afraid I have no way to reach him; not directly. As I understand, the scroll is touched with a spell that will alert Nerys on completion of the contract.
“So. Short of locating Seddum, I have no certain method of communication. “
There’s a click of his tongue, a cant his head. “I suppose— I might try writing a message on the contract itself. There isn’t much chance that it would reach Nerys, but it shouldn’t harm anything.
“There is also the option of burning the document, but I’d rather not run that risk; it might sever any opportunity for further return.” Dima’s tone suggests that he’s willing to try it if necessary, but would rather find another option.
It occurs to Dima that if they had access to Gower’s corpse, they might be able to raise an alarm— But that suggestion’s liable to go over poorly, include an unpredictable host of consequences, and anyway, they don’t know where the body is. Still—
“There are spells that could hypothetically allow us to contact Nerys, or even Gower himself. They are—“ His brow furrows, he shakes his head with a huffed breath. “At present, I am unfamiliar with this magic. And Messaging won’t manage what we do.”
He asks Liviana whether she holds any magic that might aid them; then looks over the group again. “If it comes to seeking Nerys in the forest, I’m not opposed. But if any of you have a way of reaching him or Gower— Or anyone we met last night. We might spare more time and energy to direct elsewhere.”
A blink; a thought. “Faolan. What you gained last night—“ The tattoo. The scimitar. “Does any part of it carry a connection to its creator?”
If Faolan isn’t certain, Dima will ask Fae if he can take a look and attempt to discern any potential for connection.
<.>