Eventually, safe in Dima's care, Faolan sleeps. He doesn't let go throughout the night, his breathing even and deep, his dreams untroubled largely because of the man beside him.
He doesn't wake until the morning has waned, and when he does move, he's silent about the necessities of existence; there's no complaint of an aching head, no sign of nausea. (It might be clear that drunkenness isn't uncommon for him, or at least not *unfamiliar*. It's been some time since he's reached that level of intoxication, but towards the end - with Fedir, in Morovsk - he thinks he may have been more often inebriated than sober.)
He washes himself at the basin, eyes distant as he manages the task. He removes only his shirt to do so, but this allows Dima the sight of the tattoo Faolan received at the Nightmare Market: a tree growing upward, vibrant and vivid, and mirrored by one growing downward, its branches bare and dead. Arcane symbols of death and rebirth surround this image; the tattoo covers most of his upper back.
Fae eventually seats himself on the edge of the bed, seemingly at a loss for what to do now. He needs fresh clothing, that's certain. He could use some food. There are plans to be made and things to do, but all of that requires him to leave this room.
He's not ready to face Loch Bien again just yet.
He's not ready to face Dima, either.
<.>
Dmitri doesn't sleep, though at times he fades toward the edges of unconscious, dimly aware of time's passage, his thoughts, his awareness tied near-entirely to the man who holds close, and every moment Faolan breathes deep with sleep is a relief, because the gods know he needs both its rest and its escape from thought.
He thinks here and there of what must have happened yesterday. There are conclusions that might be drawn, ties binding Faolan's defeatedness and drunkenness and the way he mistook Dima's intentions (the automatic almost-ease with which Fae slipped distant, and reached for Dmitri's - yes, he said 'Dmitri' - jacket). There's anger at the prospect of what might have happened; not toward Faolan, not for a moment, but for the men who came before, and for whomever might have approached him, dare speak with him, dare do anything at all.
His own hold on Faolan doesn't ease until the man begins to move, and then Dima rises in kind. Pouring a cup of water as Faolan moves toward the basin, and turning to see—
Oh. It's an astonishing tattoo, and Dima can't keep himself from staring, eyes moving over the sprawl of mirrored branches, the symbols clear-lined.
He does manage to move himself before Faolan turns around, settling the cup beside the bed and moving to seek out clothing for Fae. He's found no sign of clean clothing, and Dima so moves to pick up the cup and hold it to the man, then softly, slowly settles his fingertips upon Fae's shoulder.
"Drink," he speaks softly. And, "I'll have food brought up shortly."
<.>
Faolan stares at the cup and thinks dimly of the night before. (He remembers all of it. How he wishes he could just lose himself to alcohol, to black out entirely and live the next day without remembering.) Dmitri took care of him -
Oh, he didn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve it now.
But there's unsuspected grace in Dmitri Voronin, and Fae can't - won't - allow himself to abuse it. Dima didn't have to lie beside him through the night. He didn't have to keep guard, to comfort him, to call him 'Dearest'.
He takes the cup and obediently drinks, his eyes flickering to and away from Dima as though he's trying to catch glimpses of the sun. When he lowers it - empty - he holds it between both of his hands and slowly rotates it. Eventually, he tries to speak, but the only words that come are soft, almost toneless (almost beseeching), "What now?"
<.>
Again, Faolan drinks the water, and Dima rubs his shoulder, encouraging. To the question, he responds without pause, "First, you'll have something to eat. More water.
"When you feel able, I believe a walk is in order. It would help, Fae, to know the sun's warmth.
"That said, you're doing very well already. You've risen; you've washed and taken your water." The cant of Dima's head, the subtle pride in his voice says that these are no meager feats, not after the night Faolan came through. "And if you wish to keep to your room all day, I won't dissuade you— Though I will insist that you allow me to remain."
There's a slight flickering in Dima's expression, a worried regret brought by the thought that he ought to have insisted yesterday; that he might have kept Faolan from whatever wounding happened. He doesn't let the feeling linger, and speaks again, voice unshaken, "We needn't decide immediately. You needn't decide at all, in truth.
"Breakfast first; I'll handle the rest."
<.>
It's. Strange?
As Dima talks, Faolan begins to feel a creeping ease, a lessening of tension in his shoulders. Even the doom-laced thoughts crowding his head seem to abate; by the time Dima says he needn't decide at all, Fae is staring up at him in something like bemused wonder and faint gratitude.
He doesn't trust people like this. He doesn't let people tell him where to go and what to do when he isn't screwing them - but Dima seems so certain, seems so assured, and he hasn't left Faolan for a moment. And isn't it nice to let someone else think of everything for a while? After yesterday, isn't it nice to know that he can just let someone else ...take care of him?
(He likes it, he thinks distantly. He likes that Dima isn't shouting at him, isn't berating him or hounding him with questions; he's simply deciding what now. And what after that. And the whole day is planned, with Fae in Dima's care. It's almost liberating, in a way. Freedom from thought. Freedom from decision.) (Freedom to - maybe - love and be loved, and nothing else.)
He realizes he hasn't responded and that maybe he ought to say something, maybe he ought to acknowledge what's been said to him. At a loss, he manages, "All right. That's - All right."
Then, hesitantly, he offers his empty cup to Dima. He did say 'more water'.
<.>
Oh, that's—
That's. Quite nice.
And gratifying.
The ease he sees in Fae's posture. The way his eyes have moved to Dima's, now not flickering as if he can't quite look for long, now not absent in the least. The way he accedes, not as if defeated, not begrudging, but - perhaps? - almost as if relieved.
(It could be something, the way Faolan accepts Dima's direction, the way he holds up his cup as if acquiescing.) (It could be an interest, something that isn't and is precisely obedience.) (It could be— Very pleasing. If it's true; if Faolan finds it pleasing, as well.)
Dima's lip ticks to a pleased half-smile, and he takes up the pitcher, pours and nods. "Thank you, Fae."
And, "That's very well done."
When he's poured the water, he sets his fingertips to Fae's cheek, still with that slight smile. "I'm going to step downstairs to see about breakfast. I'll be right back; I won't be long."
And slowly - not not reluctantly - relinquishing his touch, "Have this cup finished before I return."
And with a nod, a further softening of his voice, "If you're able."
If Faolan doesn't give cause to halt, Dmitri is going to make his way to the door, then offer Fae a smile and another assurance that he won't be long - and Liviana will stay with him meanwhile - before slipping out the door and downstairs, where he'll ask to have food sent up to Faolan's room.
<.>
Before Dmitri leaves, Faolan begins to say I'm going to finish bathing, but something about the touch to his cheek - about the flutter of nervous energy in his stomach, about the way Dima smiled and spoke with such approval - makes him falter at, "I'm going to -"
Pausing there, he stares at Dima (at his body, at his hands, at the gentleness and viciousness of him) and thinks, maybe if he had just...listened. If he had obeyed yesterday, things would have gone so differently. He thinks: the faint praise felt almost intoxicating.
He feels shivers threatening up his spine and color burning in his cheeks.
(He realizes he's growing aroused, and that makes no sense at all. Not after yesterday, not after last night, and certainly it makes no sense having spawned from being told to drink water.) (There was a nobleman once who wanted to be ordered, and Faolan had done it and wondered how someone could be excited by humiliation, by -
Only this isn't humiliating. This feels like safety. Like Dima can, will take all his worries away. Like Dima can love him and care for him, and all Faolan has to do is heed.
And heeding is rewarded.)
Veering from his initial impulse, he amends softly, with the tentative, curious tone of someone testing unknown waters, "...I'd like to finish bathing. While you're gone."
(A dim, distant thought: maybe Dima wants to - watch? (Help?)) (He puts it aside for now.)
He's barely breathing, half-trembling, and speaks with more depth to his question than the two words might suggest. "May I?'
<.>
Impossible to miss the flush of Faolan's cheeks, or the way he seems both at ease and hummed with pinprick energies. The way he continues, continues to keep his eyes locked with Dima's, as if querying some scarce-discerned vibratory line, as though the 'something' Dmitri sensed might be true, and as if Faolan might like it.
And wouldn't Dima like it (ah, gods, he does like it, though he knows this isn't the time, he knows Faolan is rising from a rough and wounded sleep), if this could bloom between them alongside every other adoration. It fits, doesn't it? Feels right, the way Fae accepts Dima's command (that isn't only, entirely command) (imperious in its way, but not without affection; suffused with the feeling, the love he bears for this man), the way obedience does nothing to diminish Faolan or his strength. The way Dima's nerve-ends burn bright, burning to flickering, with two words that ask to transform direction into something molten, something new.
Dima's breath has caught; he manages to exhale, slightly unsteady, the tick of his lip toward a pleased smile showing a glimpse of teeth. "You may.
"You ask so well, my Fae. And you'll have opportunity to drink your water after.
"Yes: Complete your bathing.
"Cleanse yourself, Faolan. Luxuriate in the rejuvenation offered by the water. Keep your touch gentle.
"Let me returned to a Faolan refreshed, hm?" There's that ticked half-smile again, and Dima brushes the back of his fingers against Fae's cheek. (He should be careful.) (He shouldn't go too far.) (But doesn't Faolan look as if he appreciates this thrall, and doesn't Faolan deserve a little - a lot of - relief?) "You will hear my knock before I enter."
<.>
"Yes, Dima."
The words come before thought, or without thought at all - as automatic as breathing. (Breathless.) He doesn't understand any of this, but he doesn't dislike it. How approval settles around him like grace, how Dima smiles, how everything becomes clear. He has steps: bathe, gently and luxuriantly, drink from the cup Dima gave him. Listen for a knock.
And Dima will approve. (Dima will praise him?)
It's so simple, and when has his life ever been simple?
(It's more than 'simple'. There's so much more to this, a depth of emotion and rising, rising, rising desire.) (He heard Dima's breath catch. He heard the excitement in his exhale.) (This doesn't feel like the push-pull of sexual tension - not entirely. It doesn't feel as though they're circling one another, promising to collide like stormheads. It feels slow, controlled.
Dima is in control.) (His Dima. All his own, and Fae is all Dima's, entirely, happy to slip into some sort of delirious haze and be led.)
He watches the other man leave and hesitates only long enough to realize he is hesitating, he's wasting precious time. So, he obeys. He bathes gently (avoiding lingering, avoiding any exertions his body cries for), reluctantly dresses in the trousers much in need of a wash, and, seating himself back on the bed, cross-legged and facing the door, he drinks from the cup.
His entire existence, his sole occupation, is the cup in his hands, as though it contains the waters of life. (Dima told him. Dima said to drink and be refreshed.)
He hears the knock a moment after the cup runs dry, and when Dima enters, Faolan holds it out to him with (pleading) (imploring, lost but-) hopeful eyes.
<.>
He walks from the room with those words, the ease of their speaking - like necessity and welcome; like a kind of reverence shared - and the raptness of Fae wreathed Dmitri's thoughts.
He notes other guests at the inn - milling about, taking in a late breakfast or an early lunch - without lingering on any of them. Doesn't hurry in his task (lets himself luxuriate upon those echoed words, on every image of Faolan's eyes upon him), nor does he let himself be delayed. When a half-orc attempts to strike up conversation, Dima scarcely seems to notice; offers a distracted nod, and conveys his request to the innkeeper (a hearty breakfast, please; yes, for two, and yes, have another five or six gold for prompt delivery of the food and for the aid the night before ) before making his way back up the stairs, to linger half a minute (giving Faolan time to complete his washing) (someday, someday... well, why not admit it to himself? someday Dmitri would like to aid in Fae's cleansing, but just now, it's all very new, and it's better to take his time, to let them both circle the fringes of what this might be between them; better not to force anything, or leave Fae feeling pressured) before knocking. Then entering.
Meeting the image of Faolan, perfectly positioned on the bed, his cup - now empty, oh, good Fae - upheld, his eyes wide, shivering weakness to Dima's knees.
(This man. His Fae shows himself more brilliant, more perfect with every day. How could Dima not adore him? How could he wish to bring this man anything other than care— And even harrowing, even shivered horror can be a kind of care.
It's a sentiment Dmitri thinks Faolan would understand, must understand. And he thinks, how their hearts sing out to one another. How it's fortune that they met, and not entirely apart from fate.)
He walks with swift, with precise grace toward the bed. Lifting the pitcher and holding it aloft, his head canted just so, his eyes on Faolan.
And Dima speaks, his voice in yieldless velvet: "Look how beautifully you've done.
"You have refreshed yourself, and drained your cup. Oh, Faolan— I am very pleased with you. I'm very proud." And gods, isn't he? Doesn't his heart thrum at the resilience of this man, and at how carefully he's granted care upon himself? (Faolan ought to always have that care. Ought to always give himself that grace, that tenderness of self.
It's something to work on. Something to show Fae just how worthy, how far beyond worthiness itself he is.
And someday - soon, please, soon - Dima will shower Faolan with soft touches of his own, and with lovely, loving, shivered fire.)
"A little closer, if you will." And when Faolan shifts the cup a little nearer, Dima pours, his eyes never leaving Faolan's.
"There you are, my Fae." Then, resettling the pitcher on the floor, moving to set his fingertips at Faolan's cheek and brush light, light, light—
no subject
He doesn't wake until the morning has waned, and when he does move, he's silent about the necessities of existence; there's no complaint of an aching head, no sign of nausea. (It might be clear that drunkenness isn't uncommon for him, or at least not *unfamiliar*. It's been some time since he's reached that level of intoxication, but towards the end - with Fedir, in Morovsk - he thinks he may have been more often inebriated than sober.)
He washes himself at the basin, eyes distant as he manages the task. He removes only his shirt to do so, but this allows Dima the sight of the tattoo Faolan received at the Nightmare Market: a tree growing upward, vibrant and vivid, and mirrored by one growing downward, its branches bare and dead. Arcane symbols of death and rebirth surround this image; the tattoo covers most of his upper back.
Fae eventually seats himself on the edge of the bed, seemingly at a loss for what to do now. He needs fresh clothing, that's certain. He could use some food. There are plans to be made and things to do, but all of that requires him to leave this room.
He's not ready to face Loch Bien again just yet.
He's not ready to face Dima, either.
<.>
Dmitri doesn't sleep, though at times he fades toward the edges of unconscious, dimly aware of time's passage, his thoughts, his awareness tied near-entirely to the man who holds close, and every moment Faolan breathes deep with sleep is a relief, because the gods know he needs both its rest and its escape from thought.
He thinks here and there of what must have happened yesterday. There are conclusions that might be drawn, ties binding Faolan's defeatedness and drunkenness and the way he mistook Dima's intentions (the automatic almost-ease with which Fae slipped distant, and reached for Dmitri's - yes, he said 'Dmitri' - jacket). There's anger at the prospect of what might have happened; not toward Faolan, not for a moment, but for the men who came before, and for whomever might have approached him, dare speak with him, dare do anything at all.
His own hold on Faolan doesn't ease until the man begins to move, and then Dima rises in kind. Pouring a cup of water as Faolan moves toward the basin, and turning to see—
Oh. It's an astonishing tattoo, and Dima can't keep himself from staring, eyes moving over the sprawl of mirrored branches, the symbols clear-lined.
He does manage to move himself before Faolan turns around, settling the cup beside the bed and moving to seek out clothing for Fae. He's found no sign of clean clothing, and Dima so moves to pick up the cup and hold it to the man, then softly, slowly settles his fingertips upon Fae's shoulder.
"Drink," he speaks softly. And, "I'll have food brought up shortly."
<.>
Faolan stares at the cup and thinks dimly of the night before. (He remembers all of it. How he wishes he could just lose himself to alcohol, to black out entirely and live the next day without remembering.) Dmitri took care of him -
Oh, he didn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve it now.
But there's unsuspected grace in Dmitri Voronin, and Fae can't - won't - allow himself to abuse it. Dima didn't have to lie beside him through the night. He didn't have to keep guard, to comfort him, to call him 'Dearest'.
He takes the cup and obediently drinks, his eyes flickering to and away from Dima as though he's trying to catch glimpses of the sun. When he lowers it - empty - he holds it between both of his hands and slowly rotates it. Eventually, he tries to speak, but the only words that come are soft, almost toneless (almost beseeching), "What now?"
<.>
Again, Faolan drinks the water, and Dima rubs his shoulder, encouraging. To the question, he responds without pause, "First, you'll have something to eat. More water.
"When you feel able, I believe a walk is in order. It would help, Fae, to know the sun's warmth.
"That said, you're doing very well already. You've risen; you've washed and taken your water." The cant of Dima's head, the subtle pride in his voice says that these are no meager feats, not after the night Faolan came through. "And if you wish to keep to your room all day, I won't dissuade you— Though I will insist that you allow me to remain."
There's a slight flickering in Dima's expression, a worried regret brought by the thought that he ought to have insisted yesterday; that he might have kept Faolan from whatever wounding happened. He doesn't let the feeling linger, and speaks again, voice unshaken, "We needn't decide immediately. You needn't decide at all, in truth.
"Breakfast first; I'll handle the rest."
<.>
It's. Strange?
As Dima talks, Faolan begins to feel a creeping ease, a lessening of tension in his shoulders. Even the doom-laced thoughts crowding his head seem to abate; by the time Dima says he needn't decide at all, Fae is staring up at him in something like bemused wonder and faint gratitude.
He doesn't trust people like this. He doesn't let people tell him where to go and what to do when he isn't screwing them - but Dima seems so certain, seems so assured, and he hasn't left Faolan for a moment. And isn't it nice to let someone else think of everything for a while? After yesterday, isn't it nice to know that he can just let someone else ...take care of him?
(He likes it, he thinks distantly. He likes that Dima isn't shouting at him, isn't berating him or hounding him with questions; he's simply deciding what now. And what after that. And the whole day is planned, with Fae in Dima's care. It's almost liberating, in a way. Freedom from thought. Freedom from decision.) (Freedom to - maybe - love and be loved, and nothing else.)
He realizes he hasn't responded and that maybe he ought to say something, maybe he ought to acknowledge what's been said to him. At a loss, he manages, "All right. That's - All right."
Then, hesitantly, he offers his empty cup to Dima. He did say 'more water'.
<.>
Oh, that's—
That's. Quite nice.
And gratifying.
The ease he sees in Fae's posture. The way his eyes have moved to Dima's, now not flickering as if he can't quite look for long, now not absent in the least. The way he accedes, not as if defeated, not begrudging, but - perhaps? - almost as if relieved.
(It could be something, the way Faolan accepts Dima's direction, the way he holds up his cup as if acquiescing.) (It could be an interest, something that isn't and is precisely obedience.) (It could be— Very pleasing. If it's true; if Faolan finds it pleasing, as well.)
Dima's lip ticks to a pleased half-smile, and he takes up the pitcher, pours and nods. "Thank you, Fae."
And, "That's very well done."
When he's poured the water, he sets his fingertips to Fae's cheek, still with that slight smile. "I'm going to step downstairs to see about breakfast. I'll be right back; I won't be long."
And slowly - not not reluctantly - relinquishing his touch, "Have this cup finished before I return."
And with a nod, a further softening of his voice, "If you're able."
If Faolan doesn't give cause to halt, Dmitri is going to make his way to the door, then offer Fae a smile and another assurance that he won't be long - and Liviana will stay with him meanwhile - before slipping out the door and downstairs, where he'll ask to have food sent up to Faolan's room.
<.>
Before Dmitri leaves, Faolan begins to say I'm going to finish bathing, but something about the touch to his cheek - about the flutter of nervous energy in his stomach, about the way Dima smiled and spoke with such approval - makes him falter at, "I'm going to -"
Pausing there, he stares at Dima (at his body, at his hands, at the gentleness and viciousness of him) and thinks, maybe if he had just...listened. If he had obeyed yesterday, things would have gone so differently. He thinks: the faint praise felt almost intoxicating.
He feels shivers threatening up his spine and color burning in his cheeks.
(He realizes he's growing aroused, and that makes no sense at all. Not after yesterday, not after last night, and certainly it makes no sense having spawned from being told to drink water.) (There was a nobleman once who wanted to be ordered, and Faolan had done it and wondered how someone could be excited by humiliation, by -
Only this isn't humiliating. This feels like safety. Like Dima can, will take all his worries away. Like Dima can love him and care for him, and all Faolan has to do is heed.
And heeding is rewarded.)
Veering from his initial impulse, he amends softly, with the tentative, curious tone of someone testing unknown waters, "...I'd like to finish bathing. While you're gone."
(A dim, distant thought: maybe Dima wants to - watch? (Help?)) (He puts it aside for now.)
He's barely breathing, half-trembling, and speaks with more depth to his question than the two words might suggest. "May I?'
<.>
Impossible to miss the flush of Faolan's cheeks, or the way he seems both at ease and hummed with pinprick energies. The way he continues, continues to keep his eyes locked with Dima's, as if querying some scarce-discerned vibratory line, as though the 'something' Dmitri sensed might be true, and as if Faolan might like it.
And wouldn't Dima like it (ah, gods, he does like it, though he knows this isn't the time, he knows Faolan is rising from a rough and wounded sleep), if this could bloom between them alongside every other adoration. It fits, doesn't it? Feels right, the way Fae accepts Dima's command (that isn't only, entirely command) (imperious in its way, but not without affection; suffused with the feeling, the love he bears for this man), the way obedience does nothing to diminish Faolan or his strength. The way Dima's nerve-ends burn bright, burning to flickering, with two words that ask to transform direction into something molten, something new.
Dima's breath has caught; he manages to exhale, slightly unsteady, the tick of his lip toward a pleased smile showing a glimpse of teeth. "You may.
"You ask so well, my Fae. And you'll have opportunity to drink your water after.
"Yes: Complete your bathing.
"Cleanse yourself, Faolan. Luxuriate in the rejuvenation offered by the water. Keep your touch gentle.
"Let me returned to a Faolan refreshed, hm?" There's that ticked half-smile again, and Dima brushes the back of his fingers against Fae's cheek. (He should be careful.) (He shouldn't go too far.) (But doesn't Faolan look as if he appreciates this thrall, and doesn't Faolan deserve a little - a lot of - relief?) "You will hear my knock before I enter."
<.>
"Yes, Dima."
The words come before thought, or without thought at all - as automatic as breathing. (Breathless.) He doesn't understand any of this, but he doesn't dislike it. How approval settles around him like grace, how Dima smiles, how everything becomes clear. He has steps: bathe, gently and luxuriantly, drink from the cup Dima gave him. Listen for a knock.
And Dima will approve. (Dima will praise him?)
It's so simple, and when has his life ever been simple?
(It's more than 'simple'. There's so much more to this, a depth of emotion and rising, rising, rising desire.) (He heard Dima's breath catch. He heard the excitement in his exhale.) (This doesn't feel like the push-pull of sexual tension - not entirely. It doesn't feel as though they're circling one another, promising to collide like stormheads. It feels slow, controlled.
Dima is in control.) (His Dima. All his own, and Fae is all Dima's, entirely, happy to slip into some sort of delirious haze and be led.)
He watches the other man leave and hesitates only long enough to realize he is hesitating, he's wasting precious time. So, he obeys. He bathes gently (avoiding lingering, avoiding any exertions his body cries for), reluctantly dresses in the trousers much in need of a wash, and, seating himself back on the bed, cross-legged and facing the door, he drinks from the cup.
His entire existence, his sole occupation, is the cup in his hands, as though it contains the waters of life. (Dima told him. Dima said to drink and be refreshed.)
He hears the knock a moment after the cup runs dry, and when Dima enters, Faolan holds it out to him with (pleading) (imploring, lost but-) hopeful eyes.
<.>
He walks from the room with those words, the ease of their speaking - like necessity and welcome; like a kind of reverence shared - and the raptness of Fae wreathed Dmitri's thoughts.
He notes other guests at the inn - milling about, taking in a late breakfast or an early lunch - without lingering on any of them. Doesn't hurry in his task (lets himself luxuriate upon those echoed words, on every image of Faolan's eyes upon him), nor does he let himself be delayed. When a half-orc attempts to strike up conversation, Dima scarcely seems to notice; offers a distracted nod, and conveys his request to the innkeeper (a hearty breakfast, please; yes, for two, and yes, have another five or six gold for prompt delivery of the food and for the aid the night before ) before making his way back up the stairs, to linger half a minute (giving Faolan time to complete his washing) (someday, someday... well, why not admit it to himself? someday Dmitri would like to aid in Fae's cleansing, but just now, it's all very new, and it's better to take his time, to let them both circle the fringes of what this might be between them; better not to force anything, or leave Fae feeling pressured) before knocking. Then entering.
Meeting the image of Faolan, perfectly positioned on the bed, his cup - now empty, oh, good Fae - upheld, his eyes wide, shivering weakness to Dima's knees.
(This man. His Fae shows himself more brilliant, more perfect with every day. How could Dima not adore him? How could he wish to bring this man anything other than care— And even harrowing, even shivered horror can be a kind of care.
It's a sentiment Dmitri thinks Faolan would understand, must understand. And he thinks, how their hearts sing out to one another. How it's fortune that they met, and not entirely apart from fate.)
He walks with swift, with precise grace toward the bed. Lifting the pitcher and holding it aloft, his head canted just so, his eyes on Faolan.
And Dima speaks, his voice in yieldless velvet: "Look how beautifully you've done.
"You have refreshed yourself, and drained your cup. Oh, Faolan— I am very pleased with you. I'm very proud." And gods, isn't he? Doesn't his heart thrum at the resilience of this man, and at how carefully he's granted care upon himself? (Faolan ought to always have that care. Ought to always give himself that grace, that tenderness of self.
It's something to work on. Something to show Fae just how worthy, how far beyond worthiness itself he is.
And someday - soon, please, soon - Dima will shower Faolan with soft touches of his own, and with lovely, loving, shivered fire.)
"A little closer, if you will." And when Faolan shifts the cup a little nearer, Dima pours, his eyes never leaving Faolan's.
"There you are, my Fae." Then, resettling the pitcher on the floor, moving to set his fingertips at Faolan's cheek and brush light, light, light—
"You see, it's simple.
"And you've made me very, very happy."
<.>