Faolan follows, tossing back concerned glances at Sen and Rin and thinking he ought to be helping prepare their meal. Sen catches him looking and points emphatically, mouthing Go. (Daddy commanded it, anyhow. He doesn't want to ignore that. He wants to keep chasing these subtle games of control and care.)
Eventually, he finds himself sitting with Dima near, the ghost of a touch lingering at his cheek and the memory of a kiss on his lips.
Every word Dima speaks feels like collapse on Faolan's lungs, not because he thinks Dima is lying, but because he knows he isn't. Because he knows Dima believes what he's saying. He keeps his cheek pressed to Dima's shoulder but still sighs - defeated.
Isn't it strange how he feels terribly defeated lately? How the oncoming losses weigh so heavily, perhaps more heavily than the past ones? (No 'perhaps' about it.)
Dima wants to have this conversation. Or rather, Dima won't let him avoid it this time.
When he can bring himself to speak, he says quietly, "Suppose there is a ring, my love. Suppose you take me into your family. The one you can't disregard or destroy; promises, yes? You made promises? What sort of destruction will it bring on them if you were to make me your equal?"
He straightens so he can give Dima the full of his regard. "You can't abandon them, either. You can't say you'll simply run off to play house with me in the forest.
"You've heard, haven't you? A bird and a fish may fall in love, but where will they live?"
He smiles sadly at this, then shakes his head and turns his regard to the mossy ground. He fingers a budding plant thoughtfully, delicately. "We could be happy. I could be - what I am. What I've been. No rings, no title. No one to try and part us for scandal's sake, because I'll have remembered my place."
He looks sidelong at Dima and implores softly, "You say you would give me a ring to show me my worth to you. I would be happy without one. I would be content to take up again what I was to show your worth to me. Isn't that enough?"
<.>
Faolan's speaking - in spite of clear reluctance to voice his concerns, his thoughts; in spite of what must be a growing pain and weariness - and that's far better than something.
As Fae speaks, Dima watches him with unwavering focus, strokes a hand along his arm. Winding his own arm tighter around his Puppy. Not interrupting, not allowing himself to interrupt until Fae's come to silence.
"My Fae; it is not enough for you, or for your worth. Not in my eyes. Not in my knowing.
“No, Dearest; I won’t permit it.
“I trust that you find worth in me. I cannot believe you would be happy shunted to the side, treated as something less than equal, less than the wild brilliance you are. And— Mm. Know this, at least: It would be misery for me. To treat you as a secret; to betray you in my every breath.
“Happiness kept in shadow, severed from the sun, is no true joy. My Dearest, I want you beside me in all ways.
“And I’m pleased, Faolan, I’m proud of you for giving voice to your thoughts. For sharing them with me— Thank you.”
Lifting Fae’s hand, he settles a kiss upon the palm. Then folds it, and draws it to his chest.
“Regarding my family, you needn’t worry. My sister will accept you when she knows I—“ ’Love,’ how he wants to say ‘love,’ but now isn’t the time; now is another fraught moment, and though the word echoes in Dima’s hesitation, he manages to hold it quiet. “—favor you. I don’t doubt she’ll thank you for what you’ve brought to me. I am—“ There’s a huffed laugh, soft and self-deprecating. “Ah, Fae, I am far more myself now, with you, than I have been for months. Years, perhaps. I am far more capable, and I daresay far less vulnerable to my self-injurant impulses."
“You bring me to myself; Derzhena will see that. Lariya, her wife, will see that. And I expect Lariya will like you well.
“Whatever Morovsk might say, my family will prevail. We’re no strangers to scandal; Dearest, you must have heard. When my sister’s husband passed suddenly. When she remarried a woman of no name. When our father took an elven woman in marriage, and dared to present their offspring as his heirs. When my father fled, and left our name within our hands.
“Instances that scarcely tell the half of it. Instances that don’t begin to touch upon my own… Mm. Impulsive, ill-thought lessons.”
He shakes his head, brushing away certain recent memories, incidents— Just for now. This isn’t the time for those, either. “I heard more often than I can count that I did not ‘know my place’; that my siblings and I would bring our home and bring Morovsgorod to ruin. And yet here I am. And yet the Voronins hold strong, hm?” He shifts himself to draw onto Fae’s lap. Arm moving to wrap behind his Puppy’s shoulders; hand moving its caress to brush his cheek.
“Look at me, my Puppy: I’ve thought ahead. I do little else but think ahead. And I promise: I can protect you, just as well as myself.
“I will do both, readily, gladly.
“Just as I will readily leave Morovsk if you can find no peace there. Faolan, many of my duties can be performed away from the city, and ‘many’ could be turned to ‘all.’ If it comes to total absence, my family will endure regardless, and I will regret nothing.
“How could I regret anything, when I have the world in you?”
There’s a kiss for one cheek, then the other. There’s a nuzzling of Fae’s temple with Dima’s cheek. And Dima speaks again: “We are neither fish nor bird, nor liable to bend to any rules of man or nature.
“You are tenacious, my Fae; so is your Dima.
“I want you with me, always.
“I want you as my Dearest and my Puppy. As my husband and my mate.”
<.>
In his head, Faolan had been building up arguments to counter everything Dima has proposed. There were, there are many holes in the plans laid before them, so many pitfalls Dima hasn't considered (and, true, many aspects of Dima's family Faolan hadn't know, but that shouldn't matter.)
Then Dima said a word, and nothing else could exist in Faolan's mind except for that word, a burning radiance, a key sliding into place and turning an unsuspected lock.
His breath catches and eyes go distant, then focus again on Dima - stricken. Wondering.
Mate.
Oh, he liked the sound of 'husband', but -
Dima knows what he is. Dima knows what exists inside him, the howling, violent creature (but not evil, only nature refined, only all his primal pieces collected into a single canid form.)
It was never a word on his own tongue, and why would he ever consider it when no man would choose the wolf inside him, the wilds he inhabits? When the men he knows want civilization, want safety and brick walls, and oh, Dima would follow him into the woods.
(Dima would find a wolf's form for himself. Faolan's sure of it.)
'Husband' is a word wound up in complexity and strife, but 'mate' is simple. 'Mate' is something enduring, irreproachable and sacred, wound through with vines and painted in blood. It sings of sheltered, earthen dens, of hunts run side-by-side. Of knifes and teeth and claws, nights spent twining beside burning campfires and days lazy in the sun.
He must have echoed the word. He echoes it again, testing it, nodding before he realizes he's decided he likes it. That Dima is, yes, his mate.
The slithering pleasure in his stomach climbs and climbs until it becomes a radiant smile that reaches his eyes in a wholly new way. (A smile for Dima alone.) (A smile for his mate.)
"My mate. That, I'll accept," he whispers. "That's what we can be, and nothing can tear it from us."
<.>
It could have gone badly—
No. No, Dima doesn't believe that in the least; felt from the start the resonance of the word, and somewhere knew that Faolan would feel its rightness. If he'd worried some over the timing (he hasn't had so very long to worry, has he?) (it didn't take long at all for the word to leap from his throat; he couldn't hold it to himself; he couldn't, wouldn't withhold it from Faolan), he felt and feels the word to be a form that holds his meaning better than almost any other.
It's a word untouched by the hands of men, of any humanoids; a word unmarred by all that roils in the sniping rumors of entangled cities. A word that tells of freedom, of racing among forests, fields, plains, anywhere, oh anywhere at all.
A word that tells how Dima would go anywhere, be anything with Fae.
A word for the wolf, just as well as the man.
When Faolan echoes the word - when his own voice tests 'mate,' begins to make it his own - its rightness roots itself further, and Dima thinks that alongside 'love' (a future word for giving, sharing; a future word, but certain to be spoken, already implied), there may be no truer term for what they are together. And yes, and yes, his insides thaw anew upon that speaking.
When Faolan smiles now, the sky turns into sunbursts; Dmitri's vision to dazzled upheaval. (Oh, if he could bring his Fae, his mate to smile like that often, always.) (He thinks, with a leap in his chest, that he will see that smile again, will bring and be cause for that smile again, and gods, gods, that thought sets him soaring all over again.)
And Dima smiles, bright in kind, with a happy nudge to Faolan's forehead, with a gentle tug of his teeth - not biting, not pressing hard at all - to Fae's ear. Then softly kisses his cheekbone, his cheek, the side of his lip, and speaks—
"It's what we are, my Puppy.
"It's what we will always be."
He brushes back a few strands of Fae's hair, his smile gone cock-eyed, still beaming. "The rest will follow, but oh, Fae, you are my mate, and I am utterly your own."
no subject
Eventually, he finds himself sitting with Dima near, the ghost of a touch lingering at his cheek and the memory of a kiss on his lips.
Every word Dima speaks feels like collapse on Faolan's lungs, not because he thinks Dima is lying, but because he knows he isn't. Because he knows Dima believes what he's saying. He keeps his cheek pressed to Dima's shoulder but still sighs - defeated.
Isn't it strange how he feels terribly defeated lately? How the oncoming losses weigh so heavily, perhaps more heavily than the past ones? (No 'perhaps' about it.)
Dima wants to have this conversation. Or rather, Dima won't let him avoid it this time.
When he can bring himself to speak, he says quietly, "Suppose there is a ring, my love. Suppose you take me into your family. The one you can't disregard or destroy; promises, yes? You made promises? What sort of destruction will it bring on them if you were to make me your equal?"
He straightens so he can give Dima the full of his regard. "You can't abandon them, either. You can't say you'll simply run off to play house with me in the forest.
"You've heard, haven't you? A bird and a fish may fall in love, but where will they live?"
He smiles sadly at this, then shakes his head and turns his regard to the mossy ground. He fingers a budding plant thoughtfully, delicately. "We could be happy. I could be - what I am. What I've been. No rings, no title. No one to try and part us for scandal's sake, because I'll have remembered my place."
He looks sidelong at Dima and implores softly, "You say you would give me a ring to show me my worth to you. I would be happy without one. I would be content to take up again what I was to show your worth to me. Isn't that enough?"
<.>
Faolan's speaking - in spite of clear reluctance to voice his concerns, his thoughts; in spite of what must be a growing pain and weariness - and that's far better than something.
As Fae speaks, Dima watches him with unwavering focus, strokes a hand along his arm. Winding his own arm tighter around his Puppy. Not interrupting, not allowing himself to interrupt until Fae's come to silence.
"My Fae; it is not enough for you, or for your worth. Not in my eyes. Not in my knowing.
“No, Dearest; I won’t permit it.
“I trust that you find worth in me. I cannot believe you would be happy shunted to the side, treated as something less than equal, less than the wild brilliance you are. And— Mm. Know this, at least: It would be misery for me. To treat you as a secret; to betray you in my every breath.
“Happiness kept in shadow, severed from the sun, is no true joy. My Dearest, I want you beside me in all ways.
“And I’m pleased, Faolan, I’m proud of you for giving voice to your thoughts. For sharing them with me— Thank you.”
Lifting Fae’s hand, he settles a kiss upon the palm. Then folds it, and draws it to his chest.
“Regarding my family, you needn’t worry. My sister will accept you when she knows I—“ ’Love,’ how he wants to say ‘love,’ but now isn’t the time; now is another fraught moment, and though the word echoes in Dima’s hesitation, he manages to hold it quiet. “—favor you. I don’t doubt she’ll thank you for what you’ve brought to me. I am—“ There’s a huffed laugh, soft and self-deprecating. “Ah, Fae, I am far more myself now, with you, than I have been for months. Years, perhaps. I am far more capable, and I daresay far less vulnerable to my self-injurant impulses."
“You bring me to myself; Derzhena will see that. Lariya, her wife, will see that. And I expect Lariya will like you well.
“Whatever Morovsk might say, my family will prevail. We’re no strangers to scandal; Dearest, you must have heard. When my sister’s husband passed suddenly. When she remarried a woman of no name. When our father took an elven woman in marriage, and dared to present their offspring as his heirs. When my father fled, and left our name within our hands.
“Instances that scarcely tell the half of it. Instances that don’t begin to touch upon my own… Mm. Impulsive, ill-thought lessons.”
He shakes his head, brushing away certain recent memories, incidents— Just for now. This isn’t the time for those, either. “I heard more often than I can count that I did not ‘know my place’; that my siblings and I would bring our home and bring Morovsgorod to ruin. And yet here I am. And yet the Voronins hold strong, hm?”
He shifts himself to draw onto Fae’s lap. Arm moving to wrap behind his Puppy’s shoulders; hand moving its caress to brush his cheek.
“Look at me, my Puppy: I’ve thought ahead. I do little else but think ahead. And I promise: I can protect you, just as well as myself.
“I will do both, readily, gladly.
“Just as I will readily leave Morovsk if you can find no peace there. Faolan, many of my duties can be performed away from the city, and ‘many’ could be turned to ‘all.’ If it comes to total absence, my family will endure regardless, and I will regret nothing.
“How could I regret anything, when I have the world in you?”
There’s a kiss for one cheek, then the other. There’s a nuzzling of Fae’s temple with Dima’s cheek. And Dima speaks again: “We are neither fish nor bird, nor liable to bend to any rules of man or nature.
“You are tenacious, my Fae; so is your Dima.
“I want you with me, always.
“I want you as my Dearest and my Puppy. As my husband and my mate.”
<.>
In his head, Faolan had been building up arguments to counter everything Dima has proposed. There were, there are many holes in the plans laid before them, so many pitfalls Dima hasn't considered (and, true, many aspects of Dima's family Faolan hadn't know, but that shouldn't matter.)
Then Dima said a word, and nothing else could exist in Faolan's mind except for that word, a burning radiance, a key sliding into place and turning an unsuspected lock.
His breath catches and eyes go distant, then focus again on Dima - stricken. Wondering.
Mate.
Oh, he liked the sound of 'husband', but -
Dima knows what he is. Dima knows what exists inside him, the howling, violent creature (but not evil, only nature refined, only all his primal pieces collected into a single canid form.)
It was never a word on his own tongue, and why would he ever consider it when no man would choose the wolf inside him, the wilds he inhabits? When the men he knows want civilization, want safety and brick walls, and oh, Dima would follow him into the woods.
(Dima would find a wolf's form for himself. Faolan's sure of it.)
'Husband' is a word wound up in complexity and strife, but 'mate' is simple. 'Mate' is something enduring, irreproachable and sacred, wound through with vines and painted in blood. It sings of sheltered, earthen dens, of hunts run side-by-side. Of knifes and teeth and claws, nights spent twining beside burning campfires and days lazy in the sun.
He must have echoed the word. He echoes it again, testing it, nodding before he realizes he's decided he likes it. That Dima is, yes, his mate.
The slithering pleasure in his stomach climbs and climbs until it becomes a radiant smile that reaches his eyes in a wholly new way. (A smile for Dima alone.) (A smile for his mate.)
"My mate. That, I'll accept," he whispers. "That's what we can be, and nothing can tear it from us."
<.>
It could have gone badly—
No. No, Dima doesn't believe that in the least; felt from the start the resonance of the word, and somewhere knew that Faolan would feel its rightness. If he'd worried some over the timing (he hasn't had so very long to worry, has he?) (it didn't take long at all for the word to leap from his throat; he couldn't hold it to himself; he couldn't, wouldn't withhold it from Faolan), he felt and feels the word to be a form that holds his meaning better than almost any other.
It's a word untouched by the hands of men, of any humanoids; a word unmarred by all that roils in the sniping rumors of entangled cities. A word that tells of freedom, of racing among forests, fields, plains, anywhere, oh anywhere at all.
A word that tells how Dima would go anywhere, be anything with Fae.
A word for the wolf, just as well as the man.
When Faolan echoes the word - when his own voice tests 'mate,' begins to make it his own - its rightness roots itself further, and Dima thinks that alongside 'love' (a future word for giving, sharing; a future word, but certain to be spoken, already implied), there may be no truer term for what they are together. And yes, and yes, his insides thaw anew upon that speaking.
When Faolan smiles now, the sky turns into sunbursts; Dmitri's vision to dazzled upheaval. (Oh, if he could bring his Fae, his mate to smile like that often, always.) (He thinks, with a leap in his chest, that he will see that smile again, will bring and be cause for that smile again, and gods, gods, that thought sets him soaring all over again.)
And Dima smiles, bright in kind, with a happy nudge to Faolan's forehead, with a gentle tug of his teeth - not biting, not pressing hard at all - to Fae's ear. Then softly kisses his cheekbone, his cheek, the side of his lip, and speaks—
"It's what we are, my Puppy.
"It's what we will always be."
He brushes back a few strands of Fae's hair, his smile gone cock-eyed, still beaming. "The rest will follow, but oh, Fae, you are my mate, and I am utterly your own."
<.>