His hearts breaks and surges to the sight of his Faolan’s longing. To the tone of every wish that tones Fae’s silences, and the way Faolan’s hand holds firm to Dima’s own, against the rings that hold the promise, the bound and certain spirits of their children.
(He saw, he sees, doesn’t he, the way response struck through Fae’s form when Dima spoke ‘our,’ when Dima spoke of Rose and Thorn as theirs, theirs together. It’s what Dima’s wanted from the start - it’s what he’s hoped for, when he’s allowed himself to hope - but it isn’t only imagination; the truth here rings impossible to miss, and if Dmitri forgets to breath, to blink for several moments, he can’t regret the fact, and doesn’t try to catch himself. Let Faolan see Dima’s own recognition; let him know their shared consonance, the image of a family equally desired and held vital.)
Faolan’s forehead sets against his own, and Dima feels his breath catch, his heart skip its pulse. Not in betrayal of his thought, his feeling, but as a manner of imparting what he deeply knows, what he wants direly to share with Fae.
And his heart breaks again to think how long Faolan sought what men refused to give. At how Fae believed in softness through the midst of men’s careless and maltreatment, carrying condemnations in silence, thinking— Gods, what must he have thought that Dmitri might believe? How must he have seen the joy they share, the rapture they found together, as something doomed to shatter?
He must have blamed himself. He’s clearly blamed himself, and there’s a sound in Dima’s throat like anguish, like sympathy as he holds Fae’s hand tighter still.
There’s more, of course there’s more (there will always be more for Dima’s Faolan): One hand finds Faolan’s hair to soothe, caressing. To coax Fae’s head toward his throat, where Dmitri might better hold him, guard him and reveal to him the tenor of a pulse both firm and leaping, trembled by the nearness of this man who is so much more than any other being, infinitely dearer than the thought of gods or worldly seekings.
Dmitri cants his head, the better to keep, to draw Fae near. Humming soft tones, assurances. Not seeking to stop the flow of Faolan’s tears; only offering shelter. offering welcoming. Wanting to show that this man’s sorrow is as welcome as his joy; that though Dima wishes brightness for Faolan, there’s no shame seen in sadness, there’s no flinching from the signs of troubling.
And he speaks, low and assured, his voice a protective, cloaking velvet, “There is nothing you’ve betrayed. There is no wrong you’ve done. Certainly not to your Dima, and not to what we are.”
Dima’s curious, of course, what Faolan desired in meeting Alfrig. (Was it what drew him to Loch Bien, then? Some need toward asking for an audience, and if it wounds Fae to have asked for and forfeited the chance for this meeting, it must hurt as well to know the chance is severed now, that there remains no one to contact.) This isn’t the time for questioning, however. Perhaps later. Perhaps another time, when Faolan can feel more certain; when he knows his words will be accepted, and that censure will not follow.
(Gods, how difficult must it have been to approach Ransome at all? Knowing what might await; knowing what might be asked. Then enduring the bastard’s advances, and living after with the lash of his self-condemnation.)
His poor Faolan. Dima draws him closer still, the hand bearing Rose and Thorn’s ring squeezing Faolan’s tighter, the caress through Fae’s hair carding steady, steady, yieldless. ’I’m here,’ Dima thinks. ’I’m here, my Dearest, and you will never be without me.’
Aloud, he continues, “I saw you, Dearest. How troubled you were that morning; how wrenched when you returned.
“It grieved me, it grieves me still, to think what you’ve endured alone, and for so long. You who are brighter-souled by far than any of those men; than any creature that draws breath.
“My grief is not your doing. What happened in Loch Bien is not your doing. My Fae, those bastards mistake you utterly. They know venomous rumors; they know part-truths that tell nothing of your acts or your intent. They know nothing of what you are.
“But I do.
“I glow with pride for you, that you should share these words with me. It isn’t easy; I know, I know,” there’s a nuzzle for Fae’s head; there’s a kiss settled through his hair. “You’re very brave, and I am— Oh, I am unspeakably lucky. That you’ve spoken. That you’ve allowed my nearness, and seen me for the creature I can be; the man I am with you.
“You bring me to so much of what I’ve scarcely known within myself. You show me the world as it can be; the brilliance, the tenderness, the fires we can seek together.
“Remember what I told you in the ruins: I wish to hold your gentleness and wildness alike. Your pains and your tears, I take for my own.
“Faolan, I want it all.
“I would have all of you. And give you all I am.
“You, my revelation.
“You— My home.”
There’s another moment; another breath and beat of pulse suspended, and Dima feels the prick of tears against his eyes, presses another kiss to Faolan’s head. Lingered this time, with a hum, with a sigh, with the trace of a near-sob. (He’s wanted so much for so long without knowing. And he is fortunate, infinitely blessed to have found this man.)
“In the midst of upheaval, still we have each other. Still we have and will always have Rose and Thorn— And your hand in mine. And our hearts held near, held unceasing and shared.
“We will always have each other. If you will allow it. Believe, my Fae, permit yourself to believe that you have me. I am…”
There’s a soft huff, and Dima’s hand shifts, coaxing Faolan’s chin upward, Faolan’s eyes to meet his own. There’s a warm, a crooked, deep-grown smile from Dima. There’s a rapid blinking of his eyes, and, “For all of my eloquence, there are words I’ve kept unspoken. Words I’ve not known how to say— Or feared, perhaps, to offer.
“Feared to lose you, or frighten you away. Feared that I might not convey the full depths of my feeling, or how well I know my heart.
“I wish for you to know. I— My Faolan, I wish to feel the words in speech, and offer them to you. Take them if you will. Please. I am—“
Another huffed breath, and Dima sets a kiss to Fae’s forehead, then nudges, gently, gently, with his nose.
"My Fae."
<.>
Against Dima's throat, there's safety. In his arms, Faolan feels the sharing of his own depth of feeling, how Dima's sighs turn near to sobs.
And for joy?
Strange, to be the cause of joy in another man. Strange to know, to *believe* that he's brought light into someone's world rather than concealing shadows. (Alongside the trouble, true, but Dima says. Dima *says*. He'll take all of Fae.
Which is good. Fae is what's left when Fell is stripped away. Fae is what's built by Dima's hands, with Dima's guidance, with his adoring glances, with his vows.)
His tears subside, though his embrace has altered; he clings to Dima (to Rose, to Thorn, to the promise of family) and feels himself drawn in as though towards rescue. Saved from drowning. (Salvaged for the wreck he is, but wanted all the same. A lost, near-sunken treasure.) (He doesn't deserve this grace, but if Dima wants him, how can he refuse?)
It's almost a place of peace he's found until Dima lifts his face and smiles, until he speaks of words left unsaid.
Faolan's eyes widen with worry (fear) and as Dima nudges his forehead, he whispers, "Don't."
Angling his head to meet Dima's eyes, drawing a caress along his cheek, he breathes, "Not here. Don't -"
Swallowing hard, he tries to sort out just what he means. He searches for words, breathes and stumbles on things unspoken, then tries again. "I don't want the filth of what I am - what I did or could have done - seared into the memory of what you mean to say."
What's difficult is clear in the way his breath catches, the way he looks at Dima, away from Dima, back again with his heart's hole aching for those words. He wants to hear them as badly as he wants the 'our' Dima spoke with the promise of children, family, home.
"I'll take them. I'll have them, I swear -" He can't breathe from longing. His voice is weak, full of unthought agonies, but he still presses on.
"I'll give you my own, and all my heart with them. But please, Dima - make it a perfect moment. Something pure I can remember, like the first kiss you gave me. Like the way you stepped from shadows into firelight the first time I saw you."
<.>
He understands.
Sees the urgency in Fae's expression - sees fear, and sees the sudden shift from what was almost ease, almost peace - and knows the time, the place to be ill-fitting. Dima longs to speak the words, longs to feel them at his tongue and know their honeyed settle on Fae's heart, but isn't it enough for now, isn't it far better than enough for now, that Fae should know their presence and know Dima's meaning?
Isn't it a mercy of its own, to know Fae wants those words, and wants them well enough to wait upon a better moment.
Yes, the words will be spoken; yes, Faolan will have them in a moment less troubled, a moment that can resonate in knowing without strife, without the linger of the terrors that have wrung him through.
"Of course." He speaks a little bit like benediction, his words given the sureness of a vow. The thumb that brushes Fae's cheek now speaks understanding and agreement. And there's a cant of his head, a soft smile still infinitely warm as he adds, "The words will be there still. Waiting, my Faolan. Waiting and warming ever-further."
There's another kiss for Faolan's forehead. A kiss for one cheek, and then the other, and Dima's breathes softly, his sigh the sign of a soft, pleased almost-laugh, a quiet rejoicing because there's nothing here to hide, because a light wreathes swift along his heart as he hears again 'I'll have them' and 'I'll give you my own,' again, again.
Then a nudge of his head and a hum of commiseration. A meeting of Fae's eyes, and, "Trust in me, my Dearest; I'll keep the words safe, and give them in our time.
"I'm going to take care of you, Faolan. If I cannot banish all that's struck fangs against you—" There's a sound like a hum, like a growl. "I can promise your defense from here on out.
"And I will bleed the ones who've hurt you. We'll build fire from their bones."
Again, he draws Faolan against his throat. Again, his hand turns to caressing, soft and certain. "There is no filth in you, Fae. Only in what has assailed you; what has assailed us.
"All will be well. Your Dima will make sure of it.
"Never worry, my Fae. Never fear— Or if fear, if worry takes you, bring it to me. Place it in my holding.
"And be easy. Be easy, Dearest. You are not and you will never be alone.
"Never again.
"Never without your Dima; never without our Rose and Thorn."
<.>
Dima will take it all and manage it; the knowledge settles like a balm, unburdening and soothing. All of his own choices have led to wreckage, but now - oh, but now, Dima will take care of him. Will care for him, relieve him of decision and consequence.
(This is what they found in the room that was their temporary home: guidance, command, and easy, freeing submission.)
Dima growls a note that shivers through him, reverberating to the wolf at his core until he feels dizzy with want, the way a predator scents a rutting mate. Sorrow eases away into something other, warm as a sunlight patch of grass, safe as shadowed dens, intensifying by the nearness of Dima's body to his own.
Dima's throat offered to him. Safe, yes, and warm, yes, but also. And also. (Close to his teeth.) Near.
He's loved and forgiven. Whatever plagued him will be forgotten, driven away or ripped from the world, and there will be fire promise in a growling tone. In the aftermath, there will be him, there will be Dima (father? husband? something nameless and pure apart from words?), there will be our and children -
"Our children," he whispers, lips brushing Dima's pulse. Fae gathers him nearer, breathing my Dima and our children again, breathing never again in echo, murmuring my love, kissing an artery, a soft place beneath an ear, a cut of jaw between speech, circling other words like prey, things to claim and offer the man in his arms.
He doesn't have to remember Loch Bien. He doesn't have to care or hurt or think. Dima's here and waiting with love for him, family for him, freedom for him, and he might not deserve it, but he's smart enough to surrender to it.
Submit to it, and Dima, who is the world he's been waiting for.
Though he feels a growing fever beneath his skin, his touch is gentle, seeking Dima's hair and carding tendrils, angling their faces so they meet lips-to-lips, and he doesn't have to speak now, either.
(Not unless Dima says.)
(The thought sparks another shiver.
Dima will say whatever needs to be spoken.
His Dima, who'll unmake the world and give him something new.)
no subject
(He saw, he sees, doesn’t he, the way response struck through Fae’s form when Dima spoke ‘our,’ when Dima spoke of Rose and Thorn as theirs, theirs together. It’s what Dima’s wanted from the start - it’s what he’s hoped for, when he’s allowed himself to hope - but it isn’t only imagination; the truth here rings impossible to miss, and if Dmitri forgets to breath, to blink for several moments, he can’t regret the fact, and doesn’t try to catch himself. Let Faolan see Dima’s own recognition; let him know their shared consonance, the image of a family equally desired and held vital.)
Faolan’s forehead sets against his own, and Dima feels his breath catch, his heart skip its pulse. Not in betrayal of his thought, his feeling, but as a manner of imparting what he deeply knows, what he wants direly to share with Fae.
And his heart breaks again to think how long Faolan sought what men refused to give. At how Fae believed in softness through the midst of men’s careless and maltreatment, carrying condemnations in silence, thinking— Gods, what must he have thought that Dmitri might believe? How must he have seen the joy they share, the rapture they found together, as something doomed to shatter?
He must have blamed himself. He’s clearly blamed himself, and there’s a sound in Dima’s throat like anguish, like sympathy as he holds Fae’s hand tighter still.
There’s more, of course there’s more (there will always be more for Dima’s Faolan): One hand finds Faolan’s hair to soothe, caressing. To coax Fae’s head toward his throat, where Dmitri might better hold him, guard him and reveal to him the tenor of a pulse both firm and leaping, trembled by the nearness of this man who is so much more than any other being, infinitely dearer than the thought of gods or worldly seekings.
Dmitri cants his head, the better to keep, to draw Fae near. Humming soft tones, assurances. Not seeking to stop the flow of Faolan’s tears; only offering shelter. offering welcoming. Wanting to show that this man’s sorrow is as welcome as his joy; that though Dima wishes brightness for Faolan, there’s no shame seen in sadness, there’s no flinching from the signs of troubling.
And he speaks, low and assured, his voice a protective, cloaking velvet, “There is nothing you’ve betrayed. There is no wrong you’ve done. Certainly not to your Dima, and not to what we are.”
Dima’s curious, of course, what Faolan desired in meeting Alfrig. (Was it what drew him to Loch Bien, then? Some need toward asking for an audience, and if it wounds Fae to have asked for and forfeited the chance for this meeting, it must hurt as well to know the chance is severed now, that there remains no one to contact.) This isn’t the time for questioning, however. Perhaps later. Perhaps another time, when Faolan can feel more certain; when he knows his words will be accepted, and that censure will not follow.
(Gods, how difficult must it have been to approach Ransome at all? Knowing what might await; knowing what might be asked. Then enduring the bastard’s advances, and living after with the lash of his self-condemnation.)
His poor Faolan. Dima draws him closer still, the hand bearing Rose and Thorn’s ring squeezing Faolan’s tighter, the caress through Fae’s hair carding steady, steady, yieldless. ’I’m here,’ Dima thinks. ’I’m here, my Dearest, and you will never be without me.’
Aloud, he continues, “I saw you, Dearest. How troubled you were that morning; how wrenched when you returned.
“It grieved me, it grieves me still, to think what you’ve endured alone, and for so long. You who are brighter-souled by far than any of those men; than any creature that draws breath.
“My grief is not your doing. What happened in Loch Bien is not your doing. My Fae, those bastards mistake you utterly. They know venomous rumors; they know part-truths that tell nothing of your acts or your intent. They know nothing of what you are.
“But I do.
“I glow with pride for you, that you should share these words with me. It isn’t easy; I know, I know,” there’s a nuzzle for Fae’s head; there’s a kiss settled through his hair. “You’re very brave, and I am— Oh, I am unspeakably lucky. That you’ve spoken. That you’ve allowed my nearness, and seen me for the creature I can be; the man I am with you.
“You bring me to so much of what I’ve scarcely known within myself. You show me the world as it can be; the brilliance, the tenderness, the fires we can seek together.
“Remember what I told you in the ruins: I wish to hold your gentleness and wildness alike. Your pains and your tears, I take for my own.
“Faolan, I want it all.
“I would have all of you. And give you all I am.
“You, my revelation.
“You— My home.”
There’s another moment; another breath and beat of pulse suspended, and Dima feels the prick of tears against his eyes, presses another kiss to Faolan’s head. Lingered this time, with a hum, with a sigh, with the trace of a near-sob. (He’s wanted so much for so long without knowing. And he is fortunate, infinitely blessed to have found this man.)
“In the midst of upheaval, still we have each other. Still we have and will always have Rose and Thorn— And your hand in mine. And our hearts held near, held unceasing and shared.
“We will always have each other. If you will allow it. Believe, my Fae, permit yourself to believe that you have me. I am…”
There’s a soft huff, and Dima’s hand shifts, coaxing Faolan’s chin upward, Faolan’s eyes to meet his own. There’s a warm, a crooked, deep-grown smile from Dima. There’s a rapid blinking of his eyes, and, “For all of my eloquence, there are words I’ve kept unspoken. Words I’ve not known how to say— Or feared, perhaps, to offer.
“Feared to lose you, or frighten you away. Feared that I might not convey the full depths of my feeling, or how well I know my heart.
“I wish for you to know. I— My Faolan, I wish to feel the words in speech, and offer them to you. Take them if you will. Please. I am—“
Another huffed breath, and Dima sets a kiss to Fae’s forehead, then nudges, gently, gently, with his nose.
"My Fae."
<.>
Against Dima's throat, there's safety. In his arms, Faolan feels the sharing of his own depth of feeling, how Dima's sighs turn near to sobs.
And for joy?
Strange, to be the cause of joy in another man. Strange to know, to *believe* that he's brought light into someone's world rather than concealing shadows. (Alongside the trouble, true, but Dima says. Dima *says*. He'll take all of Fae.
Which is good. Fae is what's left when Fell is stripped away. Fae is what's built by Dima's hands, with Dima's guidance, with his adoring glances, with his vows.)
His tears subside, though his embrace has altered; he clings to Dima (to Rose, to Thorn, to the promise of family) and feels himself drawn in as though towards rescue. Saved from drowning. (Salvaged for the wreck he is, but wanted all the same. A lost, near-sunken treasure.) (He doesn't deserve this grace, but if Dima wants him, how can he refuse?)
It's almost a place of peace he's found until Dima lifts his face and smiles, until he speaks of words left unsaid.
Faolan's eyes widen with worry (fear) and as Dima nudges his forehead, he whispers, "Don't."
Angling his head to meet Dima's eyes, drawing a caress along his cheek, he breathes, "Not here. Don't -"
Swallowing hard, he tries to sort out just what he means. He searches for words, breathes and stumbles on things unspoken, then tries again. "I don't want the filth of what I am - what I did or could have done - seared into the memory of what you mean to say."
What's difficult is clear in the way his breath catches, the way he looks at Dima, away from Dima, back again with his heart's hole aching for those words. He wants to hear them as badly as he wants the 'our' Dima spoke with the promise of children, family, home.
"I'll take them. I'll have them, I swear -" He can't breathe from longing. His voice is weak, full of unthought agonies, but he still presses on.
"I'll give you my own, and all my heart with them. But please, Dima - make it a perfect moment. Something pure I can remember, like the first kiss you gave me. Like the way you stepped from shadows into firelight the first time I saw you."
<.>
He understands.
Sees the urgency in Fae's expression - sees fear, and sees the sudden shift from what was almost ease, almost peace - and knows the time, the place to be ill-fitting. Dima longs to speak the words, longs to feel them at his tongue and know their honeyed settle on Fae's heart, but isn't it enough for now, isn't it far better than enough for now, that Fae should know their presence and know Dima's meaning?
Isn't it a mercy of its own, to know Fae wants those words, and wants them well enough to wait upon a better moment.
Yes, the words will be spoken; yes, Faolan will have them in a moment less troubled, a moment that can resonate in knowing without strife, without the linger of the terrors that have wrung him through.
"Of course." He speaks a little bit like benediction, his words given the sureness of a vow. The thumb that brushes Fae's cheek now speaks understanding and agreement. And there's a cant of his head, a soft smile still infinitely warm as he adds, "The words will be there still. Waiting, my Faolan. Waiting and warming ever-further."
There's another kiss for Faolan's forehead. A kiss for one cheek, and then the other, and Dima's breathes softly, his sigh the sign of a soft, pleased almost-laugh, a quiet rejoicing because there's nothing here to hide, because a light wreathes swift along his heart as he hears again 'I'll have them' and 'I'll give you my own,' again, again.
Then a nudge of his head and a hum of commiseration. A meeting of Fae's eyes, and, "Trust in me, my Dearest; I'll keep the words safe, and give them in our time.
"I'm going to take care of you, Faolan. If I cannot banish all that's struck fangs against you—" There's a sound like a hum, like a growl. "I can promise your defense from here on out.
"And I will bleed the ones who've hurt you. We'll build fire from their bones."
Again, he draws Faolan against his throat. Again, his hand turns to caressing, soft and certain. "There is no filth in you, Fae. Only in what has assailed you; what has assailed us.
"All will be well. Your Dima will make sure of it.
"Never worry, my Fae. Never fear— Or if fear, if worry takes you, bring it to me. Place it in my holding.
"And be easy. Be easy, Dearest. You are not and you will never be alone.
"Never again.
"Never without your Dima; never without our Rose and Thorn."
<.>
Dima will take it all and manage it; the knowledge settles like a balm, unburdening and soothing. All of his own choices have led to wreckage, but now - oh, but now, Dima will take care of him. Will care for him, relieve him of decision and consequence.
(This is what they found in the room that was their temporary home: guidance, command, and easy, freeing submission.)
Dima growls a note that shivers through him, reverberating to the wolf at his core until he feels dizzy with want, the way a predator scents a rutting mate. Sorrow eases away into something other, warm as a sunlight patch of grass, safe as shadowed dens, intensifying by the nearness of Dima's body to his own.
Dima's throat offered to him. Safe, yes, and warm, yes, but also. And also. (Close to his teeth.) Near.
He's loved and forgiven. Whatever plagued him will be forgotten, driven away or ripped from the world, and there will be fire promise in a growling tone. In the aftermath, there will be him, there will be Dima (father? husband? something nameless and pure apart from words?), there will be our and children -
"Our children," he whispers, lips brushing Dima's pulse. Fae gathers him nearer, breathing my Dima and our children again, breathing never again in echo, murmuring my love, kissing an artery, a soft place beneath an ear, a cut of jaw between speech, circling other words like prey, things to claim and offer the man in his arms.
He doesn't have to remember Loch Bien. He doesn't have to care or hurt or think. Dima's here and waiting with love for him, family for him, freedom for him, and he might not deserve it, but he's smart enough to surrender to it.
Submit to it, and Dima, who is the world he's been waiting for.
Though he feels a growing fever beneath his skin, his touch is gentle, seeking Dima's hair and carding tendrils, angling their faces so they meet lips-to-lips, and he doesn't have to speak now, either.
(Not unless Dima says.)
(The thought sparks another shiver.
Dima will say whatever needs to be spoken.
His Dima, who'll unmake the world and give him something new.)
<.>