He doesn't...want to shrug off the hand. It's as though this moment, this space has become sacred. Liviana and his wolf sit close by, and he swears he can feel the nearness of Rose and Thorn. (He could almost believe he has everything.)
Faolan lets the touch linger, then shifts his other hand to carefully rest atop it. Unguardedly, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly, feeling everything here that could have been his, once. (But isn't it true that it's his right now, even if it's only for an hour?) (Would he pay for this the way other men paid for the things they got from him?)
(No. Not if it's Dmitri.)
Opening his eyes again, he regards the other man in silence, in peace, his hand remaining warm atop Dmitri's despite his (fleeting) misgivings.
Sen, meanwhile, is pulling a face at the thought of post-coital necromancers, because he's quite certain (as he relays to Rin) that they make the most godforsaken faces mid-coitus. As for druids, they probably rut like dogs and howl just as loud. The post-coitus is bound to be messy.
"Best we leave them be and make our own entertainment until they deign to make an appearance again."
Which leads him to a sign marking 'the Pits' - a pair of makeshift fighting rings where contenders at present are facing off against mud golems. "Care to watch someone find themselves absorbed after trying to land a blow?"
<.>
Sacred, he thinks, to know his touch accepted, his hand covered.
Sacred to sit beneath the stars with their familiars, with the vestiges of Rose and Thorn, with Dima's voice and Faolan's brushing soft with one another, turning the night into their own.
There could be no world beyond them. They - the, yes, the six of them - could compose the world alone. (They could, Dima thinks, be a family.) (Oh, if only. (Oh, it isn't impossible— But he can't think that. Not now, and right now, there's no need.))
All thought - all breath - stalls as Faolan's eyes turn open, upward. As Dmitri beholds what ought to be impossible: This man, witnessing his eyes (Dima's eyes, now unguarded; wondering and looking on a world anew) (Dima's eyes, stricken with experience, with years of harshness, years of echoed hollows), and not drawing away. This man, who knows some measure of what Dmitri is, who has seen some of the fury, the fascinations Dima possesses, and still, still looks upon him, still lies in steady-breathing peace.
Beneath Faolan's hand, Dima presses his own, softly, a gesture of thanks and of kinship; something kindred (something of soul calling to soul; heart recognizing its own). And Dmitri speaks, awestruck and hushed, "Astonishing, this night."
And. "Fae. Thank you."
Yeah, Rin thinks; yeah, they're probably both better off not walking in on, hmmm, whatever they could walk in on, or its aftermath. This Pit's got to be better (if - oh no, don't think about that - no less messy), and!
"Only if we can bet on it!" They have a feeling Sen won't be opposed, but also just in case, "Or pretend bet. I've still got a lot of ballbearings, and we can chuck the ones we win at anyone who annoys us. Or we can bet in stories; if I win, you have to tell a story for me, and if you win, I'll make a story just for you.
"Yours'll be better though. That's pretty sure, so you'll have to go in knowing you've got the short end of the stick. But Sen!" They step suddenly in front of his, setting their hands on his chest and watching with a grin. "I shall do my very best, and if my stories don't have the best quality, they will have a lot of, so very much heart!"
<.>
He knows better. He's been telling himself he knows better for three days now. There's no happy ending here.
But. Right now, tonight, he has this. He has their familiars close, and, in this distorted fantasy, their children likewise near at hand. He has a sky stretching above them, full of stars that reflect off the water idling past.
And Dmitri called him 'Fae'. (And in that thanks, in that familiar name and the touch of the hand at his arm, in the weaving of stories, he knows he has love, however insubstantial it might be.
It's more than he ever had before.)
He closes his eyes against a pricking of tears but breathes steadily anyhow. Right now, tonight, he has everything he could ask for. Why would he discard this, even if tomorrow it's gone like a dream? (Or in a week, Dmitri shuns him before a crowd of nobles.) (He won't give him the chance.)
Without a word, he grasps the hand below his own and draws it to his lips for a chaste kiss, then shifts, holding out his other arm in invitation to Dmitri - to lie beside him. (With him. In his arms, just for a little while.)
When Dmitri's head is resting on his shoulder, when they press body-to-body and Faolan's arm holds securely around the man's shoulders, only then does he consider the look that seemed to pass through Dmitri's eyes. There's something raw and broken inside him, too. Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but he needs this. (Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but Fae, instead.) (That's too much to hope for, and too dangerous to think.)
"Just tonight," he says softly. "Just for right now, like this, I'll be 'Fae' - and you be 'Dima', and this can be what we are together."
And softer still, with something a little like longing but far more like loss in his voice, "My Dima."
<.>
He could be dreaming.
In his pleasant dreams - rare and far-between - it's always deep night, and there's always water. In these dreams, he's known at times the presence of a corvid-seeming creature, yes—
But there never was a man beside him.
There never was the ghost of anyone beside himself and the shadowed creature-to-be. It wouldn't have occurred to Dmitri to consider the possibility; long ago, he learned there was no good in seeking company. Long ago, he learned reliance solely on himself. So he never could have imagined this man (this beautiful man, in soul in magic in body in being), or imagined his own heart opened so quickly, so wholly.
Nor could he have known how his heart would shiver, how thought and feeling would thaw, melt, blossom at the sound of his own name.
('Dima.')
(‘My Dima,' and a kiss offered upon his hand, a place granted beneath the open stars.)
(He couldn't have known how a sound would germinate within his throat and catch, the bare beginning of a sigh, an almost-laugh or almost-sob; signal of a soul beholding revelation; signaling of an unsuspected, decades-buried longing granted fire.)
He wants this forever. He wants this: To stay here, unguarded and secure, his cheek brushing a nuzzle against Faolan's (Fae's) shoulder. To bring this feeling out into the world beyond, and know it to be something lasting. To know himself as Fae's, and Fae as his own.
He knows the wish is foolhardy. He hears Faolan's meaning: That what they have just now is temporary, is for this moment and perhaps, perhaps never again. There's pain to be found in the absence that may follow, but why think on that now? Why not wrap himself and Fae alike within the cloak of velvet silver-stricken blue; why not wrap his arm closer, closer around Faolan's chest. Why not dare - just softly, as an offering without declaring claim, as an expression of devotion, adoration - to set a kiss upon Fae's cheek, and speak with hush, with wonder—
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kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
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Faolan lets the touch linger, then shifts his other hand to carefully rest atop it. Unguardedly, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly, feeling everything here that could have been his, once. (But isn't it true that it's his right now, even if it's only for an hour?) (Would he pay for this the way other men paid for the things they got from him?)
(No. Not if it's Dmitri.)
Opening his eyes again, he regards the other man in silence, in peace, his hand remaining warm atop Dmitri's despite his (fleeting) misgivings.
Sen, meanwhile, is pulling a face at the thought of post-coital necromancers, because he's quite certain (as he relays to Rin) that they make the most godforsaken faces mid-coitus. As for druids, they probably rut like dogs and howl just as loud. The post-coitus is bound to be messy.
"Best we leave them be and make our own entertainment until they deign to make an appearance again."
Which leads him to a sign marking 'the Pits' - a pair of makeshift fighting rings where contenders at present are facing off against mud golems. "Care to watch someone find themselves absorbed after trying to land a blow?"
<.>
Sacred, he thinks, to know his touch accepted, his hand covered.
Sacred to sit beneath the stars with their familiars, with the vestiges of Rose and Thorn, with Dima's voice and Faolan's brushing soft with one another, turning the night into their own.
There could be no world beyond them. They - the, yes, the six of them - could compose the world alone. (They could, Dima thinks, be a family.) (Oh, if only. (Oh, it isn't impossible— But he can't think that. Not now, and right now, there's no need.))
All thought - all breath - stalls as Faolan's eyes turn open, upward. As Dmitri beholds what ought to be impossible: This man, witnessing his eyes (Dima's eyes, now unguarded; wondering and looking on a world anew) (Dima's eyes, stricken with experience, with years of harshness, years of echoed hollows), and not drawing away. This man, who knows some measure of what Dmitri is, who has seen some of the fury, the fascinations Dima possesses, and still, still looks upon him, still lies in steady-breathing peace.
Beneath Faolan's hand, Dima presses his own, softly, a gesture of thanks and of kinship; something kindred (something of soul calling to soul; heart recognizing its own). And Dmitri speaks, awestruck and hushed, "Astonishing, this night."
And. "Fae. Thank you."
Yeah, Rin thinks; yeah, they're probably both better off not walking in on, hmmm, whatever they could walk in on, or its aftermath. This Pit's got to be better (if - oh no, don't think about that - no less messy), and!
"Only if we can bet on it!" They have a feeling Sen won't be opposed, but also just in case, "Or pretend bet. I've still got a lot of ballbearings, and we can chuck the ones we win at anyone who annoys us. Or we can bet in stories; if I win, you have to tell a story for me, and if you win, I'll make a story just for you.
"Yours'll be better though. That's pretty sure, so you'll have to go in knowing you've got the short end of the stick. But Sen!" They step suddenly in front of his, setting their hands on his chest and watching with a grin. "I shall do my very best, and if my stories don't have the best quality, they will have a lot of, so very much heart!"
<.>
He knows better. He's been telling himself he knows better for three days now. There's no happy ending here.
But. Right now, tonight, he has this. He has their familiars close, and, in this distorted fantasy, their children likewise near at hand. He has a sky stretching above them, full of stars that reflect off the water idling past.
And Dmitri called him 'Fae'. (And in that thanks, in that familiar name and the touch of the hand at his arm, in the weaving of stories, he knows he has love, however insubstantial it might be.
It's more than he ever had before.)
He closes his eyes against a pricking of tears but breathes steadily anyhow. Right now, tonight, he has everything he could ask for. Why would he discard this, even if tomorrow it's gone like a dream? (Or in a week, Dmitri shuns him before a crowd of nobles.) (He won't give him the chance.)
Without a word, he grasps the hand below his own and draws it to his lips for a chaste kiss, then shifts, holding out his other arm in invitation to Dmitri - to lie beside him. (With him. In his arms, just for a little while.)
When Dmitri's head is resting on his shoulder, when they press body-to-body and Faolan's arm holds securely around the man's shoulders, only then does he consider the look that seemed to pass through Dmitri's eyes. There's something raw and broken inside him, too. Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but he needs this. (Maybe he doesn't need Faolan, but Fae, instead.) (That's too much to hope for, and too dangerous to think.)
"Just tonight," he says softly. "Just for right now, like this, I'll be 'Fae' - and you be 'Dima', and this can be what we are together."
And softer still, with something a little like longing but far more like loss in his voice, "My Dima."
<.>
He could be dreaming.
In his pleasant dreams - rare and far-between - it's always deep night, and there's always water. In these dreams, he's known at times the presence of a corvid-seeming creature, yes—
But there never was a man beside him.
There never was the ghost of anyone beside himself and the shadowed creature-to-be. It wouldn't have occurred to Dmitri to consider the possibility; long ago, he learned there was no good in seeking company. Long ago, he learned reliance solely on himself. So he never could have imagined this man (this beautiful man, in soul in magic in body in being), or imagined his own heart opened so quickly, so wholly.
Nor could he have known how his heart would shiver, how thought and feeling would thaw, melt, blossom at the sound of his own name.
('Dima.')
(‘My Dima,' and a kiss offered upon his hand, a place granted beneath the open stars.)
(He couldn't have known how a sound would germinate within his throat and catch, the bare beginning of a sigh, an almost-laugh or almost-sob; signal of a soul beholding revelation; signaling of an unsuspected, decades-buried longing granted fire.)
He wants this forever. He wants this: To stay here, unguarded and secure, his cheek brushing a nuzzle against Faolan's (Fae's) shoulder. To bring this feeling out into the world beyond, and know it to be something lasting. To know himself as Fae's, and Fae as his own.
He knows the wish is foolhardy. He hears Faolan's meaning: That what they have just now is temporary, is for this moment and perhaps, perhaps never again. There's pain to be found in the absence that may follow, but why think on that now? Why not wrap himself and Fae alike within the cloak of velvet silver-stricken blue; why not wrap his arm closer, closer around Faolan's chest. Why not dare - just softly, as an offering without declaring claim, as an expression of devotion, adoration - to set a kiss upon Fae's cheek, and speak with hush, with wonder—
"Astonishing— My Fae."
<.>