Faolan doesn't return to the inn for the rest of the day. When he does turn up - sometime near midnight - he is blisteringly drunk and the innkeeper ends up helping him up the stairs to his room.
<.>
Dima would have spent most of the evening in the tavern, with some time spent walking the nearby streets. And would have sent Liv out under Invisibility when he waS in the inn to keep an eye out for Faolan. So.
It's while Dima's checking the streets nearby - his worry becoming near-intolerable, and it helps his focus some to keep busy this way - that Liviana alerts him to Faolan's return, and there's a surge of relief as Dmitri hurries back, not not running half the way, thanking Liv as she joins him.
He's there in time to see Fae moving upstairs - badly, bearly - helped along by the innkeeper. And there's a half-shouted "Fae!” as Dima rushes forward, certain Faolan's been wounded, moving to aid in helping him up the stairs and to offer what mending he can.
<.>
The innkeeper looks relieved to see someone who knows this stumbling, slurring boy. He backs away when Dima seems to have Faolan who, now that Dmitri is close, is clearly not injured; the red-shot eyes and dazed, then miserable way he looks at the smaller man. The strong scent of booze lingers miasmic on him.
He doesn't fight, though. He lets Dmitri take and lead him, every movement heavy with resignation much the same as what Rin observed earlier. He does say, in the too-low tones of a drunken man who thinks he's speaking audibly, "Why not. What else, right? Why not."
<.>
He doesn't understand.
And while he's glad to find no sign of physical injury, something must have happened to put Fae into this state, clearly unhappy as well as booze-sick. He's been away all day; what in fuck's name has happened in that time? (Dima doesn't like to see Faolan looking as if drawn through agony. Doesn't like the way resignation settles heavy on him.) (He never should have let Fae slip away this morning. He damns himself for a careless, short-sighted brute.)
Whatever the case, Dima strengths the grip of his arm around Fae's waist, and presses his hand firm against Fae's arm, then caresses, caresses. (Listens for the innkeeper, who's meant to be bringing water to Fae's room.) Speaks in a low tone of his own—
"It's all right, Faolan. We're going to get you to your room. Get some water into you, and get you to bed. It's all right; your night is almost through, and your Dima's here."
<.>
Faolan looks as though the world's crumbling beneath his feet; he stares with wide, helpless eyes, then seems to fall into himself. "My Dima."
It's not until he's sitting on the edge of his bed, not yet sick but feeling no ease from the thrall of alcohol, that he speaks again. He looks up to find Dmitri still with him, takes a ragged breath, and says the words again.
"My Dima."
Hopeless, the way he said them on the docks - as though sure of the oncoming loss.
The innkeeper appears with a pitcher of water and a clean chamber pot that he places just beside the head of the bed. He quickly vacates the room after confirming Dima will do the looking-after.
<.>
There's a rising warmth in his chest as Faolan's eyes meet his - 'yes,' he thinks, 'yes, please, look at me, and know I'm here' - and an equal measure of spiking nausea, of worry for this man who looks so lost, who went out wary in the morning and came back reeling and looking worlds apart from himself.
He came back, though. That's important; that's a relief. Whatever happened hurt Fae, but Fae's still here, and Dima won't let him slip off again. He'll take better care of his Fae. And now, whatever's happened, he'll fix it or ease Faolan from its grasp, its memory.
To the innkeeper, Dima gives three gold pieces and a nod. And when the door closes, leaving Faolan and Dima - and Liv, of course - Dima pours a cup of water, then moves to Faolan. Brushing back his hair and offering a smile grown from relief and from a wish to guard his Fae.
And softly, gently he speaks, "My Fae."
Then, raising the cup - for Faolan to take in hand, or to drink from Dima's hold - he adds, "Drink. Please."
<.>
Faolan makes a soft, broken sound as Dima's hand brushes through his hair. One of his hands settles at Dmitri's thigh, clutching fabric, then releasing when the water's pressed towards his hands.
He stares blearily at the cup, but obediently drinks, submits with something like guilt in his actions: a dog that knows it's done wrong.
The water goes down easily and Faolan eventually places a hand - tries to place, misses once, tries again - on Dima's wrist with his uncanny gentleness, and when the cup is gone, he slumps, elbows on his knees.
He seems to decide this isn't good enough and looks around the room blankly, then up at Dima, then, unable to sustain thoughts for long, comes to a conclusion that draws that pitiful, deadened resignation from him again. "Only was s'matter of time, wasn't it."
He tries to smile, tries to laugh as though it's a joke, but that's too much effort. He shrugs, instead, then offers a hand, steady despite his state. Inviting. "Your Fae, then."
<.>
There's a sound that could shatter his heart, and Dima's fingertips turn their brush to Fae's skull, to brushing skin and hair alike and leaning nearer, saying softly, softly under his breath that "It'll be all right, all will be well, my Fae."
The water's taken, and Dima hums an approving sound; he is proud of Fae, knows how damnably difficult the mere act of drinking can be within inebriation.
The water's gone, and it's Dima's turn to huff a soft sound, grateful, at the hand upon his wrist, letting himself linger before - reluctantly; only out of necessity - moving to settle the cup on a nightstand.
He's back before Fae by the time bleak speech follows, and he can't imagine, he doesn't want to imagine (deep beneath thought, beneath the bulk of feeling, ticks a minor worry: should he imagine? but the feeling doesn't rise to thought, and what Dmitri knows mainly is fear for Faolan, for what could have happened to sink him so) what the man means. It might be nothing; might be the mingling of the morning's wariness with the current intoxication (Dima can't quite believe this) (something's wrong— but it needn't stay that way).
Then Fae's hand is offered, an undoubtable invitation, and there's the tug of a smile at Dima's lip, there's his hand taking Faolan's immediately, his grip soft but firm. And Dima sits on the bed beside Faolan, hand-in-hand, his free hand moving to brush through Fae's hair, brush along his head again.
"My Fae, precisely.
"You're home, Fae." A hummed sound. "In our temporary home, and you are safe. I'm going to stay with you through the night." There's an attempt at a small laugh, and Dima cups Fae's cheek. "I'm afraid I'll hear no arguments."
<.>
A further sinking into himself. A sadness washing over him. His eyes flicker towards the door and he sways slightly, seems to be enduring the touch to his hair now.
When Dima cups his cheek, he lets his head be turned, lets himself be made to look, and seems to withdraw behind his eyes to somewhere he can't be touched. He smiles, the expression closed-lipped and brittle to an eye that knows him well enough to distinguish it from his genuine, soft smiles.
"No arguments." He reaches a hand, runs a gentle caress down Dmitri's cheek, his hand slowly unfurling until his fingertips trace a feather-light line along his jaw.
The movement's a practiced one. It's clear he's done this before, that he's been drunk, been withdrawn, and still capable of performance. Still seemingly willing. "Anything you like, Dmitri."
Faolan's hand drops to Dima's throat, where his fingers work expertly at the fastenings of his jacket, unhurried in motion, full of promise. With his free hand, he traces aside Dima's hair and murmurs something unintelligible, moves to press a kiss beneath his ear.
<.>
He doesn't understand; not at first.
He thought— Faolan offered his hand, and for a moment, Dima thought Fae had come back a little toward himself.
But the distance in his eyes is stronger. The smile is false. And the way he echoes 'no arguments' - the way his hand caresses so precisely, at a moment that feels awry - slams cold into Dima's stomach.
(He doesn't know what's happening.) (He's beginning to understand.)
And that 'anything you like,' that ’Dmitri’ and the migration of fingers that makes no sense, or makes no sense until Dima allows the pieces to fall together, to see there's been misunderstanding, he's led Faolan to believe something wrenching, and the soft touch through his hair (what he would want) (what he *has* wanted) burns with his own careless.
He draws back; moves away from what would have been a— He thinks. It would have been a kiss. (And more.) (Gods, what did Faolan think he wanted.) (Dima knows precisely what Faolan thought he wanted.) His movement was quick but careful, an attempt not to jar Faolan. If there was a hint of panic in it - it there's panic flickered now within his own eyes - Dima tries not to let it speak. Tries to remain calm, and he draws Faolan's hand from his jacket, takes both of Faolan's hands in his own and holds them, pressing.
"That isn't—"
He catches on a breath, looks away, then seeks Faolan's eyes again, imploring. "Faolan, I'm not asking that. I should have seen—"
Another catch of breath; Dima's trying very, very hard not to let panic or frantic worry win out. He stands, hands still catching Faolan's, and moves in front of Fae. "Faolan. Whatever has happened—
"You're safe. I don't— I wouldn't."
He shakes his head, frustrated with himself, terrified of what just happened, what he must have led Faolan to. "I mean to stay here, and watch over you. I'll sit— I can stay wherever you like.
"Faolan. Fae. It's all right. I only want to watch you through the night. To guard you."
<.>
Faolan sits in confusion, his inebriated mind processing this far too slowly, too muddied to react. His hand hangs in Dima's, unresisting.
He doesn't understand what's happening. There's no woundedness in his eyes, no hurt at being stopped; only stupefaction. This has clearly never happened before. He has no frame of reference, no notion of how to proceed when he *isn't* wanted. (Or. Isn't wanted at the moment.)
Dima says I wouldn't and that makes no sense.
He says you're safe and that makes even less sense.
He says to guard you and it strikes Faolan like a deadly blow, catching his breath and there's a moment of suspended silence between those words and anything else. Then, with a slow-moving welling of shame (like tides, like sunset), Faolan starts to cry.
Curling in on himself (curling in toward Dima), he covers his face with his hands and sobs quietly, as though he can't quite find fire even for weeping. Muffled by his palms, it's difficult to make out the soft I'm sorry he speaks once, and then again, and defeatedly, again.
<.>
His poor Fae.
This wronged, this obscenely and repeatedly wronged man. A reaction of this sort - soul-devastated and uncomprehending - doesn't grow from nowhere, and hasn't it been clear that Faolan's known ill at the hands of men at every turn?
How it must have been a kind of ruin all over, to have heard predation in what Dima vowed, to hear a claim to bedding in place of safekeeping eyes. ('I won't survive you if you turn on me,' Fae had said, and did he feel the world crashing down when he held out his hand, when Dmitri accepted, so readily moved beside him?)
And how Dima's heart does shatter now, how his blood turns into plummet, as Faolan begins to cry, as he speaks words he should never feel the need to say.
He moves downward, settles on one knee and reaches up, to place one hand on Faolan's arm, to place the other on his knee. To carefully, softly brush his thumb and speak—
"Faolan. My Fae. You have nothing to be sorry for." He tries, tries to keep his own voice steady. Can't quite achieve it, though for now he manages to keep the burn of his eyes from turning to tears. He wants to be steady right now. He wants to show this man that nothing has been wounded, and nothing can't be fixed.
"Your day has been endless, my Dearest. Whatever's happened—" He shakes his head; he won't think about that now, and there's no good drawing Fae toward its thought. "It doesn't matter in the least.
"I'm here with you. And we can mend anything."
He's going to try - slowly, carefully - to take Fae's wrist, Fae's hand, and urge those hand to his knees, to be kept in Dima's hold. "Faolan. Faolan. It's all right.
"All you need to do is sleep. Let your Dima take care of the rest.
"And I'll be here in the morning. I promise you."
<.>
Somehow, he's still Dima's 'Fae'. Somehow, he's more than that. His 'Dearest'. Faolan doesn't know what he did to deserve that kind of grace; his drink-addled mind can't find a single moment beyond all his scandals and sins that might explain how this man can care so endlessly for him.
After what he's done. After everything he's done.
He lets himself be maneuvered, eventually allowing Dima to guide him to lie down. There's no groping, no undressing except his boots, no mouth covering his own, no unwanted whisper. There's only Dima, tender, and it breaks his heart all over again.
He reaches out, grasps for Dima's hand with plea rather than invitation. He may have said 'Please' or may only have thought it over and over, please, please, and he did say don't leave me, a complicated wish that means right now and ever.
And please again, until Dima agrees to lie beside him, where Faolan can rest his head against the smaller man's chest and cling tightly as though Dima is a lifeline. As though Dima is all that keeps him from drowning, from losing himself, from fading out to nothing.
When his tears eventually subside, he softly says again, "Please. Don't leave me."
<.>
Dima holds Faolan in kind, arms wrapped around him, one hand rubbing in steady-soothing press along his back, one carding through his hair, at times pausing to hold, simply hold his Faolan's head.
It's humbling, it's a warmth curling through his chest, that Fae should have allowed him here; that Fae should want him here and maybe, at least in this moment, trust Dmitri to protect him, to bring nothing save for comforting and care. And it's devastating - again, again, again - to think how many times this man's been granted only damage, use, ridicule.
He vows internally to see that Fae's life, Fae's heart will only know more warmth - and fire; infernos - from here on out. He vows and he wants to give this man cause to trust to brilliance in the world and in his own life. To know that what's wounded him is in the past.
To ruin what's wounded him, if Faolan permits.
Faolan clings tight, and Dima caresses, caresses. Feels the way Faolan holds on as though the world (as though Dima?) threatens to slip away. And Dima begins at some point to hum low, a thrumming in his chest, the melody an old one touched with sun and shade and home. And his own tears well slight, well subtle, not hitching his breath.
When Faolan speaks, Dima presses his arms, an affirmative embrace. And, nestling his cheek against Fae's head—
"I never will.
"Never, my Fae.
"I am yours for always. I will guard you always. And you will always, always have your Dima."
no subject
<.>
Dima would have spent most of the evening in the tavern, with some time spent walking the nearby streets. And would have sent Liv out under Invisibility when he waS in the inn to keep an eye out for Faolan. So.
It's while Dima's checking the streets nearby - his worry becoming near-intolerable, and it helps his focus some to keep busy this way - that Liviana alerts him to Faolan's return, and there's a surge of relief as Dmitri hurries back, not not running half the way, thanking Liv as she joins him.
He's there in time to see Fae moving upstairs - badly, bearly - helped along by the innkeeper. And there's a half-shouted "Fae!” as Dima rushes forward, certain Faolan's been wounded, moving to aid in helping him up the stairs and to offer what mending he can.
<.>
The innkeeper looks relieved to see someone who knows this stumbling, slurring boy. He backs away when Dima seems to have Faolan who, now that Dmitri is close, is clearly not injured; the red-shot eyes and dazed, then miserable way he looks at the smaller man. The strong scent of booze lingers miasmic on him.
He doesn't fight, though. He lets Dmitri take and lead him, every movement heavy with resignation much the same as what Rin observed earlier. He does say, in the too-low tones of a drunken man who thinks he's speaking audibly, "Why not. What else, right? Why not."
<.>
He doesn't understand.
And while he's glad to find no sign of physical injury, something must have happened to put Fae into this state, clearly unhappy as well as booze-sick. He's been away all day; what in fuck's name has happened in that time? (Dima doesn't like to see Faolan looking as if drawn through agony. Doesn't like the way resignation settles heavy on him.) (He never should have let Fae slip away this morning. He damns himself for a careless, short-sighted brute.)
Whatever the case, Dima strengths the grip of his arm around Fae's waist, and presses his hand firm against Fae's arm, then caresses, caresses. (Listens for the innkeeper, who's meant to be bringing water to Fae's room.) Speaks in a low tone of his own—
"It's all right, Faolan. We're going to get you to your room. Get some water into you, and get you to bed. It's all right; your night is almost through, and your Dima's here."
<.>
Faolan looks as though the world's crumbling beneath his feet; he stares with wide, helpless eyes, then seems to fall into himself. "My Dima."
It's not until he's sitting on the edge of his bed, not yet sick but feeling no ease from the thrall of alcohol, that he speaks again. He looks up to find Dmitri still with him, takes a ragged breath, and says the words again.
"My Dima."
Hopeless, the way he said them on the docks - as though sure of the oncoming loss.
The innkeeper appears with a pitcher of water and a clean chamber pot that he places just beside the head of the bed. He quickly vacates the room after confirming Dima will do the looking-after.
<.>
There's a rising warmth in his chest as Faolan's eyes meet his - 'yes,' he thinks, 'yes, please, look at me, and know I'm here' - and an equal measure of spiking nausea, of worry for this man who looks so lost, who went out wary in the morning and came back reeling and looking worlds apart from himself.
He came back, though. That's important; that's a relief. Whatever happened hurt Fae, but Fae's still here, and Dima won't let him slip off again. He'll take better care of his Fae. And now, whatever's happened, he'll fix it or ease Faolan from its grasp, its memory.
To the innkeeper, Dima gives three gold pieces and a nod. And when the door closes, leaving Faolan and Dima - and Liv, of course - Dima pours a cup of water, then moves to Faolan. Brushing back his hair and offering a smile grown from relief and from a wish to guard his Fae.
And softly, gently he speaks, "My Fae."
Then, raising the cup - for Faolan to take in hand, or to drink from Dima's hold - he adds, "Drink. Please."
<.>
Faolan makes a soft, broken sound as Dima's hand brushes through his hair. One of his hands settles at Dmitri's thigh, clutching fabric, then releasing when the water's pressed towards his hands.
He stares blearily at the cup, but obediently drinks, submits with something like guilt in his actions: a dog that knows it's done wrong.
The water goes down easily and Faolan eventually places a hand - tries to place, misses once, tries again - on Dima's wrist with his uncanny gentleness, and when the cup is gone, he slumps, elbows on his knees.
He seems to decide this isn't good enough and looks around the room blankly, then up at Dima, then, unable to sustain thoughts for long, comes to a conclusion that draws that pitiful, deadened resignation from him again. "Only was s'matter of time, wasn't it."
He tries to smile, tries to laugh as though it's a joke, but that's too much effort. He shrugs, instead, then offers a hand, steady despite his state. Inviting. "Your Fae, then."
<.>
There's a sound that could shatter his heart, and Dima's fingertips turn their brush to Fae's skull, to brushing skin and hair alike and leaning nearer, saying softly, softly under his breath that "It'll be all right, all will be well, my Fae."
The water's taken, and Dima hums an approving sound; he is proud of Fae, knows how damnably difficult the mere act of drinking can be within inebriation.
The water's gone, and it's Dima's turn to huff a soft sound, grateful, at the hand upon his wrist, letting himself linger before - reluctantly; only out of necessity - moving to settle the cup on a nightstand.
He's back before Fae by the time bleak speech follows, and he can't imagine, he doesn't want to imagine (deep beneath thought, beneath the bulk of feeling, ticks a minor worry: should he imagine? but the feeling doesn't rise to thought, and what Dmitri knows mainly is fear for Faolan, for what could have happened to sink him so) what the man means. It might be nothing; might be the mingling of the morning's wariness with the current intoxication (Dima can't quite believe this) (something's wrong— but it needn't stay that way).
Then Fae's hand is offered, an undoubtable invitation, and there's the tug of a smile at Dima's lip, there's his hand taking Faolan's immediately, his grip soft but firm. And Dima sits on the bed beside Faolan, hand-in-hand, his free hand moving to brush through Fae's hair, brush along his head again.
"My Fae, precisely.
"You're home, Fae." A hummed sound. "In our temporary home, and you are safe. I'm going to stay with you through the night." There's an attempt at a small laugh, and Dima cups Fae's cheek. "I'm afraid I'll hear no arguments."
<.>
A further sinking into himself. A sadness washing over him. His eyes flicker towards the door and he sways slightly, seems to be enduring the touch to his hair now.
When Dima cups his cheek, he lets his head be turned, lets himself be made to look, and seems to withdraw behind his eyes to somewhere he can't be touched. He smiles, the expression closed-lipped and brittle to an eye that knows him well enough to distinguish it from his genuine, soft smiles.
"No arguments." He reaches a hand, runs a gentle caress down Dmitri's cheek, his hand slowly unfurling until his fingertips trace a feather-light line along his jaw.
The movement's a practiced one. It's clear he's done this before, that he's been drunk, been withdrawn, and still capable of performance. Still seemingly willing. "Anything you like, Dmitri."
Faolan's hand drops to Dima's throat, where his fingers work expertly at the fastenings of his jacket, unhurried in motion, full of promise. With his free hand, he traces aside Dima's hair and murmurs something unintelligible, moves to press a kiss beneath his ear.
<.>
He doesn't understand; not at first.
He thought— Faolan offered his hand, and for a moment, Dima thought Fae had come back a little toward himself.
But the distance in his eyes is stronger. The smile is false. And the way he echoes 'no arguments' - the way his hand caresses so precisely, at a moment that feels awry - slams cold into Dima's stomach.
(He doesn't know what's happening.) (He's beginning to understand.)
And that 'anything you like,' that ’Dmitri’ and the migration of fingers that makes no sense, or makes no sense until Dima allows the pieces to fall together, to see there's been misunderstanding, he's led Faolan to believe something wrenching, and the soft touch through his hair (what he would want) (what he *has* wanted) burns with his own careless.
He draws back; moves away from what would have been a— He thinks. It would have been a kiss. (And more.) (Gods, what did Faolan think he wanted.) (Dima knows precisely what Faolan thought he wanted.) His movement was quick but careful, an attempt not to jar Faolan. If there was a hint of panic in it - it there's panic flickered now within his own eyes - Dima tries not to let it speak. Tries to remain calm, and he draws Faolan's hand from his jacket, takes both of Faolan's hands in his own and holds them, pressing.
"That isn't—"
He catches on a breath, looks away, then seeks Faolan's eyes again, imploring. "Faolan, I'm not asking that. I should have seen—"
Another catch of breath; Dima's trying very, very hard not to let panic or frantic worry win out. He stands, hands still catching Faolan's, and moves in front of Fae. "Faolan. Whatever has happened—
"You're safe. I don't— I wouldn't."
He shakes his head, frustrated with himself, terrified of what just happened, what he must have led Faolan to. "I mean to stay here, and watch over you. I'll sit— I can stay wherever you like.
"Faolan. Fae. It's all right. I only want to watch you through the night. To guard you."
<.>
Faolan sits in confusion, his inebriated mind processing this far too slowly, too muddied to react. His hand hangs in Dima's, unresisting.
He doesn't understand what's happening. There's no woundedness in his eyes, no hurt at being stopped; only stupefaction. This has clearly never happened before. He has no frame of reference, no notion of how to proceed when he *isn't* wanted. (Or. Isn't wanted at the moment.)
Dima says I wouldn't and that makes no sense.
He says you're safe and that makes even less sense.
He says to guard you and it strikes Faolan like a deadly blow, catching his breath and there's a moment of suspended silence between those words and anything else. Then, with a slow-moving welling of shame (like tides, like sunset), Faolan starts to cry.
Curling in on himself (curling in toward Dima), he covers his face with his hands and sobs quietly, as though he can't quite find fire even for weeping. Muffled by his palms, it's difficult to make out the soft I'm sorry he speaks once, and then again, and defeatedly, again.
<.>
His poor Fae.
This wronged, this obscenely and repeatedly wronged man. A reaction of this sort - soul-devastated and uncomprehending - doesn't grow from nowhere, and hasn't it been clear that Faolan's known ill at the hands of men at every turn?
How it must have been a kind of ruin all over, to have heard predation in what Dima vowed, to hear a claim to bedding in place of safekeeping eyes. ('I won't survive you if you turn on me,' Fae had said, and did he feel the world crashing down when he held out his hand, when Dmitri accepted, so readily moved beside him?)
And how Dima's heart does shatter now, how his blood turns into plummet, as Faolan begins to cry, as he speaks words he should never feel the need to say.
He moves downward, settles on one knee and reaches up, to place one hand on Faolan's arm, to place the other on his knee. To carefully, softly brush his thumb and speak—
"Faolan. My Fae. You have nothing to be sorry for." He tries, tries to keep his own voice steady. Can't quite achieve it, though for now he manages to keep the burn of his eyes from turning to tears. He wants to be steady right now. He wants to show this man that nothing has been wounded, and nothing can't be fixed.
"Your day has been endless, my Dearest. Whatever's happened—" He shakes his head; he won't think about that now, and there's no good drawing Fae toward its thought. "It doesn't matter in the least.
"I'm here with you. And we can mend anything."
He's going to try - slowly, carefully - to take Fae's wrist, Fae's hand, and urge those hand to his knees, to be kept in Dima's hold. "Faolan. Faolan. It's all right.
"All you need to do is sleep. Let your Dima take care of the rest.
"And I'll be here in the morning. I promise you."
<.>
Somehow, he's still Dima's 'Fae'. Somehow, he's more than that. His 'Dearest'. Faolan doesn't know what he did to deserve that kind of grace; his drink-addled mind can't find a single moment beyond all his scandals and sins that might explain how this man can care so endlessly for him.
After what he's done. After everything he's done.
He lets himself be maneuvered, eventually allowing Dima to guide him to lie down. There's no groping, no undressing except his boots, no mouth covering his own, no unwanted whisper. There's only Dima, tender, and it breaks his heart all over again.
He reaches out, grasps for Dima's hand with plea rather than invitation. He may have said 'Please' or may only have thought it over and over, please, please, and he did say don't leave me, a complicated wish that means right now and ever.
And please again, until Dima agrees to lie beside him, where Faolan can rest his head against the smaller man's chest and cling tightly as though Dima is a lifeline. As though Dima is all that keeps him from drowning, from losing himself, from fading out to nothing.
When his tears eventually subside, he softly says again, "Please. Don't leave me."
<.>
Dima holds Faolan in kind, arms wrapped around him, one hand rubbing in steady-soothing press along his back, one carding through his hair, at times pausing to hold, simply hold his Faolan's head.
It's humbling, it's a warmth curling through his chest, that Fae should have allowed him here; that Fae should want him here and maybe, at least in this moment, trust Dmitri to protect him, to bring nothing save for comforting and care. And it's devastating - again, again, again - to think how many times this man's been granted only damage, use, ridicule.
He vows internally to see that Fae's life, Fae's heart will only know more warmth - and fire; infernos - from here on out. He vows and he wants to give this man cause to trust to brilliance in the world and in his own life. To know that what's wounded him is in the past.
To ruin what's wounded him, if Faolan permits.
Faolan clings tight, and Dima caresses, caresses. Feels the way Faolan holds on as though the world (as though Dima?) threatens to slip away. And Dima begins at some point to hum low, a thrumming in his chest, the melody an old one touched with sun and shade and home. And his own tears well slight, well subtle, not hitching his breath.
When Faolan speaks, Dima presses his arms, an affirmative embrace. And, nestling his cheek against Fae's head—
"I never will.
"Never, my Fae.
"I am yours for always. I will guard you always. And you will always, always have your Dima."
<.>